Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We’ve got him.” 

The entire command center paused in their work, turning to look at Prowl who stared intently at the data pad. 

“You don’t mean that one, do you?” Ironhide rumbled. 

“I do. A report just came in from Bumblebee.” Prowl swiftly engaged the holo screen, projecting the contents of the data pad onto it. 

An image filled the screen of a human teenager ducking into a rundown brick building. 

Prowl swiped through several other images taken earlier, first of the human getting out of a car, his head covered with a rain jacket hood despite the clear weather. The next image managed a close up on his face, dark hair drooping over his forehead and hanging in front of his soft, brown eyes. He looked haggard, skin drawn too tight over his cheekbones and peppered with healing scratches and scars. 

“There’s the fragger,” Sunstreaker grumbled. Yet there was no hiding the eager anticipation of his field. 

Swideswipe chuckled. “Taken long enough for Search and Rescue to find him.” 

“Well, it ain’ entirely their fault,” Jazz drawled. “Steeljaw’s good, but the lil’ spark was movin’ constantly. Hard to get a point on him, not ta’ mention MECH’s meddling.” 

A low, frustrated rumble echoed from several engines. 

“How long till he’s moved?” asked Ironhide.

“Considering their patterns, a couple of days at most.”

“And the security?”

Prowl’s optic ridges turned inward, and a faint irritation laced his field. “Round the clock surveillance from portable cameras and drones, targeted both inward on the building and outward on threats. There are at least 4 operatives within the building with the sparkling, although there is a 92.3% likelihood of others posted around the area.”

Ironhide ex-vented. “What’re the chances of collecting the spark safely?”

“If Search and Rescue goes in alone, there’s a 67.8% chance of successfully completing the mission.” 

“That low?” asked Sideswipe in disbelief. 

“They’ve been uppin’ their weaponry,” said Jazz, his arms crossed. “Jus’ last week one a’ them managed to shoot off Thundercracker’s wing.”

Sideswipe snorted. “So that’s what Starscream had been screeching about.” 

From his place at the head of the operation’s room, Optimus Prime shifted, and all optics snapped to him. However, the prime’s attention was focussed on his first lieutenant. “What will increase the odds?”

Prowl’s door wings twitched. “Involving Special Operations. This isn’t just a rescue mission anymore. Our target is guaranteed to run and fight back, and he is guarded by hostile forces who are prepared to kill.” 

Ironhide frowned. “That’s not how we normally do it.”

“The sparkling is going to panic,” Sunstreaker drawled. 

“He was alreadeh goin’ to,” Jazz said, his visor flashing. “The spark found the tracker and removed it. We’re kiddin’ ourselves if we think he’ll come willingly or be eased inta this. This ain’t our usual snatch-and-grab. Kid's smart. We gotta be smarter.”

“It won’t make the conversion process easier.” 

“None of them have gone perfectly,” Jazz said, waving a servo. “This’ll jus’ be a new set of challenges to overcome. ‘Sides, better to have them safe with us, even if there’re constant tantrums, then out there where they’re at risk.”

Ironhide scowled, his cannons flaring with energy, but did not refute Jazz. 

“Prime,” said Prowl. “The call is yours.” 

Optimus’s optics narrowed as he considered the picture of the sparkling on screen. He was one of the youngest they had tagged yet, and his battered state spoke of much suffering. 

Venting in, he said, “Search and Rescue will coordinate with Special operations in collecting the sparkling. This is a precarious operation and utmost care must be taken.” Turning his helm towards his head of special operations, his voice grew more serious. “Jazz, you will be taking point on this operation.”

Jazz smiled as he gave a lazy salute. To most, it would seem unbothered, but his field radiated a steely determination. “Understood. And no worries Boss Bot—the lil’ spark is as good as home.”

Sam thought it was funny how certain words or numbers would occasionally popup over and over. One day you hear the word and then it shows up, again and again and again. Like it's stalking you. Following you. Even though it’s actually not. You’ve just started noticing it and so you become hyper aware of it with each instance standing out. 

Lately that had been the case with the number four. 

It was the number of steps it took to cross from one end of the room to the next. Sam would know, he had counted, He had been counting them for the past several hours. 

Step one, two, three, four. Spin on the heel and walk back, one, two, three, four. 

It was like being in Kindergarten. He could almost hear his old teacher, Mrs. Gates, clapping her hands and in that sunshine, cheery voice reserved for children, calling, “Okay class. Who can count to four for me? Oh, Sam, you can? What a good job!”

Sam snickered a little. The world might have ended before he could start high school but at least he could count to four. 

Maybe it was simply a tactic to keep him sane. While being tiny, the room he was staying in was also rundown and claustrophobic and sporting an unflattering shade of peeling, pale yellow paint on its walls. Counting was better than watching paint chip off. 

He returned to his pacing; step one, two, three, four. 

Four steps, four walls, four guards standing outside the room. Four days he’d been at this safe house, but who knew how much longer. MECH seemed to operate under a pattern of randomness, truthfully he wouldn’t be surprised if they threw a dart at a map of the country to decide where to move Sam to next. 

Four seasons, four cardinal directions, four blood groups, four wheels on a car…

Sam pressed his hands into his eyes. No, no he wasn’t going to wander down that particular thought alley. And yet, despite himself, Sam ran a finger over the raised skin on his arm, the mottled pink scar the only physical reminder of the chip that had been embedded in his body. 

Even weeks later, he still thought he could feel its phantom presence, pulsing under his skin in time with his heart. A warning. 

They know who you are. They are interested in you. They are looking for you. 

Closing his eyes, he was back at the refugee camp, pressed against a side wall, a hand over his mouth as someone (looks human but isn’t) grabs his arm, lining up the injector. Sam flailing and trying to scream, as the one restraining him runs a hand over his sweaty head. 

“Shhhhhh, sweet spark. Everything is gonna be okay. This will all seem like a distant dream.”

The hiss click of the injector, followed by a sharp pain that quickly dulled. Legs turning wobbly as they help him to the ground. 

“Be good, little one. We’ll be back soon enough,” one promises. 

He wasn’t supposed to remember how they’d grabbed and tagged him like some animal. However, something in the drug they gave him mixed poorly with the alcohol that had been burning in his veins. Because Sam did remember. 

Every agonizing detail. 

The sharp smell of ozone that clung to them. 

The unnatural blue glow of their eyes. 

The soft cadence of the voices meant to soothe, but that did nothing to calm his terror. 

He hated how they followed him every time he closed his eyes and how they chased him through his dreams. 

“No!” Sam told himself, slapping his cheeks. “We are not thinking about this. Not now. Not ever.”

Four, what else was four? 

Step one, two, three, four. Turn around. 

Four suits in a set of cards, four phases of the moon, four elements, four horses of the apocalypse they were in the middle of. 

Nope, nope, not going there. Stop it. Something else.

Another four steps. 

Four house in Harry Potter, four teenage mutant ninja turtles, four nations in Avatar the Last Airbender, four golden girls. 

One, two, three, four. Hit the wall, spin around and go again. 

Four, four, what else was there four of? 

Four deaths he was responsible for…

“No!” Sam yelled, panic and fury surging. He punched the wall, bits of plaster breaking off.

“Hey, kid!” a sharp voice snapped from outside the room. One of the guards. “Knock it off and keep it down.”

‘Not a kid,’ Sam almost shot back, but biting his tongue at the last moment, he replied with a reluctant, “Yes, sir.”

“And sit down. We can hear you clomping around.”

So walking wasn’t allowed now? Great.

Scowling, Sam threw himself down on the only piece of furniture in the room, a rickety bed who’s mattress springs seemed determined to poke holes in Sam’s back as he slept. It creaaaaaked as he adjusted his weight on it, trying to find a comfortable position, and ultimately giving up. 

Experience had long ago taught him that comfort was not a requirement of survival. 

Look, he was grateful to MECH for hiding him, even if he knew it wasn’t entirely altruistic. Painful experience had taught Sam that having weapons and being in charge didn’t automatically make one a good person. Still, at least he wasn’t held prisoner by aliens and experimented on. 

That didn’t mean he wished he couldn't be outside for a minute (hah, for, four, very punny) or even four seconds. But nooooo, the stupid, supposedly benevolent, alien overlords wanted him for some inconceivable reason, which meant he had to stay hidden inside. 

There was smoke coming from underneath the door. 

Sam hadn’t been sure at first. Secretly, he wondered if it was a hallucination brought on by extreme boredom. But no, faint wisps of white smoke slipped from underneath the crack, spiraling up towards the ceiling. 

Instantly, Sam was on guard, hopping off the bed and making his way over. He touched the door knob, the metal cool under his palm. So not fire. 

Some sort of gas leak? Infrastructure had been falling apart long before the world decided to off themselves via nuclear warfare, so faulty gas lines weren’t uncommon. However, it didn’t smell like a typical gas leak. 

Sniffing the air, Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell. Sharp almost burning with strong chemical undernotes. It reminded him of the stupid trend back in middle school where students would snort sharpie fumes to get high. The way it burned the back of your throat and made your head spin. 

Except, no, that’s how he felt right now. 

Swearing, Sam pulled his shirt off and pressed it against his mouth and nose. The fabric reduced the effect of the smoke but didn’t get rid of it entirely. Already, Sam’s head felt off kilter as if it wasn’t screwed on quite right. 

He needed to get out of here. 

Yanking open the door, he stepped out in the hall. The guards were gone, their two chairs next to his room empty and a pack of discarded playing cards on the ground. 

The gas was thicker in the hallway, burning his eyes. Squinting, through blurring vision, he yelled out, “Hello?”

Distantly, he could hear yelling and pounding footsteps. “What’re you-” Sam tried to say, the swirling smoke choking his words. 

A sharp crack interrupted him, ringing his ears and immediately destroying an illusion that this was an accidental gas leak. 

Sam lurched into motion, one hand keeping the shirt pressed against his mouth, the other outstretched as he felt his way along the smoke filled hall. His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly, trying to see through the thick white smoke. 

Distorted shouts echoed through the house along with several more cracks of gunfire. 

Think, Sam, think. What was the layout of the safe house? He should be able to remember that with his memory. What was it? Two rights then straight down was a window into a side alley, but no, that’s the direction the fighting was coming from. 

Then there was a door towards the back of the house, one left, then two rights, then straight to the exit. Four steps to freedom.

Four. 

Four steps for freedom. 

Back of the safe house it was. 

Sam forced himself to move, his hand tracing the walls to orient himself. The smoke was getting thicker, and Sam’s lungs were starting to burn even with the shirt face mask. He bumped into a corner, hissing at the pain, but forced himself to keep walking. Back of the house.

“Secure the asset!” someone yelled.

“Where’s the kid?!”

Loud footsteps quickly approached Sam’s direction, and then something slammed into him, knocking him into the wall. His head slammed against the plaster, and then he dropped, losing his grip on his makeshift mask. 

“Come on you Bastard!”

“Grab him!” 

Wheezing, Sam struggled to stand and then stagger forward, the gas choking out more of his breath. He sucked in a desperate breathe, the smoke burning his lunds. 

Hunched into himself, Sam coughed violently, his body rattling from the force. His head spun as the world tilted on an axis, swimming in and out of focus. Still, he forced himself to move, reaching out an arm to brace himself against the wall. 

He didn’t know where he was anymore. His vision had turned into a blurred world of white smoke. Was this how he died? Not in one of the bombings or dissected on an alien table, but choking to death in a failed safe house? 

Suddenly, something warm and firm latched onto his wrist.

Like a fish on a line, Sam was pulled forward, reeled in as he was led through the very path he had been trying to find. There was a loud slam of a boot kicking down a door, and then Sam was stumbling through the doorway as the door then closed behind him, dragging him out of the lingering smoke. Vaguely, he heard a door slam shut behind him, blocking out the worst of the gas. 

Curled in on himself, Sam sucked down the clean air, almost gagging from taking too much in. 

“Easy there,” a voice soothed as Sam gasped for breath. “Deep breaths in and out. You’re alright, sweet spark. You’re alright now.”

Vision blurred from tears, Sam blinked rapidly. He stared at the large hand still clasped around his wrist, following the hand’s arm up.  The body in front of him went from blurred to focussed. A man with dark skin and long locs tied behind him stared intently at Sam. Then, his mouth curved in a soft smile. 

“There we go,” he said warmly. 

But all Sam could see was the man’s bright, blue eyes. 

The same, alien shade that had looked down on him when he had been tagged back at the refugee camp. A color of blue that didn’t belong to humans. 

Chapter Text

“No,” Sam whispered in horror. 

He lurched into movement, tugging to free his arm and bracing his feet to run—run away, far away from the threat in front of him. 

A foot slammed into his legs, knocking them out from underneath him. He hit the floor hard, the impact knocking what little air remained in his lungs. More hands grabbed his arms, the grips tightening as they wrestled Sam’s arms away from his chest, pinning them down. 

Splinters from the wood floor scratched his bare back as he thrashed, but their holds were unbreakable flesh handcuffs, unbudging

“Stohhp-“Sam wheezed. He kicked out at the blurred shapes surrounding him. His foot made contact with someone’s side, but it was as effective as kicking at a brick wall.  

His attackers swiftly grabbed his legs and held them down as well, removing his last line of defense.

Above him, the faces blurred in and out, features melting together and then separating, but always returning to those glowing blue eyes. 

Four faces. Four sets of blue eyes. Four attackers. Four reasons why Sam would soon die. 

Through the rising fog of Sam’s terror, authoritative voices rang out.

“The MECH pests are down, but we have more incoming. Bluestreak suspects we have 8 minutes at most.”

“Easily done. We jus’ need to be outa here ‘fore that. Smoky, get the sparkling prepped for transport.”

“On it.” There was the clink of glass and ripping packaging. From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw someone snap on a pair of gloves before drawing a vial and syringe from thin air. 

Sam keened and fought with renewed panic as they knelt down beside him.

He was blubbering now, tears pouring down his cheeks, his words near nonsensical in desperation. “No. Ple’s don’. Leh’-let me go.’” 

A hand brushed against his cheek, “Shhhh, it’s okay, sweet spark. This’ll be over quickly. You’re jus’ gonna to take a lil’ nap.” The hold turned firm, forcing Sam’s head to the side, out of sight of the approaching syringe.  

Sam shrieked and thrashed, fighting against the holds that would not move.

Cold liquid wiped over his neck, and then there was the sharp, stinging prick of a needle breaking skin. Warmth spread from the injection site, and already, Sam’s flailing stilled as his limbs lost strength. Fighting with all his strength, he could only manage a weak twitch of his fingers. 

“Shh. There we go, just breathe,” he said, pressing a hand against Sam’s bare chest. The contact made something warm in his chest flicker. “There’s a good lil’ spark. We’re going to look after you now.”

Distantly, Sam felt hands running up and down his limbs, patting down his pant pockets and pulling off his shoes. The contact tickled, and he wanted to pull away, but the warmth from the injection only grew in strength, turning Sam’s body into a tingling numbness. 

“Any trackers, ‘Raj?”

“Only one. Cheap workmanship, too.”

“Get it out, then put one of our back in. On th’ off chance things go to the pits, I wanna be able ta find him without all this hassle.”

“Got it.”

Someone rolled Sam over onto his side. He whined at the sensation of cold wet. A hiss. A click. Then, a brief stinging pain that was rubbed away like a parent soothing a child’s scraped knee. 

Sam was still crying, and the shame of being seen so vulnerable made him cry harder. He wished to curl up inside himself, be tucked away where no one could see. 

Arms curled under his shoulders and legs, then Sam was weightless, lifted, and pressed against someone’s chest. His head lolled, no longer under his control, as the sedative pulled him closer to oblivion. 

“The path is clear. Bluestreak says we’ve got at least 4 more minutes, and Bee has the exit route ready.”

“Good.”

The one holding Sam started to move, jogging through the smoked-out hallways of the safe house without issue. His blue eyes glowed unnaturally against the white smoke, and in Sam’s slipping mind, they seemed to spiral around him, clenching around his lungs, dragging him towards his death. 

Sam’s grip on consciousness was loosening. One blink, he was in a safe house, stepping over the body of a downed guard. Next blink outside, the fresh wind foreign compared to the sharp scent of the smoke. Third blink, they were at a silvery car, the trunk unlatching and opening without a touch. 

Sam was lowered into the gaping mouth of the trunk, where a pile of blankets lay ready for him. 

“There we go, baby boy,” someone crooned, tucking the blankets over Sam’s limp body. “Jus’ you rest now. We’ve gotcha. Everythin’ is gonna be okay.” 

He pressed a hand against Sam’s cheek, wiping away a lingering tear. Then the trunk slammed shut, enclosing Sam in darkness, and the car revved to life. 

Fourth blink, Sam’s eyes stayed shut and didn’t reopen. 

There was noise.

Ensconced in comforting warmth, the chatter was a frustration poking at Sam’s brain. 

“Halfway through the trip. Maybe a joor or two until we’re back at base.”

“Thank primus. These roads are awful on my suspension.”

“Pick a better alt if it’s that annoying.” 

“Says the one with the Pontiac solstice. Does he even have enough room in there? 

“Should. I had ta adjust my alt a little.” 

“Awww, look at him. All nice and cozy, and he’s all curled up! He’s so cute.” 

Sam moaned at the noise, reflexively burying his face back into the blankets underneath him. He didn’t like it.

“I know, I know,” a voice murmured sympathetically. “Mean ol’ Jazz just wakin’ you up. But you’ve been recharging for awhile, an’ we need to check on ya.” 

Hands tucked under his arms, shifting him unwillingly into a semi-upright position. Sam listed to the side, but then a body suddenly filled the space next to him, propping him up. Blearily, he opened his eyes. 

The night sky illuminated little of the surroundings, giving only the vague impression of a snaking road and dark, jagged mountains in the distance. Several people loomed over him, their unnatural blue eyes fixed on him. Something about that blue felt like it should be sending him into a panic, but it wasn’t. Why wasn’t it? 

Sam scrunched his face as he struggled to work through it. A warm torpor circulated through his veins, leaving them pleasantly numb. Blinking, his head lolled onto the shoulder of the one beside him. In response, fingers carded through his hair, the pleasant sensation stalling any of Sam’s mental thought processes. 

“How much did you give him? He seems incredibly out of it?” 

“Only what Ratch’ suggested. Figured it would be best for the lil’ spark to sleep most of the way back to base. Easier on him.”

“And on us.” 

A slight chuckle. “That too.” 

Sam’s eyes slipped closed during the conversation, the sounds nonsense in his addled mind. 

A thumb brushed against his cheek. “Uh, uh. Come on. I need you to drink a little. We’ve been drivin’ for awhile now, and I don’ wan’ you getting dehydrated.” 

Something pressed against his lips, and Sam reflexively opened his mouth, letting the straw slip in. It took a few tries, but then Sam was slowly sipping. The water was refreshing, and Sam hummed in appreciation. After the dull itch of his throat vanished, Sam let go. 

“Got enough? Alright then, sweet spark.” 

Gently, he was lowered back onto the nest of blankets, a rolled-up blanket tucked underneath his head. Hands pulled the blankets up and around him, cocooning him in the warmth. 

He knew what he was laying on wasn’t a mattress, yet it curved around him as he shifted, softening and adjusting to support his form. Almost as if it were alive. 

“Ratchet wants a scan before we roll out again.”

“Is there even a point? Our scans will never be enough to satisfy Ratchet. Especially not with one of these newsparks.”

“That’s alrigh’. Get whatcha can, and we’ll send it along.”

A strange tingling rolled over Sam, sending strange prickles through his limbs. His sluggish mind recoiled from the invasive sensation. It felt like millions of ants were marching underneath his skin, and in a brief flicker of panic, his fingers twitched, wanting to brush them away. 

“Nnn…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” a voice soothed. “Scan is almost done. You’re bein’ so good for us, baby boy.” 

A few seconds later, the sensation vanished, and Sam relaxed again. 

“Got it.”

“Good.”

A heavy warmth settled on Sam’s head, stroking slowly and deliberately.  “We’re all done. You can go back to recharge now.”

The words draped over him like a weighted blanket. Soft. Inevitable.

Sam’s body obeyed before his mind could catch up. He sank into unconsciousness without a fight before the car began moving again. 

Consciousness didn’t come quickly. Sam struggled towards it, like that old family vacation where Dad wanted to build Sam’s character with an uphill hike in 90-degree weather while carrying a weighted backpack, courtesy of Mojo. However, like that sweaty mess of a hike, Sam’s struggles finally paid off. 

Blinking through gummy eyes, he awoke to the darkness of the trunk. 

His limbs still carried a strange tingling current, but when he tried to move them this time, they stretched out. 

In response to his movement, the surface he rested on adjusted slightly, like one of those high-tech mattresses Sam used to see in commercials. Sam’s mouth dried out, and he forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nose. 

He was not panicking.

He was definitely so not panicking as he stretched his leg further out until it bumped up against a rigid outer wall. And his heart absolutely did not speed up as he reached above himself to touch the ceiling above. The metal was warm under his fingertips, carrying with it a flicker of static and amusement. 

Sam clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. It was okay. He was okay. 

Even though, for all he knew, he was essentially trapped in an alien robot’s stomach. 

If alien robots even had stomachs, they might not? Was Sam simply projecting human organ standards on them? For all he knew, this could be where they kept their brain or spleen. Did aliens even have spleens?

Rambled distractions as a coping mechanism. It wasn’t great, but it could be worse. Better than crying.

And that made Sam’s stomach curdle with shame. His kidnappers had seen him cry. And not just a couple of tears, full-on meltdown sobbing. The very thing he hadn’t allowed himself to do since Japser…

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight and curled his hands into fists. It didn’t matter. 

Regardless, he hadn’t broken down like that in years

No matter what they did to him, he wouldn’t cry in front of them again. Yell? Scream? Beg? Wet himself in terror? (Well, maybe not that one, if possible) But everything else, he’d accept, except that. They wouldn’t get another tear from him.

He stiffened as he felt a shift, like someone’s attention had turned towards him. That feeling of sleeping in your bed, your eyes closed, while having the uncanny certainty that someone was watching you. 

The alien knew he was awake. 

Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he waited for something… some reaction. 

Soft music began filtering into the trunk, the rise and fall of gentle violins and other instruments. The type of music pretentious parents used to play for their “developing genius’ babies to grow their appreciation of the arts. Like a 2-year-old cared about Mozart. 

Trunks didn’t usually have speakers. And unless the alien robots’ ears were located in their trunks, he didn’t think there would be much need for speakers there. Did the music filter through the whole car? Robot? (What even was the correct term?)

Or was he hearing it because they wanted him to?

A hysterical giggle rose in his throat, and Sam shoved his hand against his mouth to keep it in. 

The music paused for a heartbeat as if the alien was waiting for a further reaction before continuing. There was no attempt to communicate, nor did Sam try; he didn’t feel brave enough to attempt it when he was essentially swallowed whole. 

Sam might have even said the music was nice if it weren’t for the circumstances. Sure, it wasn’t what he used to listen to, but when the world ended, music (heck, any type of entertainment) was in short supply. However, every pluck of a harp or crescendo of a cello was undeniable evidence of Sam’s predicament. 

He could try fighting back, but deep down, he knew it would accomplish nothing. Human fist wouldn’t beat metal alien, and it would only make the aliens more on guard and lower his chances of survival. Better to wait until he was released, and then… well, he’d see what happened. 

It rankled him to do nothing, but with nothing else he could do, he lay quietly on the pile of blankets to a personal alien orchestra performance. He couldn’t tell where they were going or how far. The trunk appeared soundproof, and Sam never experienced the jolt or rattle of a pothole. 

Then, (minutes? hours?) Who knew how long? The music abruptly stopped, leaving Sam with only the sound of his breathing and the increasing thump of his heartbeat. He felt like a rabbit hidden in its warren, aware of a larger predator lurking outside but not sure when it was going to strike. 

The silence stretched on, pulling on Sam’s already frayed nerves. 

Was this how he died? Silently cowering in a trunk?

Channeling his courage, Sam forced himself to speak. 

“Hello?” 

The trunk popped open.

Chapter Text

Sam would have liked to say that he leaped triumphantly from the trunk, assessed his surroundings, and made a daring escape. However, that ideal was complicated by Sam having spent the last few hours in darkness, and wherever they were was painfully bright. 

Mimicking a vampire startled by the sunrise, Sam hissed, reflexively covering his eyes with his hands. 

A deep voice above him said, “Sorry about that, bitlet. Forgot your optics don’t adjust as easily.” 

Sam blinked rapidly to try to adjust his vision, and the instant he could open his eyes without pain, he scrambled out of the trunk. 

Whatever they had injected him with must have worn off, but his legs apparently hadn’t gotten the message as they felt slightly numb. With his legs not cooperating, Sam caught his foot on the lip of the trunk and nearly took a face plant. Several engines revved in alarm, but Sam didn’t notice, too busy trying not to fall. 

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, he finally extricated himself.

Sam scanned his surroundings, looking for some clue about his location. Unfortunately, all he could definitively say was that it was clean (a nice change) and much, much bigger than a normal human living space. 

The sound of shifting metal caught Sam’s attention. 

With a sense of looming horror, Sam looked up to see four massive robots towering over him. Their blue eyes locked onto him with laser focus. 

His throat bobbed, and he was no longer certain the trembling in his legs only from the sedative. His missing shirt and shoes left him feeling exposed. Vulnerable . He glanced back, considering the wisdom of potentially grabbing one of the blankets out of the car to cover up, then dismissed it. He’d spent enough time in an alien’s possible spleen. 

Sam had seen blurred video clips and photos of their alien saviors, and stories about them had been wildly popular in the refugee camps. Still, it was one thing to see a blurred three-inch alien robot on a screen, and another to be in person. 

One was considerably shorter than the others, with bright red armor and red horns. The three others were of similar heights but different colors and builds. One was blue and white with a helmet-like shape covering his head. Another was red and orange, with doors sticking off their back like wings and red v-shaped prongs on his head. And the last had red, white, and blue stripes (patriotic American alien, Sam thought with a panicked snort). 

He needed to say something. Demand that they release him. Refuse to bow to their orders. Threaten them with retaliation. 

He opened his mouth, prepared for whatever greatness he might say. 

Instead…

“Hello,” Sam squeaked. 

His mouth snapped shut, and mortification threatened to catch him on fire. That was what he started with?!?

However, the robot with reddish armor and v-shaped prongs on his head took that opportunity to crouch down and invade Sam’s personal space. 

“Hi, there, little one. Oh, you’re so small. And so cute! Did you have a good recharge? Jazz said you were recharging for most of the trip, which was good because you probably would have been really bored. What do you think of the base? Not that you’ve seen much of it. This is only the atrium. But it's really awesome. You're going to love it. Seriously, how are you so tiny?” 

Sam jerked back from the approaching finger.

The smaller red one clapped a hand on the robot’s shoulder with a loud clang. “Easy there, mech. You’re gonna freak the sparkling out if you get too close.” 

“Ah, right. I forgot. Thanks for reminding me, Cliffjumper. I’m not trying to scare him.” 

The red robot, Cliffjumper, looked at Sam, and one of his blue eyes flashed in… was that a wink? “Sorry about that. Bluestreak is easily excited.”

“He should know better,” said the blue and white one in an annoyed, pompous tone. 

“Shove it up your aft, Mirage. Don’t pretend you aren’t excited about the sparkling.” 

The voices rang familiar in Sam’s ears. These were the ones at the safe house that had pinned him down, drugged him, and carried him away. Except, instead of looking human, they were in their full robotic, alien glory. A wolf taking off its sheep clothing as soon as they had the lamb back in their den. 

Loud, clanking footsteps came from one of the exits as another robot (great, just add to the party) entered. His face carried an expression of severe disapproval, which wasn’t helped by the intimidating black-and-white paint job and stiff way he held himself. He even had the same red prongs as Bluestreak, although his made him look like he was permanently annoyed. 

Sam flinched, curling in on himself, but the robot’s attention was fixed on the silver car whose trunk Sam had crawled out of. “Jazz,” he said, voice brooking no argument. “Ratchet has asked me to remind you that he’s waiting in the med bay.” 

The car chuckled, and then, with a loud hiss of hydraulics, it changed, folding in on itself in the world’s most complicated piece of origami. The metal pieces shifted with loud whines and whirls as first a leg, then an arm, and then, in a flashy spin, the rest of the body appeared. 

The robot sauntered with a confidence middle school Sam would have given his right arm for (and even now if he was being honest). A blue visor covered his eyes, but the flash of amusement was unmistakable as he popped a hand on his hip. His silver, white, and black paint glinted in the bright lights of the atrium. 

“Believe me, Prowler,” he drawled, tapping a finger against his head. “I’ve got him yammerin’ in my comms. Wanted to give the sweet spark a click or two. We’ve been rollin’ for awhile.”

With that, both Jazz and Prowler turned towards Sam.  

Prowler’s arms were clasped behind his back as he stared down Sam with those glowing blue eyes. “Samuel James Witwicky, I presume.” 

Sam’s mouth dried out as he was struck with the deja vu of his mom calling him by his full name right before she prepared to scold him for not cleaning his room.

“Yes?”  

“Good. Jazz, if you will.” 

“Righ’,” Jazz spun on his heel, and before Sam could react, he wrapped two hands around Sam’s torso and. Lifted. Him. Off. The. Ground. 

No matter what anyone said, Sam did not let out a girlish scream. 

He kicked out, trying to find a solid surface that was no longer there. It was all the terror of an amusement park drop tower but with none of the safety features. He switched between shoving at the hands holding him and desperately clinging to them, not sure if his terror of falling outweighed his desire to escape. 

Bluestreak let out a sad sound. “Awww, but we wanted to spend more time with the lil’ spark.”

“There will be time later,” said Prowler, “unless you want to be the reason Ratchet has to leave his med bay, wrench in servo.” 

“Nope! We’re good!”

“We can wait!” 

Jazz chuckled, then turned to leave. “Right, let’s get our afts movin’ before Ratchet threatens to weld them to a wall.” 

“Bye-bye,” the bots called, waving like Sam was a toddler being dropped off at preschool. The indignity rankled, but Sam had no time to respond as they quickly set off into one of the hallways. 

There was no denying that wherever he was, it wasn’t human-built. Not even the most ardent lover of vaulted ceilings needed a 4-story tall hallway ceiling in their living space. The surroundings felt like an unholy union of an industrial chic architect and a Star Trek set designer, who both happened to have an odd fascination with the color yellow and strange symbols. Sam guessed the symbols were the aliens’ language, but they could be saying “dissection room that way” or “human zoo down this hall” for all he knew. 

Prowler kept a quick pace but walked a step or two behind as if to herd Jazz and by extension, Sam forward. 

Jazz’s fingers were snug around Sam’s waist and torso, and no amount of shoving showed any sign of budging them. 

“Settle down, sweet spark,” Jazz said as Sam got frustrated and slammed a fist against a finger. He wondered if this was what hamsters felt like when being carted around. The desperate squirming to escape that was met with mild exasperation.  

“I’ll settle down,” Sam grunted, kicking out with his legs to get purchase, “when you put me down!”

“Nuh-uh. We’ve got places ta be, and those tiny legs of yours ain’t gonna cut it. ‘Sides, I saw you almost fall gettin’ out.” 

As they approached, a large white wall opened up, revealing a shiny silver box with yellow accents. The two robots stepped in, and the walls slid shut. Without a word or indication, the room began moving, smoothly sliding downward. It was an elevator, Sam realized—an alien elevator. 

Down, down, down it went. Taking Sam farther away from a possible exit. 

“Where are you taking me?” Sam asked, voice cracking ever so slightly. 

“Med bay,” said Prowler. “For an intake examination.” 

From behind the gleaming visor, Jazz rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna scare ’im talking like that.” His voice softened slightly as he spoke to Sam. “It’s only a checkup, lil’ spark. Nothing to worry ’bout.”

Every alien horror movie imaginable chose that moment to replay in excruciating detail what happened in an alien lab. 

“I don’t need a checkup!” Sam yelled.

“Last I checked your file, you are not a medical professional and are therefore not qualified to make such an assessment.”

The annoyance of being picked up and carried around like a child’s toy was wearing off, replaced with panic. Sam's heartbeat picked up as the elevator stopped and the walls slid open again. He wondered if it could be felt, slamming against his chest with the same desperation to escape that Sam felt. 

His bare skin was slick with sweat against the warm metal, but Jazz’s grip tightened to compensate. Tight, it was too tight. Pressing against his lungs, cutting off his air like he was back in the safe house, choking on the smoke. Sam sucked in air, trying to refill his lungs. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? 

He was spiraling. Panicking. 

He needed to calm down. Why couldn’t he calm down?!

“Breathe,” Jazz murmured, “I need you to breathe for me, sweet spark.” 

“I– I’m trying.” 

Jazz shifted his grip, and Sam shuddered as a finger pressed against his back before stroking down it. His metal finger was warm, and the pressure was enough to feel it but not hurt. In most instances, Sam would have enjoyed the sensation, but carried in a giant alien’s grip, he was torn between relaxing into it and pulling away. 

“You’re doin’ so good. Just breathe,” Jazz said as he continued to stroke Sam’s back. “Everythin’ is okay. You’re safe.”

Sam let out a burst of hysterical laughter. Safe? 

“You drugged and kidnapped me.”

“Can’t kidnap what’s already yours.” 

The statement's absolute inaccuracy cut through Sam’s panic in a way nothing else could and angry belligerence rose to replace it. 

“Are you actually joking me!?” Sam yelled, channeling his parents’ old indignation. 

They used to always protest when things didn’t go how they wanted. There had been more than one instance when they blew up into loud complaints when things didn’t go their way, whether a flat tire on a road trip or an out-of-stock shampoo brand. Their response used to embarrass Sam. Yet, when the world began to tear at the seams, and the complaints went from a hair in their food to the taste of the brackish, disease-ridden water they had to drink, it was almost a relief. 

Instead of sobbing or cursing God over the end of the world like many of the others, they complained like it was yet another inconvenience of life. Like the dwindling food supply was no more problematic than the cancellation of his mom’s favorite TV show. 

Sam clung to that irritation. Trying to hold onto the feeling that being abducted by aliens was no more a frustration than a candy bar melting in his pants pockets.

He glared as they entered a new room filled with the hum of machinery and wires twisting up out of the flooring by what looked like massive dental chairs and operating room tables. Strange, mechanical arms extended down from the ceiling with clawed tips and long needle attachments, and monitors around the room scrolled through foreign symbols and charts.

The only good thing about the place was the noticeable lack of human blood or viscera, although they might have been waiting for Sam to change that. 

A robot stood in the middle of the room by one of the tables, a hovering tray full of tools by his side. He was one of the largest Sam had seen, with white armor and reddish-orange accents. A heartbeat line etched across his forearms extended up to his shoulders, which were stamped with a red cross. 

As they entered, he turned around and fixed Jazz with a stern glare. 

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled, setting down a disturbingly sharp-looking tool. “I told you to bring him to me immediately, not socialize with the other bots.”

“Sorry, Ratch,” Jazz said in a tone that implied he wasn’t that sorry. 

Ratchet rolled his optics, but then his attention shifted to Sam, who shrunk under the scrutiny. 

“This is the newspark,” Ratchet said. His glowing blue eyes scanned Sam up and down, then let out a hum of disapproval that made Sam vaguely insulted. 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be one of my problem patients,” Ratchet remarked as he turned around to grab what looked like a small metal belt off the hovering tray. 

“I could always just not be your patient. Then you’re happy, and I’m happy, and what is thaaAAT!” Sam screeched as Ratchet wrapped the metal belt around Sam’s waist, the ends clicking together and then compressing around him. The cold metal flattened out as it adhered to his skin, forming a skin-tight metal band. 

“A clip-on magnetic restrainer.” 

“A clip on what?!”

Prowl examined Sam’s newest accessory with clinical curiosity. “Who constructed it? It doesn’t appear to be one of Wheeljack’s designs.” 

“Shockwave,” said Ratchet with a strange mixture of approval and displeasure. 

Sam struggled to reach over Jazz’s hands to tear at the newest addition. “I don’t care who made it. I want you to take this freaky belt off.”

Ignoring Sam, Ratchet strode to one of the massive tables and gestured at it. “Bring him over here.”

Jazz placed Sam on the table, and there was a brief moment of relief as Sam’s legs were finally rejoined with a solid surface. Never would he take solid ground for granted again.

But his relief was short-lived as Jazz shifted his hold to force Sam to lay down, his bare back flush against the cold metal. His fingers pressed Sam down even as he squirmed. 

“Like this, doc?” 

“Yes,” said Ratchet, fiddling with a control underneath the table. “Keep him there.” 

A buzzing radiated from the table, and then the metal belt wrapped around Sam’s waist seized, locking into place as though it were glued to the table. 

Jazz pulled back, but Sam remained stuck. He could move his arms and legs and bend in an awkward half crunch, but the band prevented him from fully sitting up, rolling over, and, more importantly, escaping. 

Sam drew his fingers over the sleek metal, looking for a seam he could dig his fingernails into. When that didn’t work, he shoved at it, grunting when it didn’t move. 

Ratchet observed Sam’s restrained state with satisfaction then addressed Jazz and Prowl. “You can leave now. Optimus and the others are waiting for you.” 

Prowl nodded curtly, but Jazz lingered, his visored gaze resting on Sam. And despite his better instincts, Sam wanted to reach a hand out and beg him to stay. 

The alien had drugged and kidnapped him, but he hadn’t hurt him. Heck, Sam had spent an extended portion of time in the alien’s maybe trunk, maybe spleen, and had emerged unscathed. 

Jazz was an island of vague familiarity in an ocean of the unknown. 

Jazz’s posture softened, and he reached out a hand to rest it comfortingly on Sam’s chest. The contact was a pleasant warmth compared to the cold metal table. 

“He’ll be fine,” grumbled Ratchet, making shooing motions. “Go to the debrief. I’ll come as soon as I finish with him.”

“Be good, little one,” Jazz murmured. He brushed a finger across Sam’s hair, the tenderness eliciting a shiver from Sam. “I’ll see you again soon."

‘Don’t go!’ part of Sam wanted to beg. But the bot was gone before Sam could consider the ramifications of doing so. 

“Finally,” Ratchet grumbled. His blue eyes roved up and down Sam’s bound form before releasing a vent of air. 

Sam squirmed, hating the pressure of the belt holding him down. Prowler mentioned an intake exam in the elevator, but who knew what that entailed. Would he be probed? Dissected? Used as an experiment? A ball of fear formed in Sam’s chest as he waited for his fate.

“First Aid!” Ratchet yelled abruptly. 

The knot in Sam’s chest loosened. If the robo doctor only planned on doing first aid, Sam’s chances of survival were much higher. 

A new robot with a red helmet and white face covering poked his head into the med bay. 

“You called, Ratchet?” 

Aaaannnnd First Aid was another robot. Of course. 

Chapter Text

If there was anything worse than being trapped in an alien laboratory with an alien doctor, it was being trapped in an alien laboratory with TWO alien doctors. Unfortunately, the newest arrival, First Aid, didn’t seem to understand that, as he immediately approached Sam upon entering.

“This is the newest sparkling?” First Aid asked, tilting his head as he considered Sam. His expression was almost unreadable, thanks to a white mask covering his mouth and a blue visor over his eyes, yet Sam swore he could see a sickeningly sweet smile. 

Ratchet responded with an eloquent, affirmative grunt as he sorted through metal cabinets, collecting who knew what torture devices. 

Please don’t be needles, Sam begged to any entity listening. He really, really hated needles.  

First Aid leaned closer but paused when Sam tried and failed to scoot back. Stupid metal band. 

“Hello, little one,” First Aid said, voice achingly soft. “What’s your designation?”

Sam stared back blankly, unsure of what was being asked. Designation? 

“Samuel James Witwicky,” called Ratchet. 

Designation meant name. Got it. 

“Hello, Samuel James Witwicky. My designation is First Aid, and I will be assisting Ratchet with your examination today.” 

“Sam is fine,” Sam said. And then because First Aid made a questioning beep. “You’re not my parents.”

He was going to freak out a little if every time an alien addressed him was by his full name. His parents had only done that when he was in trouble. 

First Aid nodded knowingly. “Your full name should be saved for your Guardian, I understand.”

Sam didn’t, but he could live with it as long as they didn’t call him by his full name. 

“Grab a fresh data pad,” ordered Ratchet, loading more things onto his hovering tray and then striding back over. “I’m going to have you update his file as we go along. Knock Out was supposed to assist, but he’s not here,” Ratchet added testily. 

“Oh, he requested that I switch with him,” First Aid said, grabbing a thin rectangle that brightened as he touched it. A data pad?

Ratchet rolled his eyes. “What, to buff out his finish? I swear, I’m not sure who’s worse, him or Sunstreaker,” he paused, face darkening. “If he’s actually skipping to buff his finish, I swear to Primus that I’ll give him a dent he can’t get rid of.”

“Ah, no, it’s not quite that.” First Aid leaned in towards Ratchet, his voice softening so that all Sam could hear was the murmured word’ nightmares.’ 

Ratchet’s response, though, Sam had no difficulty hearing. 

“Nightmares?! Again? It shouldn’t be possible with the coding!” 

First Aid shrugged. “The others have been struggling with it too.”

Weariness pulled on Ratchet’s features, and he ran a hand down his face. “Scrap.” His vents let out a whoosh of air. “Fine, I’ll bring it up with Optimus, figure something out. These sparklings, I swear…”

Then, as if suddenly remembering the trapped human they had on the table, both alien medics turned towards Sam. He shifted, trying to slip away, and was thwarted again by the metal belt.  

“Right, let’s get on with it,” said Ratchet, the tiredness evaporating off of him. 

Pressing a button, the berth began to rise like an elevator of doom, lifting Sam up higher and higher so that, lying down, he was a bit above Ratchet’s waist. 

“Look, look, look, look, look,” Sam babbled as Ratchet leaned over him. “I’m perfectly healthy. See, there’s no need to get too clooooose!”

Ratchet’s finger moved towards Sam’s face. He tried to jerk away, but it landed on his forehead, pinning his head against the table. How easily could he crush Sam’s head with one finger, Sam wondered, fighting back the urge to scream hysterically. 

“Temperature 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit.”

The finger moved down to press against Sam’s neck, the warm metal resting over Sam’s jugular vein. He swallowed hard, deeply engrained prey instincts warning him to be still and not move so the predator wouldn’t eat him. 

“Heart rate 125.”

“That’s quite high,” remarked First Aid, tapping on the data pad.

Ratchet frowned, “Yes, likely a result of acute distress and sustained adrenaline production.”

“Geez, I wonder why?” Sam snarked, finally mustering the bravery to bat at Ratchet’s finger. He would feel better without the proverbial knife pressing against his throat. “It’s almost like I was attacked, drugged, and abducted. And then restrained to a table and not allowed to get up,” he added, trying again to remove the metal band. Unfortunately, it remained locked together and magnetized to the table. 

First Aid drooped, remarkably mimicking a kicked puppy. 

“We only want you to be safe,” he said pleadingly. 

Sam gaped at the utter logical disconnect. “How does this make me safe? Wait, HEY!”

Ratchet grabbed Sam’s right hand and attached a thin clip to the end of his index finger. 

“Your world is on the edge of collapse,” he said, pinching Sam’s fingers between his own when Sam tried to remove the clip. “It’s remarkable that you’ve survived as long as you have. Prime is doing his utmost to coordinate clean-ups, but such devastation takes time to fix.” 

He removed the clip, and the wire slunk back in on itself, curling up somewhere underneath the table.” 

“Oxygen saturation rate at 96% and respiration rate at 18.” 

“And what does that have to do with me being abducted?” Sam demanded. 

Ratchet’s glowing blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. “We are far more equipped to care for you than you are out there. Your affiliation with MECH merely accelerated our response.” 

“This is about MECH?” Sam asked incredulously. “They didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not affiliated with them.” 

He’d only gone to them out of desperation. He hadn’t been confident in his ability to remove the tracker by himself and went to them for help. Once he explained the tracker’s origin, they had quickly removed it and swept him away into hiding. Now, Sam was being told that going to MECH for help was what got him into this mess? 

“Why is MECH a problem?!”

But Ratchet didn’t respond to Sam’s question or any of the others that followed as he continued the examination. 

His thoroughness made Sam’s chest clench with discomfort, and the tests were administered despite Sam’s protests and failed attempts to squirm free. After each, Ratchet announced his findings for First Aid to dutifully record. 

Glowing ET finger shone in Sam’s eyes? (“Pupil response normal. Sclera is slightly bloodshot.”)

Metal hands brushing through his hair and examining a strand with what looked like a magnifying glass? (“Hair brittle and thinning.”)

Thin metal instrument shoved into his ear? (“No redness, swelling, or discharge in the ear canal.”) 

Step by step. Layer by layer. Sam was peeled apart and left exposed. Vulnerable on the table. 

Nothing was ignored; every scar, scrape, bump, and blemish was noted and documented. 

If he could, he would have leaped off the table. Who cared if he broke a leg if it got him away. But whoever had designed the metal belt knew what they were doing. Sam could twist from side to side and partially sit up but never truly escape. Every attempt to do so was met with a stern glare from Ratchet, a hand pinning him back down, and an order to “Stop that.” 

As Ratchet began gently pressing on Sam’s stomach, checking for tenderness and irregular masses, the panic from the elevator started to return. 

His chest clenched at every touch, preparing for pain that never came. Despite the cold table, sweat formed on the back of his neck. Curling his hands into fists, he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, trying to ground himself with the sensation. 

He could do this. He could stay calm and collected and bide his time until he could run. 

He could do this. 

And then Ratchet grabbed the bottom cuff of Sam’s sweatpants. 

Goosebumps prickled across Sams’s body, and his heart thumped heavily in his chest.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, dread curdling in his stomach. “Let go.”

Like he had the entire time, Ratchet ignored Sam and pulled his pants off, leaving him dressed in only his boxers.  

“Annnnnd, those are my pants,” Sam said hysterically as Ratchet set the sweatpants off to the side. “Give me my pants back.”

Ratchet leaned over, attention fixed on Sam’s legs. “Some minor contusions on his left lower extremity.” 

“Seriously, I need them back.” 

“Slight build-up of scar tissue, but nothing too extreme.” Ratchet poked at Sam’s thigh, and his composure snapped. 

“GIVE ME MY PANTS BACK!” he screeched, his volume making his ears ring. 

Ratchet fixed him with an unimpressed look. “You will get a new pair of garments upon exam completion.”

“I. Don’t. Care. I want them back, NOW!”

Ratchet rubbed a hand across his face. “I’ll never understand humans’ obsession with artificial coverings.” 

Sam convulsed with frantic, panicked laughter. “And I don’t understand why you’re being so freaky.” 

First Aid tried to soothe him, brushing an unwelcome finger over Sam’s hair, “It’s okay, sweet spark. We’re only assessing your health. It’ll be over soon.” 

However, Sam wasn’t having it. He kicked out at Ratchet’s hands and curled into an awkward half-sitting position to slap him away. 

It didn’t prevent the examination from happening, but Ratchet’s brows turned further down in irritation the more Sam fought back. 

Good! He thought vindictively. At least he was having as bad a time as Sam. 

“You need to calm down, or I will give you something to make you calm,” Ratchet said, his mouth lined with disapproval.

“I hope you know how much I. Do. Not. CARE!”

Ratchet finally released Sam’s leg, but not before he slammed his heel into the alien doctor’s knuckle, eliciting an annoyed whirl. 

Panting from exertion, Sam glared at Ratchet. 

But the doctor was fiddling with a set of controls, and one of the mechanical arms hanging from the ceiling twitched to life. It slid along the ceiling like a claw machine in an arcade, although the sharp metal tips slid to a stop pointing at Sam, not a fluffy stuffed animal. 

The machine whined, and lights flickered along its side as it powered up, reminding Sam of one of those James Bond movies his dad had loved with the spy trapped on a similar table, a deadly laser aimed at his feet to slowly travel up to his chest. 

However, Sam didn’t even have the advantage of a possible plot device escape due to the laser starting at his feet. No, Ratchet aimed the whining laser directly over Sam’s chest. 

His chest hitched. This was it. The examination was finally over, so they were going to dissect him. Cut him into pieces as his blood spilled over the table. Already, he could feel the burn of the laser as it sliced through him and smell the stench of charred flesh.   

Blue light built along the laser’s needle-like tip, falling over Sam with its ominous glow. The same blue as the aliens’ eyes when they pinned him down and took him away.

The last thread of Sam’s calm snapped.

"NONONONONONONONONOOOO!"

Sam screamed and thrashed like a possessed man. He threw himself again and again against the metal band, oblivious to how it dug into his skin and made his back ache. 

“Oh, don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself,” First Aid cried, reaching out a concerned hand. Sam lashed out. Pain bloomed across his fist; punching metal was never smart, but the rational part of his brain had checked out. 

Copper burned the back of his throat as he continued to scream, slamming himself against anything that got too close. But still, the glowing blue needle of the laser hovered over him.

Through the roar of panic, he thought he heard Ratchet’s gruff voice snapping, “Enough. This is your final warning. Either you settle down, or I settle you down.”

But Sam was beyond reasoning. Arching his back, his voice at its zenith, his lungs produced a howling cry of “LETMEGOLETMEGOLETMEGO!”

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the alien pick up a cylindrical shape, and then, before Sam could do anything, Ratchet stabbed down, inserting it into the flesh of Sam’s shoulder with a hiss click. 

Sam tried to scream, but whatever was in the injection worked quickly, numbing his limbs and stealing his strength. Warm numbness swept over him, and his terrified cries petered out to a pathetic whine of “Noo.”

Ratchet’s stern expression softened, and he rested a hand on Sam’s head. Sam cringed but no longer had the energy to knock it away. Tears filled his eyes. 

Please, oh, please, no. He didn’t want to die. 

Ratchet’s touch was cruelly gentle as he brushed Sam’s hair back. “It’s for your own good, little one. Relax, and we’ll take care of you. It’ll be over soon enough.” 

Sam gave one last heroic push to free himself, but then the fog of sedation swallowed him whole, and the world faded away. 

Chapter Text

If Sam had a nickel for every time an alien had drugged him, he'd have two… no, now three nickels. And since money was basically worthless due to the apocalypse, that was three more nickels than he needed. 

Could he get a return? 

At the very least, this drug was the best one yet. Sam's body floated in a haze of comfort like he was cocooned in clouds. Stress and panic were irrelevant to the calm numbness enveloping him. Blinking dazedly, the world jumped in fits and starts, like a skipping DVD that Sam was only half paying attention to.  

Distantly, he could hear voices and feel himself being moved, but they were a faraway phenomenon, there but not bothering Sam. 

"We're done. He'll need a follow-up in a few cycles, but all the initial readings have been taken." 

Hands cradled his back and legs, scooping him up into the air. Like a giant hammock, Sam thought, as he was cuddled close. He couldn't remember the last time he went hammocking. 

"I need to speak with Optimus. Get him cleaned up and changed, and then take him to the containment room. It should be ready for him." 

"I can help," a soft feminine voice added. 

Sam's body rocked as he was moved, and his eyes slipped closed. 

Warmth. 

Gentle touches. 

Water flowing around him. 

Sam's nose wrinkled as he swam through memories. When had he last felt warm like this? Running water in the refugee camps was lukewarm at best but most often freezing. And since when did they have a bath?

"He's so small," someone cooed as they held his hand. "And his digits, they're so tiny."

With momentous effort, Sam curled his fingers around the hold, attempting to pull himself out of the fog clouding his mind, but all he managed was a weak squeeze. 

"Hello, little one," the voice said as a finger brushed over his hand. 

He forced his eyes open, and pink and white filled Sam's vision. He needed to say something. What was it? 

"Mmmm."

A soft laugh, "Really, do say?" 

Turning his attention away from pink and white, Sam saw sweet bubbles bobbing around him, their rainbow surfaces shining. One floated towards him, landing on his nose and earning a sneeze. 

Another laugh, "You are too cute."

"Ratchet might disagree with you."

 "Oh?" 

Hands massaged his scalp, working the shampoo through the strands. They combed through knots, careful not to tug. Thumbs moved from his head down to his forehead, kneading the muscles there and turning Sam limper than the washcloth sliding across his shoulders.

"He was a bit fussy visiting Ratchet."

"Who isn't? His field doesn't exactly give off warm, happy feelings." 

"Yes, well, after he kicked Ratchet multiple times and wouldn't stop screaming, Ratchet took measures."

"Ohhh, did the grumpy doctor sedate you? Poor thing."

Lovely, blissful warmth cascaded over his head, carrying the bubbles away. Sam melted at the sensation, his eyes fluttering. Weeks of grime washing off, replaced with the fresh scent of soap.

"We're going to get you shiny clean, and you'll feel so much better."

Sam made a faint noise of agreement as he drifted back to dreamland. 

A swaying sensation. 

Soft fabrics wrapped around him, tucking his limbs against his body. Someone cradled him close, gently brushing a finger over his damp hair. 

"Mmmmm' tir'd," he mumbled. 

"I know. I know. We're all done now. You've been such a good spark for us."

The world shifted, and Sam found himself lying on a soft surface, a pillow tucked under his head. 

"Go back to recharge. Everything will be explained when you wake."

The words didn't make any sense in Sam's brain, but the tone was soothing, and thus reassured, Sam fell back asleep. 

The entire high command was already gathered when Jazz sauntered into the command center. Everybot's optics immediately swiveled towards them. Prowl's doorwings twitched in annoyance; he hated being late, but Jazz struggled to care in this instance. Who wouldn't drag their pedes when there was a brand new sparkling to dote on. 

"Jazz," Optimus Prime said from his seat at the head of the table. His optics and field radiated a gentle warmth like Jazz's appearance had brightened his cycle. 

Jazz didn't know how the Prime did it, yet the fragger managed to make everybot feel seen in a spooky, spark-warming way. 

"Heya, Boss Bot," Jazz said, throwing a lazy salute. "Did y'all miss me?"

"Hardly," sniped Starscream, but Jazz paid the air force commander no attention. The seeker had always been notoriously prickly towards anyone that wasn't Megatron, his trine, and now, his newest sparkling. 

"I appologize for our delay," said Prowl, wasting no time as he took his seat at Optimus's side. "We were delivering the newspark to Ratchet for an intake examination." 

"I understand. Ratchet has already commed to let us know that he will join us once he finishes," Optimus nodded towards Jazz. "I know you have  barely returned from your mission, but I hoped you would grant us a short debrief before you write your official report."

Usually, Jazz would be revving to hit the wash racks and clean off all the detritus from the road, but he couldn't fault Optimus or the others for being antsy to know how things rolled out. 

"Can do," he said with his customary smile before leaping into a detailed narration of the mission. He was accustomed to debriefs like this after vorns of serving as Optimus's special operations commander, but this time he struggled to keep his attention focused. His processor kept wandering back to the sparkling Sam, his optics wide, the fluctuations of his scared spark pleading for help. 

It hurt Jazz's spark to leave the bitlet in there, trembling on the table. But Ratchet wasn't a mech to cross, especially not in his med bay. And despite all his annoyed bluster, the old medic was a softie when it came to newsparks. 

A comm from Prowl pinged across Jazz's HUD ::Jazz, pay attention. You've repeated yourself 3.46 instances.:: 

::How does one repeat themselves 3.46 instances?:: Jazz fired back with amusement. ::But I’ll cut ta th’ chase Prowler.::

Across the table, Prowl exvented in irritation. He really did hate that nickname, thought Jazz with a smirk. 

Forcing his attention back to the high command, he started wrapping up his report. "All in all, everything went smoothly. Smoky knocked 'em out, and those that were still awake were easily handled. In an' out. The newspark got a lil' scared, but we put him down for a recharge withou' too many difficulties. Woke up not long before we arrived. And like ya know, we jus' got back from droppin' 'im off wi' Ratchet." 

"No casualties?" Starscream remarked in a tone that implied there ought to be at least one.

Jazz's armor tightened slightly around his frame, and he fought to keep his field calm.

Starscream was one of the mechs least convinced by humanity and, in particular, MECH. Jazz understood that the mech was in the military and all the slag that came along with it, but he could at least try to show some empathy for Earth's dominant race. Especially when the Prime was so invested in them. 

Smile tightening, Jazz said, "Nah. Smoky did his job well. The smoke bomb knocked them out before they could marshal a defense."

"They captured a sparkling," Starscream raked his claws across the table as he growled. "There should be some consequences." 

"I doubt that they understood the gravity of their actions," Prowl said, cutting in before Jazz said something he might regret. 

"Ain't like they got off scot-free," Ironhide huffed. "Our bots rolled right in, knocked their best clean on their afts, and snatched the newspark out from under 'em. That's a slaggin' embarrassment if I ever saw one." 

"It's not enough!" Starscream snapped. "The government is fragging funding them!"

Megatron shifted in his chair, his red optics locking onto Starscream. "You're missing the strategic point," said Megatron, his warning tone cowing his air commander. "If we outright kill them, we become the threat they fear. Currently, the U.S. government is still covering its tracks, keeping its dealings with MECH quiet because it can't afford to push away allies it desperately needs, especially when our help has been proven valid. That will change if we start killing humans."

"Besides, I have no desire to kill any humans, especially when so many of their kind have already perished," Prime said, lightly chastising, smoke curling from his smokestacks. "For the time being, the order remains to avoid unnecessary contact with MECH and to only collect sparklings when strictly necessary."

Starscream grimaced and crossed his arms, and Jazz had to grit his denta to keep from laughing. Funny how one of the biggest skeptics about human sparklings became one of their loudest advocates once he got his own. 

However, it wasn't only Starscream that appeared dissatisfied with the order. Knowingly leaving sparklings out in the open, even if they were tagged and tracked, made everybot's spark spin with worry. 

Still, Jazz could understand the delicate dance Prime was waltzing to. The sparklings' safety was essential, but too aggressive actions could garner unwanted attention and ultimately put them at greater risk. 

Before anybot could respond to Prime's declaration, the door to operations rooms abruptly swung open, and Ratchet stomped in, his field a storm cloud of annoyance, exasperation, and worry. Taking a seat, he looked pointedly at Starscream. 

"Are we sure he's not one of your ilk?"

The seeker's armor puffed up in irritation, but Jazz snickered. "That loud, huh?"

Ratchet gave him a long suffering look. "I had to lower the volume on my audials multiple times." 

"As long as the upstairs neighbors can't hear him, it's fine," said Ironhide. 

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Easy when you're not the one listening to him. Primus, Jazz. I'm not sure if you brought in a wild turbofox or a sparkling." 

Jazz's smile widened, "Feral bitty thing, ain't he?" 

"Quite," he said dryly. "Not that I can say I'm surprised. To survive out there…" his voice trailed off, and a mournful edge filled his field. 

"How's his condition?" asked Optimus, optics shining with concern. 

"About what I expected," said Ratchet, his armor tightening around him. Picking up a data pad, he began reading off of it. "Considering the state of their planet, he could be worse, but his condition is far from ideal. His body mass index is worryingly low, and there are clear signs of malnourishment and vitamin deficiencies. Possible substance abuse as well. He's small for his age, too small, and he's gathered a fair amount of scar tissue."

"But nothing critical?" asked Optimus.  

"No, thank Primus for that." 

The room collectively relaxed as the tightness they were carrying melted away. 

"What about his spark? Were you able to reconfirm what the scouts found? He truly is another sparkling?" asked Megatron, his blue optics intent. 

"He's a sparkling, there's no doubt about it. I had to sedate him for the spark scan because he wouldn't stop fighting, but once I took the readings, it was undeniable. His spark energy is one of the strongest we've recorded yet."

"I coulda told ya that," drawled Jazz. "His spark signature was obvious the click you got close. Had every mechs guardian protocol flarin' up. I had ta tell Bluestreak three separate times to stop tryin' to hold 'im. Not that I can blame him. The bitlet was as cute as can be while rechargin'. Kept makin' the sweetest lil' noises. I saved an audio file of it if any o' you wanna hear." 

Several helms perked up in interest, and Jazz knew he would get several commed requests soon enough. 

"Where is he now?" Prowl asked, drawing attention back to Ratchet. 

"Elita-1 and First Aid are getting him cleaned up and situated in the containment room."

A smile flickered over Optimus's face plates. "I did wonder where she had disappeared to."

Having arrived on Earth not too long ago, Elita-1 hadn't met the other sparklings when they were in their human frame. It was no surprise that she and many other newer arrivals were eager to meet the newest little newspark. 

"Wheeljack," Megatron said, startling the head inventor from the data pad he had been engrossed in. "Do you and Shockwave have a new synthetic protoform prepared?" 

"Ehh, no, we're still a few cycles from completion. Shockwave was working on it when I left the lab or…" he paused and scratched his helm, "Or maybe he was with his sparkling."

"I thought Bumblebee was with him this cycle," said Ironhide, irritation flickering across his field.  

"Mmm, maybe. No, actually, you may be right. I think he was working on the protoform when I left."

"Complete it quicker," Megatron growled. "The sooner the sparkling is in his new frame, the better." 

"No," Ratchet snapped, earning an annoyed look from Megatron. 

"And why not?" 

Ratchet's armor flared. Lord Protector or not, everybot knew better than to question the CMO's medical expertise. "It is ill advised when we're still struggling with the transition of the current batch."

Starscream oozed smugness, "Maybe yours, but my trine has—"

"Yeh, yeh, we all know," Ironhide cut him off. "You have the superior sparkling." 

"Just because yours has struggled to adjust to the physical demands."

Ironhide's engine revved threateningly, and Starscream shut his intake. 

Smart choice, thought Jazz with a smirk. Screamer knew better than to mess with Ironhide.

Ratchet exvetned. "Regardless, at least 3 of our 4 sparklings have been struggling with nightmares." 

"I did not think that would be possible considering their coding," said Prowl, his optics narrowing at the unforeseen development. There was no doubt in Jazz's processor that Prowls TAC-net was furiously working through the data.

"Human sparklings shouldn't be possible, and yet humanity has proven otherwise," said Optimus.

"When you consider that they were transferred from an organic frame to an inorganic one, it's not surprising that there are some remnants. Code if you will, that transferred with them. The whole situation is absolutely fascinating," said Wheeljack, optics alight with the fervor that got him the label of a mad scientist. 

"I doubt the life or death circumstances of the transfer helped," said Ratchet. "Regardless, I am reluctant to initiate another transfer when we are still debugging the issues with our current batch. Besides, there is the question of whether it's morally right to change him without his consent."

"Morally right?" asked Starscream with disdain. 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, unimpressed with Starscream's tone. "Each of the current newsparks consented to the transfer, although analysis proves that they did not understand the gravity of their agreement. As well, each was in critical condition where their survival necessitated the transfer. As of the moment, sparkling Samuel possesses a functioning frame." 

"An organic frame, not a Cybertronian one," said Megatron. 

"He is a human." 

"He is a sparkling," said Megatron, leaning back in his chair, but his casual posture didn't fool Jazz. "His consent, while preferable, is not required. Ultimately, he is reliant on the guidance of his elders to make the correct choices for him, including the transfer to a more durable, appropriate frame." 

"Do you want to send him into a panic?" snapped Ratchet. "You didn't conduct the examination. The newspark was terrified out of his processor. Conducting a change of that magnitude could cause significant emotional damage far worse than mere nightmares." 

"Ah don' feel right traumatizing a bitlet like that," added Ironhide. 

"So we keep him as a human forever?" hissed Starscream.

"No," said Jazz, shaking his helm. "We ease him into it."

"Didn't we try that already?" asked Wheeljack. 

"We started the process, and it was going well until he got himself blown up." 

Ironhide winced. 

"So we try again," Jazz said as he leaned forward, placing his servos on the table. "Like I said, we ease 'im inta this. Constant contact with bots. Introduce him ta our world, our people. Treat 'im like a proper newspark. Make sure he gets plenty of fuel, sleep, and play." 

Ratchet hummed in approval. "Doing so would give his organic frame more time to heal and reach a healthier state. So far, each transfer has happened in less than ideal circumstances; it would be enlightening to do so when the initial frame is in good condition." Snorting, he added. "Less fragging stressful too." 

Optimus inclined his helm. "I would like him to know the truth as well. So far, we have not revealed the truth to the newsparks beforehand, but considering the nature of his arrival, it would be wise to do so. I'd imagine he's confused and scared, but if we explain what he is and allow him to process it—we may gain his trust instead of his continued resistance."

"It won't be easy nor quick," said Prowl. "There is at least an 83.67% chance that he will attempt to escape," his face plates twitched in a smirk. "Although the likelihood of such attempt being successful is only 3.94%." 

"Good enough odds fer me," said Ironhide. "Next question though is who's gonna be looking after the scraplet." 

"I can," said Jazz, raising a servo. "I'll do what I said, get everybot the chance ta meet 'im, and find a proper guardian that way. And I'm sure Prowl can help wit' other parts o' it." 

::I did not agree to whatever scheme you are developing:: Prowl privately commed Jazz. 

::Don' worry, Prowlie. It'll be fun. 'Sides you'll geta spend time with the bitlet. And ya know ya want to.::

Prowl narrowed his optics at Jazz but then said, "I can assist Jazz in ensuring the sparkling is properly taken care of." Because Jazz isn't the most responsible mech went unsaid. 

Jazz grinned, optics shining under his visor. "Great, great. Happy ta have ya help." 

Optimus looked around the table. "Is everyone satisfied with this plan?" 

Megatron made a noise of displeasure, his field radiating frustration. "I will accept your judgment, Prime, but I do not want to see another of our kind lost because of this hesitation. Do not take too long," warned Jazz. 

Prime nodded solemnly. "Then the matter is settled for the time being. Jazz, you will be leading the care for our newest sparkling with the aid of Prowl and Ratchet. We will require regular reports and evaluations. If necessary, we will adjust plans." 

"Can do."

Jazz tapped a tune on the table, unable to keep the smile off his face plates. He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't eager to spend more time with the bitlet. The sparkling was a scrappy, feisty thing, full of fight, but Jazz had already noticed moments of spark-melting sweetness.

This would be a challenge, but it was like a special ops mission in many ways. Jazz had a target that he had to earn the trust of. What Jazz needed was patience and the right approach.

His field radiated eager anticipation as he got to his pedes. There were lots of things to prepare before the bitlet woke from recharge. 

Chapter Text

Sam woke up with single minded clarity as a desperate purpose filled him. 

He needed a bathroom. 

Now. 

Flinging off blankets and scrambling off a comfy mattress, he raced across the wide, metal platform his bed rested on and threw himself off of it, uncaring and unaware of the height. 

"Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom," he chanted under his breath, searching around the blank, white, worryingly bathroom-free room. 

He wasn't a stranger to no bathrooms. He had done his business in a ditch or plastic bucket plenty of times. Gross, but at least he could dispose of it. Not just leave a mess in a corner like Mojo used to as a puppy. 

"Seriously, I need a bathroom," Sam pleaded. 

A space in one of the walls slid open like a portal to another world, yet instead of revealing a fantastical land of talking animals and magic, inside the shallow opening rested a pristine toilet and sink. 

Sweet Hallelujah! Sam thought as he sprinted towards it. 

Indoor plumbing was the true magic. Anyone who thought otherwise obviously hadn't gone without it. 

With his bladder no longer about to explode and his waste flushing away, Sam stood at the sink and turned the faucet. A torrent of warm water spilled out.

Sam stared in disbelief. 

The water wasn't brackish or smelly or cold. Almost in a trance, Sam held out his hand, and bubbly soap squirted into his palm. He washed his hands the proper way, over the sides, between his fingers--all the stuff you're taught in kindergarten, and then stopped doing in favor of a quick scrub and rinse. 

When he was younger and naive about society's collapsing state, Sam had taken plumbing, mattresses, and fresh food for granted. It wasn't until the sky turned red and bodies stacked the streets that Sam realized what he had never appreciated was gone forever. 

A lump formed in his throat, and Sam forced himself to finish washing his hands. 

As soon as he stepped out of the shallow enclave, the wall slid back over it, creating a seamless slate of white as if it had never existed. 

Ooookay. Little spooky, but Sam had been raised to be polite. "Thank you?" he addressed the void, half expecting an answer and feeling relieved when none came.

His room—prison cell?—was painfully bland, just four white walls with a thin stripe of yellow running along the border. Tucked in the corner was a massive silvery metal table melded to the wall that was unnecessarily large compared to the king-sized mattress and pile of blankets and pillows resting on top.

Considering the dimensions of the place, the room had been designed with one of the aliens in mind and not a human. He was probably lucky they had the foresight to include a bathroom. 

At least it smelled nice, with hints of sweet-smelling soap. Although, actually, now that he thought about it…

Tilting his head down, Sam gave himself a tentative sniff. He smelled… clean.

While MECH had been kind enough to try to hide him from the Autobots, they hadn't had much in the way of cleaning facilities. After weeks of acrued travel grime and accumulated sweat, well, one of the MECH soldier's pointed remark about his smell was rude but not unwarranted.

Sam's heartbeat picked up, and a chill crept up his back. Someone had cleaned him. Someone had changed him.

His stomach dropped towards the floor as he remembered Ratchet's glowering face, the sharp prick on his shoulder, and then the fuzziness that overtook everything. He had been drugged again for who knew how long.

His mouth suddenly felt painfully dry. What had they done to him when he'd been incapacitated? 

Grabbing the hem of his new t-shirt, Sam rolled it up, looking himself over. The stupid metal band was gone, thank goodness, but other than that, he looked normal? There were no concerning wounds implying dissection. 

The only new injuries were blooming bruises on his hips from throwing himself against the belt and a small bruise on his hand. Sam poked at the darkening skin. It looked like the type you got from an IV. He grimaced; that was better than dissection but not wholly reassuring. 

All his previous scrapes had a thin, rubbery layer over them, like when he and Miles messed around with super glue. They had had fun playing with it until they accidentally glued their hands together and panicked. It had taken copious amounts of warm water and mineral oil to separate their hands. 

Sam picked at the layer over one of his scratches. Somehow, he doubted this would come off as easily. 

Sam's chest clenched with panic. Closing his eyes, Sam forced himself to breathe in through his nose. 

"It's okay. It's okay. I've been abducted by aliens, but they haven't killed me. At least not yet. All I have to do is leave before they reach that part, right? I can do that." 

The room had no discernible doors or exits, although Sam remained optimistic there'd be some. He hadn't seen the magic bathroom until it opened up. 

"Can I have an exit?" he called, trying to replicate what happened with the bathroom. 

Nothing. 

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. 

Manners maybe?

"Please, can I have an exit?"

One of the walls slid open with a hiss.

"YES!" Sam shouted, immediately running for the exit.  

That was until one of the aliens walked through it, and the wall slid back closed behind him. 

Sam's socked feet slid across the smooth floor as he went from an excited sprint to a terrified stop. Breathe hitching in his chest, Sam stared wide-eyed at the alien, whose black, silver, and white frame felt much more intimidating in an enclosed space. 

The alien smiled, the blue visor that covered his eyes twinkling. "That was a nicer welcome than I was expectin', sweet spark," he said, fondness and amusement filling his voice. "A good morning to you, too. Did you have a nice recharge?" 

Sam stumbled back. His right foot caught on his left ankle, and he fell onto his rear with a thump.

The large mech crouched down, resting an arm on his knee.

"Easy there, bitlet. Gonna hurt yourself stumblin' around like tha', and we don' want that." 

The robot's coloration and build were unmistakable, as was his voice. 

He was the man at the safe house who'd pulled Sam from the choking smoke and then pinned him to the ground. He was also the car a drugged Sam had been stuffed into and the one who'd played instrumental music when he woke up. He was the giant mech who'd carried him in his hands to the Med Bay and helped restrain him, but he also tried to help Sam calm down when he started spiraling. 

"I realize I didn't properly introduce myself earlier," said the alien, crouching down even more. "The designation's Jazz. Special Ops commander of the Autobots, self-taught electro-bass musician, and smoothest mech you'll ever meet," he said, finishing with a click and finger guns. 

Jazz looked expectantly at Sam.  

Slowly, Sam pulled his legs in closer. "Ummm, my designation is Sam," he said. "Normal human."

"And?" asked Jazz leadingly. 

"Ummm… passable guitar hero player and seriously confused as to why I'm here?" Sam added, hoping this was good enough. 

Jazz grinned, "Well, Sam, nice ta properly meet ya."

Sam bit his tongue, holding back a 'wish I could say the same.'  

"Ratchet said that he hooked you up while ya were recharging. Fluids, electrolytes, all that good stuff. But I figured ya'd wan' somethin' to eat that's not jus' fluids."

Before Sam could react, Jazz moved, reaching out to scoop Sam up off the ground, cupping him in the palm of Jazz's hand like it was one of those avant-garde chairs millionaires bought for the aesthetic.  

"Woah, woah, woah!" 

Jazz carried Sam back over to the metal platform his bed was on and tilted him off his palm onto it. Sam collapsed onto the solid surface, his heart pounding. 

"Give me a warning," he gasped out. 

Jazz settled himself on the ground, one leg splayed out, the other tucked up by his chest. One arm rested on the platform, hand within Sam grabbing distance. 

Surreptitiously, Sam scooted away from it. He had no desire to be picked up again. 

He hadn't realized it when he first woke up, but the platform was elevated far higher than a bed ought to, at about a story off the ground. High enough that his stomach lurched uncomfortably when he leaned over the edge. How had he not broken something when he threw himself off it in search of a toilet? 

That mystery was interrupted by Jazz shifting, and Sam's attention snapped back to him, a rabbit sensing a fox stirring in the bushes. 

Thankfully, Jazz didn't reach for him, but his hand did something strange. One moment, it was empty; the next, a tray was pinched between his fingers. Compared to him, it was hilariously tiny but placed next to Sam, it was average-sized. 

Hesitantly, Sam examined the contents and was greeted with a plate of golden pancakes, fluffy eggs, sliced strawberries, and golden hashbrowns. Steam wafted off of it, the smell making Sam's mouth water. 

"Not sure wha' yer preferences are, so you'll have to let me know what you like and don't."

Sam's stomach growled appreciatively, and he thought drool might be leaking out from the corner of his mouth. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten pancakes. Or strawberries. Or hashbrowns. Heck, he couldn't remember the last time a meal had had so much food. 

"What is this?" Sam whispered. With great effort, he tore his eyes away from the feast and over to Jazz. 

"Breakfast," said Jazz with a nod toward the plate. "Most important meal o' the day, or so I've been told."

"Why…" Sam licked his lips. "Why are you giving me food?" His hands trembled in his lap, and Sam forced himself to ask the dangerous question. "More than that, why am I here?"

When Jazz said nothing, Sam continued, his speech getting faster with every word.  

"Look, if this is about MECH, I hardly know those guys. They were letting me stay with them, but I don't know any plans or information or whatever it is you want. I didn't do anything, and they didn't do anything while I was with them, so I don't know why they would be such a problem."

But Jazz shook his head, "Nah, this ain't bout MECH." 

"But that Ratchet bot said it was! Said you…" Sam paused, struggling to keep a tremble from his voice, "grabbed me because I was with them, but I'm not, so you have no reason to keep me here!"

His voice raised in pitch as his breath quickened. "If that's not why I'm here, then I don't understand. I don't know what you want with me!"

Jazz shifted forward, his voice softening, "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said in response to Sam's panic. "You're safe now."

"Safe?!" Sam cried. A hysterical laugh bubbled out. "How am I safe? You're the one who locked me in a car trunk. In what world is that safe? Pretty sure that's something only creepy kidnappers do when they're transporting someone to a secondary location to kill them." 

Jazz's smile slipped away, "We aren't going to kill you," he said firmly. 

"Oh, great. Well, that settles everything," said Sam sarcastically. "I feel great now. I'll just leave and go back to minding my own business, and you can go back to minding your own business, and we never have to see each other again."

He shouldn't have been so crushed when Jazz said, "I can't do that." 

"And why not?" Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. He was pushing the limits—he shouldn't be so aggressive with a captor—but his confused terror had been building for too long. He pointed an accusatory finger at Jazz: "I haven't done anything wrong. You have no reason to keep me here!"

Jazz clicked his tongue, "Ah, and that's where you're wrong, sweet spark. It's not bout what you've done. It's about what you are ." 

A shiver crawled up Sam's back. "What I am?" 

"Yes, sweet spark. What you are. Now, I'd love ta tell you more, but that food lookin' sad and lonely, and if we run our voice boxes much longer, it's gonna get cold. 'Sides, Ratchet'll have my aft if ya don' eat somethin' so why don' we make a deal?"

"A deal?"

Jazz smiled fondly, "Yeah, Sam, a deal. You eat, and once yer done, I'll answer all the questions bouncin' in tha' processor of yours. Whatever you wan' to know." 

Sam glanced at the tempting breakfast and back at Jazz. It almost felt too good to be true. "You'll explain why I'm here?" he asked, voice cracking with emotion. 

"Cross my spark," Jazz said, making an X-shape across his chest.  

Sam swallowed, eyes flicking between Jazz and the food. It felt like a trick—had to be. But his stomach cramped painfully, and right now, answers mattered more than pride. He exhaled shakily. "Fine. It's a deal."

Jazz gestured wordlessly towards the plate of food, the expectation clear—Eat. 

Sam picked up the fork, and strange trepidation filled him as he stabbed into one of the jeweled strawberries. The bright red berry looked harmless on his fork, but who knew if it hid something nefarious. Hesitantly, Sam opened his mouth and bit into it. 

Sweet, refreshing juice burst along his taste buds. Embarrassingly, a moan slipped out at the flavor. After that, there was no controlling himself.

Sam fell upon the platter, gorging himself on the best food he'd eaten in years. The pancakes were drenched in sticky, sweet maple syrup, and the eggs were warm and fluffy, topped with a layer of melted cheese. 

His stomach gurgled in contentment as the flavor assault wiped away years of canned soups, MREs, and emergency rations. 

Shoveling a mouthful of crispy hash browns into his mouth, Sam mumbled to himself, "Thought they'd eat gasoline or something."

Jazz burst into laughter, and Sam almost choked as he swallowed down the bite. He said that out loud, hadn't he? Biting his lip, he dared a glance at Jazz, unsure whether the comment would provoke an angry response. 

Jazz shook his head and said with fondness, "Nah, bitlet. I don' touch tha' slag, and neither will you." 

"Oh," said Sam, heat filling his face. He supposed that even though they were alien robots capable of turning into cars, that didn't mean they were actually human cars. Of course, they'd require different fuel. 

The entire plate and glass of juice were finished far too soon, and Sam's stomach bulged from the feast. He licked his lips, enjoying the lingering sweetness of sticky syrup. If this was the last meal before his death, at least the aliens had picked a good one. 

Jazz eyed the empty platter with a hum of approval. He reached over, picked it up, and like before, the tray vanished. 

Sam jolted, "How did you do that?" 

"That? I tucked it into my subspace. All bots have it. Let's us store things. The physics o' it are a tad strange, and I've never had the patience to listen ta Jackie's whole spiel on it. I can let 'im know, though, that you're interested. He'd be thrilled ta talk your audial off 'bout it." 

Sam blinked. Sure… sure, why not. These were giant transforming, alien robots. Why couldn't they just store random objects in midair? 

Jazz smiled, "Now, as interestin' as it migh' be. I doubt that's what you really wanna know."

Sam's back straightened. He hadn't been 100% certain that Jazz would keep his end of the deal, but it appeared he would, which meant Sam would finally get answers. 

"No, it's not," said Sam, his voice steady. (A full stomach did wonders for his confidence.) I want to know why I'm here and what you meant when you said it's not what I did but what I am."

Jazz hummed thoughtfully, "Mmmmm, well, whatcha are, sweet spark, is a miracle."

A shiver rolled up Sam's back at the last word. Miracle. 

"How much do ya know 'bout us?" Jazz asked, his blue visor fixed on Sam with an unsettling intensity.

Sam forced himself not to squirm under the scrutiny. "You're mechanical aliens from the planet Cyber-something."

"Cybertron," Jazz corrected and then waved a hand, encouraging Sam to continue. 

"And you've been helping restore Earth since we—" Sam's throat tightened "—tried to collectively off ourselves. You call yourself Autobots? You only appeared a year ago. Some don't trust you, but most are grateful for the help."

Sam distinctly remembered hearing the president's message over a crackling radio. 'Hope,' he had said, 'has come from the stars.' After witnessing so much death and destruction, it had been difficult to believe. And yet, then the fires had started being put out, radioactive waste cleaned up, and supplies distributed. When the first shipment of clean, bottled water arrived, Sam fell to his knees and wept. If only they had come sooner, he had thought. 

He hadn't cared much for MECH's whispered warnings. How could he, when the Autobots were saving lives? All he had felt was gratitude. 

But that was before he was tagged like an animal. 

"Not bad," said Jazz warmly. "Everything you said is true. Prime's got a whole speech he likes ta give 'bout how we're autonomous robotic organisms, cause lots have tried ta claim we're jus' machines." Jazz shook his head and clucked his tongue. "But we're more than that." 

He shifted forward, leaning closer. Sam curled his hands into fists to avoid flinching. 

"We're alive and sentient," said Jazz firmly. He placed a hand over his chest. "We feel things. We love. None of it is artificial. But ya know the thing that makes us different from any ol' human machine?"

"Some sorta supercomputer? Maybe a special rock?" Sam ventured, immediately regretting it when Jazz chuckled. 

"Nah. It's a spark."

"A spark?" repeated Sam, struggling to visualize what Jazz was saying. 

The center plates of Jazz's chest shifted suddenly, unfolding like a flower in the springtime sun. As the metal pieces pivoted away, it revealed a hollow space in the center of his chest where a bright blue flame flickered. 

"This is a spark," said Jazz softly. 

Goosebumps ran up Sam's arms as he stared at the light. It was more than just a burning fire. The light glowed and pulsed as it spun in the chamber. Each revolution cast blue light across the room, carrying a feeling of laughter, music, and strength. 

Unconsciously, Sam leaned in, something deep in his chest flaring at the spark. A strange buzzing filled his head, and his body felt lighter than it had in days. Stress faded under its glow, replaced with calm and safety. Mesmerized by the light, Sam's fingers twitched, wanting to draw closer to the protection and warmth. It was a better high than any drug Sam had ever taken.

As abruptly as it opened, Jazz's center plates began to slide back into place with a chorus of clicks. As silver armor closed over the spark, Sam almost let out a whimper. His chest panged, and the room suddenly felt strangely empty.

His hand fisted his shirt, pressing down on his heart. "Wha-" he gasped. "What was that?"

"The closest human equivalent to a spark is your heart and soul. A spark is what makes a Cybertronian a Cybertronian. Our physical frame can be completely destroyed, but as long as our spark persists, we can live. 

Sam rubbed his hands over his arms, trying to chase away the chill that had crept over him. "So what does that have to do with me?"

Jazz smiled, "You have a spark." 

Sam's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"It's what attracted our attention to Earth. Hidden among the billions of you humans are those with sparks. Not many, and even fewer now…" Jazz said, his visor dimming with sadness. "But still, there's some. Your sparks are so fragile. So young. And you have one. Energy jus' barely holdin' together, but it is undeniable. You're a sparkling, Sam." 

Chapter Text

"You're a sparkling, Sam."

The hair on the back of Sam's neck rose in alarm. He had already pegged Jazz as a jokester, someone easygoing, who was rarely without a smile. But for that last sentence, his smile had dropped, and his tone turned serious. He 100% believed what he was telling Sam. 

"Wait, wait, wait," said Sam, holding up his hands to ward off the craziness of this conversation, "You're saying that glowly blue thing in your chest—" 

"A spark." 

"Whatever," said Sam. "You're claiming that I have one of those."

"Yep," said Jazz, popping the p at the end. 

Well, that was great; his alien kidnapper was officially insane. Always a nice realization to have. 

Sam raised an eyebrow, "And I'm the one that needed a checkup? Pretty sure you must have a screw or two loose in there. Cause otherwise, you're claiming that I, a normal human, have some sort of glowing alien fireball in my chest," he held up his hand, starting to tick off his fingers. "Which, first off, if I did, wouldn't I be dead? Second off, pretty sure I would know if I had something like that. And third off, like I already said, I am human. Human mom and dad, no alien robots involved." 

(And even if they were, it's not like he could ask his parents about it anyway).

Jazz's smile was back, and he shrugged. "Have a break to ya, sweet spark, whether ya like it or not: you have a spark. Every mech that gets close enough can feel it."

"You're feeling what you want to feel." 

"Maybe so, maybe so," Jazz said with a humm, his head bobbing good naturally. "But that was before the checkup." 

Cold fingers of dread slid up Sam's back. His mouth felt unnaturally dry as he asked, "What?"

"While you were rechargin', Ratchet double-checked, and there's no denying those readings. You have a spark, which makes you a lil' sparkling."

"I'm not little," Sam snapped. 

Jazz's blue visor flashed with amusement as he looked pointedly between Sam and himself. 

"You don't count. You're a massive robot."

"Mmmm, Ratchet said you're a bit small fer yer age."

Heat burned in Sam's chest. Even if it was the last thing he did, he would kill that doctor. "Screw him."

Gritting his teeth, Sam tried to breathe through his nose, forcing his beating heart to slow. Blind rage wouldn't help him convince this malfunctioning robot of the truth.

"Okay, okay, fine," Sam said, releasing a shaky, frustrated breath. Let's say I have a spark—" Jazz perked up, causing Sam to yell, "WHICH I DON'T. Why do you care?"

Jazz tilted his head. "I already said. It's cause you're a sparkling." 

"And that is…?"  

Jazz gestured at the polished metal armor covering him. "For Cybertronians, our frame isn't always the best reference for our age. Parts can be replaced or changed out." 

His hand rose towards his chest, right over the plates that covered his eerie spark. "However, the feeling of one's spark is always accurate. It reveals a bots true nature, including their age. And in our society, a sparkling is one with a young, new spark. And yours…" his tone softened, "it feels so young. Tha's why you're a sparkling."

A terrible, dreadful suspicion began to form in Sam's brain, and he looked mistrustfully at Jazz, who was still sitting there, the bastard, like everything was fine. 

"You just said my spark felt young."

"Very much so," murmured Jazz. 

"So then when you say my spark feels young, like a sparkling, are you saying I feel like a–," Sam's throat bobbed, but he forced the words out. "like an alien child? A baby?"

He waited for Jazz to laugh, but he only nodded and said, "A youngling of our species, yes."

Oh no. Oh nonononnooooooo.

Forget dissection. Forget all the alien horror stories. This was worse. This was humiliation on a level so deep it scraped at something raw inside him. Sam would eagerly volunteer for alien experiments if it got him out of this conversation.

Sam's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Still!" he yelled, voice shriller than he wanted. "What does that have to do with all of this!?"

"Everythin'," said Jazz firmly. "Sparklings are precious, rare. They're to be protected and cherished. We couldn' le' you wander aroun' out there witho' protection. Jazz's voice was gentle like he thought he was explaining something kind . "Ya need ta be looked after. 'S why we brought you back home to take care of."

"I am an adult!" Sam yelled in outrage. 

"Your human frame is still growin'. Pretty sure that makes you not 'an adult.' Sides' it's not 'bout your frame. It's about your spark."

"I DON'T HAVE A SPARK! I AM HUMAN. H-U-M-A-N. AND I DON'T NEED A BABYSITTER!"

"Sure ya don'." 

The condescending tone rankled Sam's injured pride, and he released a stream of curses that, if his parents had heard, would have grounded him for a month. 

Jazz made a disappointed clicking noise. "Talkin' like tha' ain' gonna change a thing, sweet spark. You're a sparkling. Plain as the metal on my frame." 

The more Jazz spoke, the worse the situation became. The stupid alien clearly wasn't listening, and if he wasn't going to listen to reason, then Sam was done talking. 

Getting to his feet, Sam shook his head, "No. No. Nope. Uh uh. Not buying what you're selling."

He started to walk away, unwilling to entertain a second more of the conversation. Crouching at the edge of the platform, he prepared to jump. Who cared if he cracked his head open. Better than continuing this… madness. 

Thankfully, he didn't have to. The instant he crouched to make the leap, steps rose out of the floor, rising to meet Sam. 

Huh, that's how he got down earlier then. 

Taking the steps down to the floor, Sam quickly walked towards the wall Jazz had entered from. The door had to be there, which meant all Sam needed to do was open it, leave, and never think about this again.  

Trying to channel the diplomacy he no longer felt, Sam said, "Look, we're all very grateful for you coming and stopping us from blowing our planet to smithereens, not that we should have ever got to that point in the first place, mind you."

He ran his hands over the wall, searching for a seam or crack, something that indicated where the door started and the wall ended. Behind him, he heard Jazz get to his feet and approach. Sam forced himself to not look back and stay focused on exiting. There had to be a door knob or lever somewhere. 

Barely suppressed panic made him keep talking, trying to fill the space with noise so he didn't have to think. "But your story doesn't make any sense. We aren't hiding secret, alien, children from you. Not a thing. And I definitely am not one of them. So why don't you just open this door, let me leave, and I won't say anything about this to anyone else." 

Jazz chuckled. "Ain't that generous of ya?"

"Seriously, how does this thing work?" Sam huffed as he tried to push the wall back. "Do you not believe in doorknobs?" His socked feet slid across the floor as he attempted to brace himself. 

"Come. On!" Sam grunted, "Work!" His arms burned as he continued to shove at it, but he might as well have been trying to budge a mountain for all the good it did. "Open! Reveal door! Blasted work! You opened for him?!"

Growling, he kicked at the wall in frustration, his big toe immediately throbbing from the stupid action. 

Jazz just smirked. "Yeah, that ain't gonna work either."

He crouched down and tilted his head. "You gotta face the facts, sweet spark."

Sam shook his head hard enough to get a concussion. "Nope. Nope. Nope. You're wrong . I am not a sparkling and I definitely don't need massive, mechanical aliens to look after me. I've been taking care of myself for years now, and I've been fine." 

Jazz made a quiet, thoughtful sound. "Ain't that just the saddest thing I ever heard. Don' cha worry. It's gonna be different now." 

Sam spun around, fury filling his voice. "No, it's NOT! Cause I'm not one of YOU!! I. AM. A HUMAN!" His vision blurred, and his breath came in ragged gasps—but Jazz simply watched him. 

He wasn't listening. 

A wild scream tore from his throat as he turned back and attacked the door: shoving, punching, yanking, clawing, kicking, anything to get the stupid thing to open. Scrapes built across his knuckles and his muscles throbbed from the intensity of his assault. A continuous cry tore at his throat. He didn't know how long he threw himself at the wall. It could have been minutes or hours. 

Regardless, the door remained closed. 

Energy depleted, Sam collapsed into a pile on the ground, his head resting against the wall. Heat burned his eyes, but he forced the tears back. He had promised himself he wouldn't let the aliens see him cry. 

A soft blanket fell over his shoulders, draping around him. There was no question who brought it. 

A massive hand brushed across his back, "Whatcha need, bitty bot?" 

Sam curled his hands into the blanket, hating that he relished its comfort. Swallowing heavily, he croaked, "I need you to let me go."

"M' sorry, sweet spark," Jazz said, continuing to rub Sam's back. "But I can't do that."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sob in his chest to stay there. He knew what the answer would be, so why did it hurt? Struggling to speak through the lump in his throat, Sam forced out, "If you can't do that, then leave me alone." 

"Alright," Jazz said, "Ain't expectin' you to be all friendly with us yet. You're still all disoriented." His fingers curled briefly, scratching lightly at Sam's back before pulling away. "Don't worry none. We'll fix that."

He scooped Sam, blanket and all, and carried him back over to the bed.

"I'll be back in a bit wit' your lunch," he said. He brushed a thumb over Sam's head. "Be good. Everything will be alright."

Before Sam could do anything, Jazz strode back to the walls, which opened, allowing him to leave, and then slid back shut, enclosing Sam within his prison. 

Jazz's office had always existed in a state of perfectly cultivated chaos. To the untrained optic, it appeared messy and disorganized, with datapads haphazardly stacked next to Polyhexian music recordings. Empty containers of Energon balanced precariously on the edge of the desk. However, every sensitive piece of information was carefully maintained and noted. 

If Prowl even nudged a datapad, Jazz would notice and know, usually with a snarky comment.

It wasn't entirely uncommon for Prowl to visit Jazz's office to confer on gathered intel. His TAC-net functioned best when it had accurate data. Besides, if Jazz minded Prowl's intrusion, he would have made hacking the locks more difficult or not requested Prowl's assistance in the first place. 

Thankfully, Jazz's special operations agents knew not to disturb him when his office door was closed as he might be processing sensitive information. However, in this instance, Prowl was simply accessing the camera monitors in Jazz's office to examine the newest human sparkling. Outside Red Alert's monitoring room, Jazz had the best monitoring system where Prowl could watch without other eager mechs crowding around the screens to coo over the newspark. 

Prowl's optics narrowed as he watched the human sparkling curl up on the human berth. He had pulled the blanket up over his helm, obscuring his frame from view; however, slight tremors shook the blanket bundle. Channeling the audio through his audials, he heard faint, hitching breathing. It was slightly muffled, as though something was blocking the sparkling's intake.

His door wings rose a fraction, and he zoomed in on the bundle, TAC-net whirling as it picked up additional visual details on the human's frame. One arm was curled up towards the intake. Perhaps the human was attempting to mute himself as a protection tactic. Research had revealed that frightened Mamalia would hide pain or distress when scared. 

Prowl's door wings lowered. The sparkling wasn't physically injured or in pain, merely upset. 

Within his processor, long-buried, dormant Guardian coding flickered, urging him to comfort the sparkling and ensure that he was safe. Prowl paused at the strange sensation. How many vorns had it been since he'd needed that coding?

However, Prowl pressed down on the code, sending it back into his processor's archives. Ultimately, while Jazz and he had been assigned the initial task of looking after the sparkling's well-being, Prime would be the one to select a Guardian, of which Prowl would not be. 

They already had one emotionally compromised Guardian; it was illogical to have two. 

Still, it was more upsetting than Prowl wanted to acknowledge to watch the sparkling curl in on himself. 

Soft pede steps came from outside the office—too casual to be Mirage's and too rhythmic to be Smokescreen's. Prowl didn't even need his TAC-net to flash the answer. 

"Jazz," he said lowly, not bothering to look up from the monitor. 

"Prowler, did ya miss me that bad that ya had ta visit in person?" 

Stiffening in exasperation at the nickname, Prowl fixed Jazz with a stern look. 

"Hardly," Prowl said with a raised optic ridge. "I came to monitor your conversation."

"I knew I'd make a spy outa you eventually," Jazz said, sauntering over to where Prowl stood. "M' tellin' ya, you'd have more fun in Ops than hooked up ta a computer."

"I've seen your idea of 'fun'," said Prowl dryly. "And unless my memory chips are glitching, it usually involves an extensive visit with Ratchet. 

"Gotta keep Ratch in a job, ya know," Jazz said, placing a dramatic servo against his chassis. "Jus' doin' my duty ta keep 'im busy." 

It was beneath Prowl to roll his optics, but conversations with Jazz always increased his desire to do so by 43.6%. 

"How was the conversation with the sparkling?" asked Prowl, forcing the discussion back to its intended purpose. 

The question was mostly unnecessary. Prowl had observed the entire encounter from start to finish. However, it was helpful to confer in order to compare data, and Jazz typically had emotional insights that Prowl missed. 

Judging from the dimness of Jazz's optics and the slight tightness of his armor, he needed to talk about it. Prowl knew his reputation as a cold, unfeeling glitch, but he could at least pretend to not have a dysfunctional emotional center if it helped a friend. 

Collapsing into his seat, Jazz waved a servo, "'Bout as good as I expected. A bit scared but tryin' to hide it. And like Ratch said, the bitlet was starvin'. Clearly been rolling on a half tank for too long. But once I told 'im the truth, well…" Jazz exvented, "Denial, anger, panic, fear—lots o' big emotions for a tiny frame. 

"He exhibited classic organic fight or flight behavior," Prowl noted. "As well, judging by the force and intensity of his attack on the door, there is an 89.3% certainty that he injured himself attempting to leave the containment room."

Ratchet would be furious that he hadn't been informed. But Prowl had also gone back and watched the newspark's intake examination. It was as loud as Ratchet had said, and that was before the sparkling worked himself into a panic over the spark scan. Unless the newspark was critically injured, it would be most strategic to wait before reintroducing Ratchet. 

However, if Ratchet found out, there was a 96.1% chance he'd throw a wrench at them. Best to keep it from him and avoid the Med Bay for the next few cycles. 

Prowl's optics swiveled back to the monitor. The blanketed bundle was still shaking. "He's still upset."

"I know. I know," Jazz said. He ran a servo over his face plates. "Believe me, Prowler, if I had my way, I'd wrap the bitlet up and cuddle him until he gave in. But tha's not gonna work. We need 'im to trust us. And if that means I have ta force myself to give him some space until he's ready, then I will." 

If Prowl's guardian protocols had been flaring at the sight of a distressed sparkling, it had to be even worse for Jazz in the containment room, feeling the upset spark pulses. Yet he had kept to the plan, allowing the sparkling space when he demanded it. 

It was counterintuitive, but keeping the protocols under control was necessary in this situation. 

"Gotta take it slow wit' a sparkling," Jazz murmured, "I don't wanna upset him any more than necessary."

Still, his field carried flickers of stress and worry as he watched the monitors. Prowl stayed quiet, allowing Jazz additional clicks for his processor to sort through his feelings. 

After what Prowl calculated was enough time of silence, he said, "I lack the necessary data to make a certain predictions of how long it will take for him to settle. But based on analysis of human behavior, I'd suspect it will take at least a few of his cycles to adjust to what he's learned." 

"Tha's fine. We've got plenty o' time. Plus, that'll give Jackie and you the time ya need to finish up wi' yer project."

Prowl struggled to keep his door wings steady as his data files reminded him what had happened the last time he was in Wheeljack's laboratory. It has taken two rounds of cleaning in the wash racks to get all the soot off. "Yes. I've been considering consulting the other guardians."

Jazz hummed, drumming his digits on the table. "Good idea. Might wanna talk with' Hide or Bee. Even Knockout. Heard he's been doin' good with his."

Turns out the medic was capable of caring about something besides his finish. 

A slight smirk tugged at Prowl's face plates, "Not Starscream?"

Jazz rolled his optics. "Screamer's got a big enough ego as is. If you wanna deal wit' him, by all means."

"I'll pass." 

A flicker of movement came from the screen, and their intakes snapped shut as their attention darted back. The tiny blanket bundle shifted again; the newspark was wrapping his arms around himself in comfort. Curled up under the fabric, the sparkling looked so tiny. 

"He's so…" Prowl struggled for the right word, "fragile." 

"Eh, he's got some fight in 'im. Gotta help him past this bump in the road, but he'll be good. We'll make sure of it." 

And though Prowl had doubts—his reservations about the wisdom of bonding with a human sparklings who might never truly understand their ways—even he couldn't suppress the hope burning in his spark. 

After thousands of vorns, there were finally sparklings again, but only time could tell if sparkling Samuel could come to accept it. 

Chapter Text

Despite Jazz’s reassurances that the Autobots would not kill him, Sam knew the truth. He was going to die…

Of boredom. 

Sprawled out on the metal platform, he raised his head and let it fall down with a thud. His head throbbed at the contact, and stars formed in the corner of his vision. 

Yet, that potential brain damage was the most interesting thing that happened today. 

Seriously, you’d think that for an advanced, spacefaring alien species, they could provide a better form of entertainment than staring at four blank walls. 

But nooooo. 

Raising his head again, he let it fall back down again. Then again. And again. 

Thunk. 

Thunk. 

Thunk. 

Four days. 

It had been four days since the uncomfortable conversation with Jazz that revealed, hey, we think of you as a small alien child we need to protect. Which screw that. Sam had been taking care of himself all on his own for years.

He did NOT need giant mechanical babysitters. What he needed was to leave.

And yet, Jazz and the stupid wall that would not open for him refused to let him leave. 

So, he was stuck here as his mind slowly melted from boredom.

There was only so much for him to do. He could play the game “Stare at the Wall Until Your Vision Blurs” or the thrilling “Ask for the Bathroom and Watch the Wall Open and Close” game. There was even the “Sit By the Wall Door and Try to Run When it Opens” game. 

Although Sam had given up on that one after the third time of running straight into Jazz’s open palm. (The metal jerk had been so smug about it, too.)

Today, he settled on “Summoning Magic Steps” by pretending to step up an invisible stair leading to the platform his bed rested on and then acting surprised when a step rose from the ground. 

It had been cool the first time (and relieving to know he wasn’t going to die getting out of bed), but despite what the aliens thought, Sam wasn’t a toddler, and a mundane object was only going to entertain him for so long. 

Tilting his head, he considered the edge of the platform. Maybe he needed to mix it up. Instead of closing his eyes and stepping off the ledge, he could take a running leap and see if the steps would appear to stop his fall. 

If it did, fantastic, something new. But if it didn’t catch Sam… well, at least it would mix things up. 

Groaning, Sam turned his head away from the ledge and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

He had to face the truth. 

And the painful truth was, Sam was getting nowhere. 

He’d spent the first two days in a dissociated daze with random flashes of blinding rage that resulted in him attacking the door/wall again. But all he had succeeded in opening was the skin on his knuckles. 

On day three, he discovered a sigil etched onto the wall that Jazz would press to open the door. With that goal in mind, he threw himself (quite literally) at the wall, trying to reach it and open the door. It was quickly revealed that he was no Spider-Man and could not do anything a spider can. 

When brute strength failed, he’d turned to the room, searching for anything that could help him get out. But again, only four blank walls and a stupid platform bed so far away from the button that he’d have better luck flapping his arms to fly up to it than leaping off the bed for it. 

And now, day four was shaping to be much of the same. 

If he wanted even a chance to blow this pop stand , he needed to change what he was doing .  

What he wanted to do was pry the metal from the robot’s body piece by piece and melt it into a gun that he’d then use to blow up the other aliens. 

But in the alien version of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Sam was fairly confident flesh didn’t beat metal. So bloody, satisfying vengeance would have to be shelved in favor of a different plan. 

Sam groaned, hating himself for even considering this. 

If Jazz was to be believed, all the Autobots thought he was some helpless sparkling. When Sam reflected back on his encounters with the aliens, he found ample evidence: the soft, sweet tone of their voices, the constant talk about how small and cute he was, and the lack of acknowledgment that he was practically an adult. Sam wasn’t dealing with one delusional alien who thought he was a child; no, he got a whole base of them.

However, while it was the reason he was in this mess, it also was his one advantage. 

They thought of him like a child—small, helpless, and needing care. He could lean into that and go along with the insane concept that he needed and (gagging) wanted their care.  

His teenage pride wilted at the thought, but he was also desperate for something beyond these four walls. Going along with it could give him a chance to search his surroundings, locate exits, and discover the Autobot’s weaknesses. 

“Am I seriously going to do this?” Sam whispered to himself. 

For all he knew, playing along would feed more into their delusion. But did he even have a choice? 

Sam gritted his teeth, hating that he already knew the answer. He didn’t have a choice—not really. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, or in this instance, an escape-proof cell and an infantilizing alien robot. 

“I deserve a drink if I’m going along with this,” he muttered. Then he snorted; somehow, he doubted his babysitters would provide him with alcohol anytime soon, even if all he needed was enough to take off the edge. 

From across the room, the wall-which-would-not-open-for-Sam slid open, allowing Jazz to saunter in. 

The silver, white, and black mech made his way straight towards Sam, a hilariously small tray held in his hand. “Dinner,” he said. “Got some soup and a sandwich. Haven’ tried it m’self, but I heard it’s good.” 

He set it on the platform beside Sam, “How ya feelin’?”

Sam glanced at the food and the thin trail of steam curling off it. It was enough to make his mouth water and his stomach gurgle. Begrudgingly, he sat up and pulled the tray closer. If there was one thing that he could give his kidnappers credit for, it was that their food was unfairly amazing . 

Picking up a slice of the sandwich, he took a bite out of it-- the bread crispy and buttery, and the insides stuffed with melted cheddar cheese and a thick slab of fried bacon. Savoring the flavor, he swallowed, then said in response to Jazz’s question, “Bored.” 

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing to do,” Sam complained, viciously taking another bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. “At this rate, I’m going to die of boredom.” 

Jazz shook his head with dramatic solemnity, clasping a hand to his chest plate. “A horrendous way to go.” 

Sam squinted up at him, lips twitching before he caught himself. No. No giving the alien any smiles. He was a serious, suffering captive. One who was now absolutely going to lie through his teeth.

“I thought about what you told me, about being a…” his throat struggled to force the word out, “a sparkling.”

Jazz didn’t move, but it almost felt like an eager buzz spread from him. “Yeah? You feelin’ a bit bettah then?”

Sam knew what he needed to say. ‘Yes, I’m feeling better, and I realized you’re absolutely right. I do have a glowing fiery ball of death in my chest, and I’m so happy you kidnapped me so that you can take care of me.’

But the words wouldn’t come. Sam took a bite of the soup–tomato, thick, creamy, with enough flavor to make his taste buds buzz. He took another bite. Then another. All the while, Jazz sat patiently, watching him with those glowing blue eyes.  

‘Come on, say it,’ Sam ordered himself, even as his wounded ego flailed at the indignity.

“What I don’t understand is if you see me as some sort of alien child, why are you acting like I’m a prisoner? I mean, what about this doesn’t scream cell? Completely empty. Unable to leave.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam cringed. Yes, that was what he had intended to do. Antagonize the delusional alien. Complain about the living arrangements.  

But Jazz’s visor brightened. “Tha’ it, sweet spark? Well we wanted ta give ya plenty of time to adjust, get comfy. It’s a big change, and we wanna go at your pace. But if you’re feelin’ ready, then we can get things rollin’.”

“Sure, great, yeah. Let’s get things rolling.” 

Apparently, getting things “rolling” involved finishing his meal (no complaints there) and then summoning a massive block from the floor that rose to the height of Jazz’s chest plates.

Sam had seen the flooring create steps before, but on such a large scale, he could see the hundreds of tiny cubes shuffling together, multiplying and stacking on top of each other. It sounded like the clinking of a bucket of marbles poured out on the ground as the cubes rose to the final height and settled. The pale seams of each cube shimmered slightly, then faded as the blocks merged, creating a single massive white cube. 

Sam gaped. It looked like one of the steps that’d appear to help him get in and out of his bed. Just much, much bigger. 

Sensing Sam’s astonishment, Jazz said. “Yer in one o’ the special rooms. S’ got the Shifting Transforming Extension Placement System meant ta make it easier fer you and us. Help adjust stuff as needed n’ keep you safe.” He smiled cheekily, “Bit o’ a name, which is why most of us jus’ call it STEPS.” 

He plucked Sam from the platform, uncaring of Sam’s startled screech and surprised clinging. He lifted Sam up and up until he was placed on the massive block. 

Sam clutched the smooth surface of the cube before hesitantly peeking over the edge. 

It was high up. 

Like, kill him high up. 

Sam’s throat bobbed. He wasn’t exactly afraid of heights, but one always seemed to develop a healthy fear of them when teetering over a precipice. 

“Not a fan of heights?”

“Not a fan of falling.” 

“Don’t worry, lil’ bot.” Jazz said with an amused smile. “Yer safe. Can’t fall, not really.”

And then he shoved Sam. Off. The. Ledge. 

Pathetically, it only took a single finger to send Sam toppling to his doom. 

He sucked in the air to scream, but before even a whine could escape, a section of the flooring rocketed upward, catching Sam before he could even fall a foot. 

“Wha-” Sam gasped as the flooring curved around him. The cube that caught him lifted slightly, then shifted to create a slight ramp that slid Sam off of it and back onto the platform. Sam quickly scampered away, heart pounding. 

“There’s a reason you’re in this room. STEPS makes it easier fer us, but Teletraan monitors everythin’, includin’ STEPS, and ‘ll make sure nothin’ happens to ya.” 

The words only made half sense as Sam was still recovering from the fact he hadn’t died. His fingernails scratched along the surface, desperate for a handhold. Slight divots appeared in the smooth cube, allowing Sam to curve his fingers into it. 

“Like I was sayin–” Jazz paused, blue visor dimming. “Ya okay?” 

“You shoved me?” Sam said in disbelief. His grip tightened as his hands shook slightly. A hysterical laugh burst out. “I could have died. And you shoved me.” 

Behind the visor, Jazz’s blue eyes widened. Wincing, he said, “Sorry.”

Sam startled at the apology. Jazz ran a hand sheepishly over his head. “G’tta keep in mind tha’ this is all new ta ya. Can’t push you too hard.” He let out a snort from his vents, the warm air brushing over Sam. “Literally and figuratively. It won’t happen again.” 

‘You think that makes it better?’ Sam wanted to snap. But an apology was more than he had even expected, and compared to everything else he had gone through, it was not a big deal. 

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, only kind of meaning it. “Don’t understand why I have to be up here though.” 

At Sam’s acceptance of the apology, Jazz’s body relaxed, his smile softening. “This’ll be a bit better for a chat. Be optic to optic.” 

“Optic to optic with who?” 

“This mech here,” Jazz said, pointing behind him as the wall slid open again, allowing a black-and-white robot to pace in . Whereas Jazz moved with a constant swinging rhythm, this mech was stiff and controlled, like someone had decided to emulate all the stereotypes of a robot. 

He looked like someone whose idea of fun was going to the BMV, filling out paperwork, and then, afterward, writing a 10-page report critiquing their procedures. Utterly strict and with a certified doctor’s note saying he was born without a sense of humor. 

He also looked familiar. However, it was the angry red prongs on his head that clued Sam in. He was the alien from the atrium who’d escorted Jazz and Sam to the Med Bay. 

Hands held behind his back, the mech looked down at Sam, his blue eyes burning like cold flames. “Samuel James Witwicky,” he said in a tone that made Sam instinctively straighten as if he were about to be lectured on poor posture. 

Sam racked his brain for the alien’s name. He had heard it before. He knew he had. Jazz had said it. 

In a light switch moment, the name came to him. 

“You’re Prowler, right?”

Prowler went rigid—a statue carved out of metal and cables.

If Sam hadn’t seen him walk through the opening moments before, he would have thought the mech incapable of movement. 

Sam paused, feeling wrongfooted by the reaction. “It is Prowler, right? I mean, that’s what Jazz called you back at the atrium.” His voice got quieter the longer he spoke, his attention darting between Prowler, whose brows furrowed downward, and Jazz, who looked like he was about to fly apart. Slight trembles chased over Jazz’s body, and a massive, smug grin spread across his face. 

“It’s Prowl,” Prowler—no, Prowl, said flatly, his voice betraying no emotion. He turned towards Jazz, his eyes narrowing, “Something you should know at this point .”

“What? It’s only been, what, how many deca-vorns of knowin’ you? Can’t s’pect me ta always get it right?” Jazz’s voice shook like he was desperately struggling to hold back laughter. 

Prowl’s door wings flicked slightly, “Samuel James Witwicky, I have be—”

“Sam,” Sam said, interrupting. 

Prowl’s face twitched. Somehow, Sam suspected he wasn’t used to being interrupted, but this needed to be taken care of .

“It’s just Sam,” he repeated with the foolish confidence of someone stepping into a lion enclosure dressed in a meat suit while calling ‘here, kitty-kitty.’ 

“Your legal records identify you as Samuel James Witwicky.” 

“I mean, yeah, that’s my name. But call me Sam.”

Prowl raised a brow. “It’s inaccurate and thus inappropriate.” 

Sam frowned. It was his name. He was the one who had the ultimate say on what he was called. “If you call me Samuel James Witwicky, then I’m going to call you Prowler.” 

Again, Prowl’s face twitched, and his door wings rose slightly. Other than that, nothing. Sam might as well have been bartering with a brick wall. 

Sam crossed his arms to hide his shaking nerves. He was being stupid; he knew that. His plan was to lean into cute, helpless, sparkling shtick. But there were some lines he wouldn’t let them cross. And he was going to lose his mind if they always used his full name.

Jazz, the jerk, looked like he was watching an award-winning movie and was only missing popcorn to go along with it. He caught Sam’s gaze, and one of his blue eyes flashed on and off. A wink. 

Well, at least someone wasn’t going to want to murder him after this. 

Prowl released a long-suffering vent of air. “I suppose, considering the circumstances and your age, we can forgo formalities.” 

Sam frowned. That made it sound like Prowl was humoring Sam like one would with a bossy toddler. Sure, sweetie, you can have dino nuggets for dinner for the fifth night in a row, but only because I don’t want to deal with the argument. 

“Fine,” Sam grumbled. Despite having gotten what he wanted, it didn’t feel like a victory. 

“Then, with designations established, we can proceed.” 

A small pad appeared from thin air, landing lightly in Prowl’s palm. That sub space tech was seriously broken, Sam thought as he carefully accepted the pad from Prowl. 

It reminded him of an iPad, but the entire surface was a smooth, glossy black, like polished metal. 

“This is a datapad,” Prowl said, “One that has been designed for your size requirements.” 

Sam tilted it back and forth. “How does it work?”

“Simply tap it. Wheeljack designed it to be a closer replica of human technology. It should function similarly to one of your smartphones with specific designated apps. The most important ones are placed at the top.” 

Tapping the data pad flickered it to life, revealing several small boxes. The center of each box contained one of those strange alien glyphs, while the bottom had an English translation. 

“Jazz said that you were prepared to progress to a typical cycle schedule. If you consult the data pad, you will see the order of planned events going forward.”

Clicking on the app titled Schedule, an efficient list, blocked out with times appeared. Sam’s brow furrowed as he read through them. 

Wake up. Get ready. Breakfast. 

“Classes?” he asked. A significant portion of each day was dedicated to it. 

Prowl nodded. “Your processor is still developing. We would be negligent in our duty to not prioritize your learning. Also, it is unlikely that you have received any education in the past stellar cycles since the last recorded data for completed schooling is 7th grade.”

Sam winced at the reminder. He hadn’t always been the most focused student, but he had liked school, at least when he wasn’t being made to skip grades. Miles had celebrated when the schools closed, but Sam had been disappointed. 

“You’re going to teach me?” he asked, a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. He’d picked up books when he could, but the refugee camps rarely had much in terms of reading material, and back when he’d been with his family, they’d been more focused on survival. 

“You’ll have a series of classes and lesson plans designed with your knowledge level, all of which can be completed independently.”

“Eventually, we’ll bring in other bots to teach you,” added Jazz. “Do special lessons based on whatcha learnin’. But we’ll let ya get settled first.”

Lessons with other bots? Sam fought back a shudder. 

Continuing to read, his attention was fixed on one scheduled activity. 

“Playtime?” Sam asked, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.  

Jazz laughed. “Ya sound like Prowler. Don’t be so disappointed. Everyone should have some play time ta relax. Prowl’s not very good a’ it , but it’s not healthy ta always work. Gotta take your wheels off the road, stretch out yer cables, enjoy a quiet moment.”

Sam scowled but didn’t argue back. He wasn’t opposed to relaxing , just that it was called playtime. Seriously, how old did they think he was? 

Unaware of Sam’s annoyance, Prowl added, “It will also provide the other Autobots on base the opportunity to meet you through planned, structured activities.” 

“Others?” Sam squeaked. 

Jazz smiled fondly, his voice softening. “Everyone is very excited to meet you, sweet spark. Been fightin’ off mechs as is, tryin’ ta keep ‘em from comin’ in to say hi.”

Heat burned along Sam’s cheeks, and he gripped the datapad.  

Prowl must have misunderstood Sam’s reaction because he added, “Sparklings are precious. Our very coding prioritizes your safety and well-being.” 

So everyone thought he was an alien baby. Great. 

“Don’ worry though,” Jazz said. “You’ll have some time ‘fore you meet everyone.”

Grimacing, Sam finished reading the schedule, and a lump of dread formed in his stomach.  

“Naptime? Bedtime?” he read aloud in exasperation. “You realize I’m not 3?”  

“Ratchet said that your organic frame shows signs of wear and exhaustion and recommended the following recharge cycle. A regulated recharge cycle is necessary to improve your health.”

Sam was going to murder that doctor bot.

“There’ll be free time every cycle, too . Letcha have some time on your own, but we can always show ya around and have fun outside this room.”

That, at least, was something. His chances of escape increased if he could get out of the room since, so far, the mysteriously controlled wall had not cooperated. 

Jazz tilted his head. “Whatcha thinkin’ bitty bot? I c’n see that clever processor of yours workin’.”

Sam tightened his grip on the data pad , resisting the urge to chuck it. Logically, the schedule was fine. He had the opportunity to learn again. Relax. Get plenty of sleep. In most instances, he would have been relieved and grateful. 

Except all of this was proof that they thought he was a weak , helpless sparkling, desperately needing their help.  

Jazz leaned closer, voice quietly concerned, “Ya gonna be alrigh’ wit’ this?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Sam said with a hint of bitterness. 

“Implementing the schedule can be postponed to another cycle to allow for a long adjustment period.”

“NO!” Sam cried, head jolting up. He could not take another day of boredom trapped in this room. If Sam wanted a chance to escape, he’d have to play along with their game. Shoving down his pride, he said, “No. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” 

Jazz’s eyes glinted, like he didn’t quite believe Sam but wasn’t going to call him out on it.  

However, Prowl nodded gravely. “Very well. We will proceed with the schedule starting next cycle.”

“Wonderful,” Sam muttered, looking back over the data pad. “I can hardly wait.”

Chapter Text

When the lights in the room slowly turned on, signaling that it was time for Sam to wake up, he stayed lying in his bed an additional few minutes, contemplating the day ahead. The first day of his new "schedule."

Eventually, he forced himself to roll out of the bed and stumble to the platform's edge, the STEPS system catching him from falling straight to the ground. 

Without having to say anything, the wall to the bathroom slid open, and Sam mumbled a tired "Thanks." 

Like every morning, a clean pair of folded clothes sat waiting for him. After relieving himself, quickly showering, and brushing his teeth, Sam dressed in soft, warm sweats. There were socks, too, but Sam ignored them. Without shoes, they only made it easier for him to slip and/or fail to outmaneuver his captors. 

Sighing, Sam rubbed a hand across his face. 

Was he going to do this? Was he actually going to do this? Pretend that he was sparkling and that he was thrilled to be there? Even though he had agreed to go along with it yesterday, today was a new day, and today's Sam was mentally cursing out yesterday's Sam. 

Whatever. If it helped Sam escape, he could temporarily endure the humiliation. 

Reluctantly resigned, Sam strode towards the bathroom wall, the white wall sliding back to allow him to reenter the room. He immediately paused as bright blue eyes framed by an angry 'V' turned to stare at him. 

"Hello, Prowl," Sam said hesitantly, recognizing the stern-faced bot who stood stiffly, arms held behind his back. 

Would it be rude to ask where Jazz was? 

It wasn't that he liked Jazz, but he was the only bot Sam had really interacted with, even if only in small doses. Jazz had kept his distance like he promised on the first day; otherwise, Sam might have been tempted to see which would crack, his teeth or Jazz's plating 

Although with this new schedule, Sam had thought he would be seeing more of Jazz, not this walking union between a legal textbook and a dictionary  

"I trust that your recharge cycle was successful?"

Sam blinked. "Uh, yeah, my sleep was successful?"

Prowl nodded, gestured for Sam to climb up to the platform, then pulled a tray out of midair and placed it on the metal platform. 

The morning meal consisted of a glass of milk, two shiny, peeled, hard-boiled eggs, and a bowl of oatmeal topped with a sprinkling of brown sugar, cinnamon, and chopped walnuts. 

Sam stared at the oatmeal and the sweet-smelling tendrils of steam rising from it. A lump formed in his throat, along with the slightest burn of tears in his eyes. 

"Is the fuel not to your preference?" 

"No, it's just…" Sam's throat clenched, but he forced the words out. "My mom really liked oatmeal. She'd make it for me most mornings. I actually hated it at first. Thought the texture was weird, but she would cut up fruit to put on top and get this big smile when I ate it and…" It was getting harder to speak now. 

Prowl stood silently, waiting for Sam to continue. 

Sam shook his head, "It's stupid. I just haven't had it in a long time, is all. It's fine. I'm fine," he said, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or Prowl. 

"I will note your preference for oatmeal with cut fruit."

Sam snorted and grabbed his spoon, choosing to start eating rather than continue the conversation. 

The oatmeal was warm and comforting, like burrowing into one of his mom's tight hugs. He quickly ate the entire bowl, the food settling in his stomach.

Prowl nodded once in approval, then collected the tray, vanishing it away to who knew where. 

"Now that you are properly fueled, we can proceed with your lessons." 

Steps formed from the floor, creating a stairway down from the berth. Then, with several quick taps on a datapad, two tables and chairs rose up, one Sam-sized and the other Prowl-sized. 

"It can do that?" 

"The STEPS system is capable of adjusting the surroundings to provide for your needs and protections. In this instance, a proper workspace for your educational requirements."

Sam sat hesitantly on the chair. White and blocky, it looked like it would be incredibly uncomfortable, but the material adjusted under his weight, folding itself around Sam's form. 

Prowl placed the data pad on the table. "An agenda of recommended modules to be completed today has already been uploaded."

Sam cautiously swiped through them. Most looked familiar: history, English, math, science, but one was not. 

"Glyphs?"

"While you will eventually be able to download a data pack with necessary Cybertronian language requirements, Ratchet wishes to see if a prior language attainment assists in a smoother conversion process." 

Sam frowned, only understanding half of what was said. "So glyphs are like your language."

"That is an oversimplification," Prowl said, but at Sam's annoyed expression, he exvented and said, "but essentially yes. The written portion, at least." 

If Sam had been asked a year ago if he wanted to learn the Autobot's language, he would have replied with an enthusiastic 'yes!' The kidnapping, however, had cooled some of that excitement. Still, he'd be lying if he didn't admit a small childish part of himself was intrigued by learning an alien language. The more practical part of himself recognized that it would be much easier to escape if he could translate what their signs were saying. Glyphs it was then. 

"Do I have to finish all of these?" Sam asked, scrolling through the extensive list. 

"You may complete the learning modules in whichever order you prefer, but all must be completed by the end of the deca-cycle."

Sam glanced up at Prowl. "Or else…?" Would there be some consequence? They claimed he was a sparkling, but would their tune change if he refused to play along? 

Prowl's facial features and body language remained unchanging, "We will have to postpone the next section of learning modules with tutors and learning field trips around the base." 

Tutors Sam didn't care about. But field trips? A chance to get out of this stupid room? Well, the Autobots had found an effective carrot. 

"If that answers all of your questions," Prowl said, "I'd recommend you start." 

Then he moved to his own seat, sat down, and pulled four data pads from his subspace, which he began working on. 

Okaaaaay, so Sam had a babysitter. Great. 

With an annoyed sigh, he turned to his datapad and started on the lessons. 

Sam's brain was mush.

Nasty, soggy, lumpy mush. 

He felt like a bowl of old food had been put in a microwave for 10 minutes too long, overheating and resulting in a disgusting mess that was not fit for consumption. 

Groaning, Sam placed his head on the table. A dull pulse pressed against his forehead, and his body sagged with a strange exhaustion. After years of no school, he had forgotten how tiring it could be. 

It wasn't that he was doing bad. He'd gotten through his lessons alright. 

Sitting at his desk, Prowl had occasionally glanced down and asked if Sam required aid. At one point, he even knelt down, a massive finger pointing at the screen to explain one of the math concepts Sam was struggling with. 

However, hours of school had taken their toll. 

Now, at Sam's groans, Prowl turned his attention towards him.

"Are you alright?"

"My brain hurts," Sam mumbled, mouth smooshed into the table. 

Prowl's wings twitched, and he immediately knelt on the floor. "Your processor is hurting you? How so? A glitch? Overheating?" His blue eyes narrowed. "I will have to inform Ratchet of yo–"

"NO!" 

They both startled, Sam's volume surprising them. 

"No?"

Sam ran a hand over his face. "I don't need a doctor. My brain hurts because I'm tired, and I haven't had schoolwork in years." The confession made his cheeks burn slightly. "I'm fine. Just being dramatic, I guess." 

Prowl's blue eyes bored into Sam. "Are you certain you do not require medical assistance?" 

"Yes," said Sam firmly. 

Prowl's brows furrowed slightly, and his wings lowered. "If you are certain." 

"I am. Besides, why do you even care?" Sam said, the last bit coming out more sarcastic than he intended. 

"It is the duty of all Autobots to care for sparklings' physical, mental, emotional, and educational needs. And you are a sparkling," said Prowl matter of factly, like stating that gravity existed. 

It rankled Sam, and he snarked. "Yeah, I'm a sparkling, and I'm also the queen of France." 

"France has not had a monarchy since 1792, according to your records. Your statement is false and indicates a lack of education or a severe injury to your helm."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Seriously?" 

Prowl picked up one of his data pads and began tapping at it. "I will add an additional unit to your module over 1700s French history."

Sam rubbed at his face. "I genuinely cannot tell if you're punking with me or if you're just this…" he gestured at Prowl. 

"I don't know what you mean," said Prowl emotionlessly. It might have been a figment of his imagination, but Sam thought he saw the faintest smirk crossing Prowl's face.  

Before he could potentially call Prowl out, the door to the room slid open, and Jazz strolled in with a massive grin. "If it ain't my favorite bots. Sweet spark," he said with a smile at Sam. "Prowler," he said towards Prowl, earning a scowl. 

A strange, warm relief flared in Sam's chest at the familiar face, but he shoved the sensation back down. 

"How're classes goin'?" 

Prowl stood, holding his arms behind his back, "He's performing well within the expected parameters for the first several cycles." 

"Mmm, that's high praise comin' from this mech. He's got his bolts screwed in a bit tight, but he means well." Jazz leaned down. "How bout for you? Goin' good?"

Sam shrugged, feeling somehow embarrassed to admit his exhaustion. "Fine." 

"I'm sure you're doin' betteah then that. But I also bet you're ready for a break. Lucky for you, the Jazz-meister is here to relieve ya." 

Without warning, he scooped Sam up, carrying him over to the berth. 

"Stop picking me up like that!" Sam yelped, batting at Jazz's hand. "I have legs." 

Jazz chuckled. "I got two things fer ya." Reaching out, he grabbed Sam's right arm, pulling it away from his body. 

"What are you doing!" Sam yelled, trying and failing to yank his arm free. 

"Hold on, bitty bot," Jazz murmured, adjusting his grip on Sam's arm. "Ratch's been blowin' up my comm demandin' tha' I get this on ya." 

A silver cuff flashed in his hand. It swung open, and Jazz swiftly brought it around Sam's bicep. The cold metal snapped closed before flattening against his skin, much like the stupid restraining belt from before. Jazz leaned closer, eyes intent as he brushed a finger over the cuff. 

"It appears to have activated correctly," Prowl noted. 

"Well, Ratch will let us know if it doesn't." Jazz said. He glanced back at Sam, who was still trying to free his arm and hitting Jazz's hand. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, letting go. 

Sam stumbled back, trying to create space. He gripped the metal band around his right arm, searching desperately for a latch to open it. But the metal seemed almost fused to his skin, as if he had been born with a strange metal patch as a birthmark. 

"What is this?" he cried, the beginning flutters of panic starting in his stomach. 

"A health monitor developed by Ratchet and Wheeljack."

"It's just ta make sure you're healthy and safe," Jazz soothed. 

"I'm perfectly healthy without it!"

"Mmmm, ya migh' be, but Ratch don' see it tha' way. It was either this or him keepin' ya on a berth in the med bay until he felt satisfied wit' yer health."

Sam's nails scraped unpleasantly over the metal before sinking into flesh. He longed to dig at his skin until he could get his nails under the band and peel it off. It was another physical reminder that he belonged to them. 

He wanted it off. But Jazz appeared unaware or unconcerned by Sam's frustration. 

"Okay, sweet spark. Now that thas' outa the way, I've got your lunch f'r you," Jazz said, setting a tray of food on the berth. He sat down on the ground, arms resting causally on his legs. "Go on and refuel." 

For once, the savory aroma of warm food didn't appeal to him. The fluttering panic in his stomach had transformed into an uncomfortable and unpleasant brick. 

"Is there an issue with the provided fuel? Or is it of a similar nature to this morning?" Prowl asked.

"This morning?" Jazz asked. 

"Sam prefers his oatmeal with chopped fruit," Prowl said as if that explained everything. 

"It's fine," Sam muttered, sitting down and pulling the tray towards himself. The mechs' glowing blue eyes watched intently as he picked up the utensil and began eating. He'd been so excited before about warm, fresh, plentiful food that he hadn't realized the scrutiny they focused on him as he ate. 

It made the food curdle in his mouth, and Sam began shoveling his meal in with a mechanical focus. The quicker he cleared the plate, the quicker they'd turn their blue eyes away from him. 

As he ate, his hand drifted back to the cuff, and he rubbed his fingers across the surface. It felt like a brand against his skin, burning uncomfortably in a reminder that they were watching him, claiming him as their own with no care for his thoughts or feelings. 

That thought proved the final blow. Sam shoved the tray away as bile burned the back of his throat. "I'm done."

Prowl's eyes narrowed, "You have not finished."

"I said I'm done," Sam snapped. "As in nada, no more, not hungry." 

"Is there something wrong with th—"

Jazz clapped a hand on Prowl's shoulder, "I'm sure everything is fine. Bitlet isn' hungry tha's all. He still ate plenty. He'll be fine."

Sam should have been grateful for Jazz stepping in, but instead, the back of his neck burned at the way his words were ignored until Jazz said something, like Sam's opinions and thoughts didn't matter. 

Prowl exvented and collected the tray. "Fine. But this cannot become a habit." 

Sam scowled. He'd make it a habit if he wanted to. 

"Since you've refueled as much as you will, we can move on to the next part of the schedule, a brief recharge cycle." 

"I don't need a nap," Sam said, eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms. 

"You are scheduled for a brief recharge period every cycle by order of Ratchet."

"That's great, but I don't care. I don't need it.

Jazz leaned down, getting closer than Sam wanted, "You might think that you don't need it, bitlet, but your frame has been through a lot. Extra recharge is gonna help it get stronger and make ya healthier." 

Sam stepped back, moving over towards the edge of the platform and away from his hovering babysitters. "I'm plenty strong. I survived on my own for years without you two."

That he'd almost died multiple times was irrelevant. Sam was more than capable of taking care of himself. 

Stepping off the edge of the platform, he took the rising steps back down to the floor and away from his bed. 

"Your survival skills are not being debated here. Human frames experience increased cognitive retention and emotional regulation with adequate recharge cycles. And your defiant behavior only proves that you are becoming overstimulated and fatigued, thus requiring a rest cycle." 

"No," Sam said flatly.  

Prowl's engine gave a quiet revv. "This is non-negotiable." 

"Negotiate this," Sam yelled, flipping his middle finger at the alien, then sprinting away as Prowl bent over to grab him. 

Juking to the right, Sam dodged the curved fingers and ran behind Prowl, keeping clear of Jazz and the platform. 

A blast of air exploded from Prowl's vents. His tone was annoyed as he said, "Samuel James Witwicky."

"Prowler," Sam said, copying Prowl's severe tone.  

Jazz burst into laughter, "Got us a lil' recharge dodger," he said in amusement as Sam continued to sidestep Prowl's reaching grasp. 

The alien was being careful, overly so, unwilling to step too close to Sam's speeding form, thus allowing Sam to dodge, dive, and duck out of the way. He glanced back, and a tired, satisfied smile spread across his face at Prowl's growing frustration. 

However, it proved to be Sam's downfall. His toe caught on the floor, sending him toppling towards the ground. The STEPS system lurched upward, catching and cradling his body mid-fall. Sam gasped as the matter adjusted around him, slowly pressing his body upward and back onto his feet. 

Sam staggered backward, right into Prowl's waiting grasp. The bot wasted no time, hands wrapping around Sam's torso and lifting him off the ground. Sam kicked out desperately, feet searching for solid ground that was no longer there. 

"You are incapable of hurting yourself within the containment room. Teletran monitors constantly, and the STEPS system will protect you from accidental injury," Prowl said. "And now, it is time for you to recharge." 

"Let go of me, you stupid, overbearing robotic nuisance!" Sam slammed his fists against Prowl's hold and clawed at the white paint. 

"There is no need to throw a tantrum." 

"A TANTRUM?!

Jazz finally roused himself from his seat on the floor, walking over to the struggling Sam. "Sweet spark, it's jus' a lil' recharge cycle. The berth is nice 'n comfy, and we c'n even play some tunes ta help ya sleep."

He reached a finger out, warm metal caressing Sam's cheek. Without thinking, Sam turned his head and snapped at the finger, fully prepared to risk a chipped tooth for the glory of biting Jazz. 

Jazz pulled his finger away, and Prowl readjusted his grip to force Sam's head up and keep his teeth away from any plating. "The newspark is past the point of personal emotional self-regulation. Further steps are needed. Jazz, if you will?"

"I gotcha, Prowler," Jazz said. He reached over to the bed, grabbed one of the many blankets, and unfurled it with a dramatic snap. 

Dread seized Sam as Jazz approached with the stretched-out blanket, like a dog catcher attempting to net a runaway pet. 

"What are you doing!?" Sam demanded as Jazz paced closer. His flailing upped in intensity, slamming limbs against Prowl's unmoving hold. "Get away from me!" 

"There's no need to fuss. Jus' gonna help ya get all comfy for recharge," Jazz cooed. 

The blanket loomed large in Sam's vision, and then Jazz lunged. Sam screamed in outrage and terror as the blanket fell over him, fabric tightly wrapped around him. Jazz efficiently cocooned Sam in fabric, pinning Sam's arms to his sides and tucking his legs together.

Triumphantly, he took Sam from Prowl, cradling Sam close. "Alright then, one bundled bitty bot."

Sam snarled and thrashed, but the soft, fuzzy fabric was stronger than it appeared, easily keeping his fighting contained. 

"Aww, look at you. So comfy and cute." 

Sam released a stream of curses, informing Jazz and Prowl just how cute and happy he felt in this situation. 

Prowl's wings twitched in disapproval. "Place him on the mattress."

"DON'T YOU DARE!" Sam roared. But his cries and struggles meant nothing as Jazz easily placed him on the bed, pulling the sheets up to tuck Sam in so he couldn't even roll away. 

"You feel better after a recharge," Prowl said. 

The lights flicked off abruptly, leaving only the Autobot's glowing, blue eyes—focused on him. Watching him. 

"Have a nice recharge, baby boy."

Chapter Text

A recharge cycle was supposed to be restful. Although Sam's first had proven anything but that. Despite being secured and tucked in and the lights dimmed to create a proper resting environment, the sparkling had refused to close his eyes. Instead, he intermittently fought to escape the swaddle and cursed when he failed. 

He almost requested Jazz sing. The mech had a soothing voice capable of calming the fussiest newsparks, but Prowl's TAC-net warned against it. At the moment, the sparkling needed time to process his emotions. Additional stimulus would only aggravate the already distraught sparkling. 

His guardian protocols flared at the upset pulses radiating from the newspark. Each wave of hurtsadscaredafraidangry made his protocols flash louder warnings, urging him to pick the sparkling up, cuddle him close, and smother his scared spark pulses within his own EM field. 

:: I know, :: Jazz messaged when he saw Prowl's servos twitch. :: But he doesn' wan' us righ' now. ::

Yet the tightness in Jazz's field made it clear that he was struggling as much as Prowl. 

Finally, the flashing timer in Prowl's HUD reached zero, signaling the end of the recharge cycle. Accessing the containment room controls via Teletraan, Prowl reactivated the lights, slowly raising them to the alert level to avoid damaging the newspark's optics. 

"Rest cycle is complete," Prowl announced. 

Jazz carefully made his way over to the bed, his movements cautious. "There we go," Jazz murmured, carefully unwrapping the blanket. "All free now."

The sparkling sent him a vicious glare like he was imagining Jazz's frame melting in a smelter. Jazz flinched but quickly hid it under smiles and a soft voice. The newspark wouldn't have noticed, but Prowl did. 

"Got some more learnin' ta do," Jazz said, keeping a soft but upbeat voice. "Yer data pad is where ya left it. Do whatcha c'n. No need to strain yourself." 

Ignoring them both, the sparkling stomped over to the edge of the berth, throwing himself down the steps with a violence that made Prowl's guardian protocols ring with alarm. Thankfully, Teletraan had been programmed to deal with such outbursts, and STEPS caught the newspark before he could hurt himself. 

As the newspark sat at the tiny chair and began working on his learning modules, Prowl recorded a future reminder to himself. The little one had a distressing lack of self-preservation coding, and with the current data, Prowl's TAC-net predicted a 58.3% likelihood that the sparkling may hurt himself in the future. Such a prediction could not happen. 

Settling themselves in comfortable positions, Prowl at his standing desk, Jazz leaning against the wall, they both resumed their work while keeping optics and sensors locked on the newspark who was doing his best to avoid them. 

Prowl's processor was built to run multiple complex programs simultaneously, yet he struggled to focus fully on his designated analysis. Unbidden, his TAC-net kept diverting attention back to the sparkling's care and how to prevent a future rest cycle meltdown. 

A comm from Jazz flashed across Prowl's processor.  :: I gotta go. Prime commed. Some issue wit' MECH they need me f'r. ::

The mech's tone was apologetic but did not prevent the surge of worry and annoyance from Prowl. :: The learning period is almost over, and we're supposed to start the sparkling's play time. You were scheduled to be the first one to help start forming connections. ::

::I know. I know. And I wanna. But Boss Bot wouldn' call unless it's important.::

::But then I–::

Jazz interrupted. ::You'll do fine, Prowl. You got this. Bitty bot is a bit mad, so le' him be if needed. Ya don' have ta do much. Jus' be here. Let 'im know you care. Ask some questions, get ta know 'im better. Wha' he likes, dislikes.:: 

Jazz snorted through his vents as he got to his feet. ::Maybe not dislikes tho, alreadeah know he doesn't like naptime.::

The sparkling's attention locked onto Jazz as he strolled over to the door and pressed the open sigil to activate it. "I gotta go, but all be back later, sweet spark," he soothed, waving goodbye. 

:: Jazz.:: Uncharacteristic alarm tinged Prowl’s EM field. 

Jazz's visor flashed in a wink as he left. ::Bluestreak turned out fine. You'll do fine. 'Sides, it's only logical.:: 

Prowl highly disagreed. 

It had been many, many vorns since he'd interacted with sparklings, and the bots on base already found his personality problematic. He'd traumatized more than one mech with a long lecture on how they had screwed up. Supervising the newspark's learning was one matter, but bonding with him was another. 

But Jazz was already gone. Abandoning Prowl with an upset sparkling, he had no idea how to help. 

Scrap. 

The sparkling kept his back to Prowl as he stomped around the room, apparently playing with STEPS as he kept lifting his pedes to activate the automatic stairs. He walked up a few steps and then jumped back down. 

Face contorted in an expression of severe concentration, the sparkling at least appeared to be entertained. However, mere entertainment was not the assigned function of the playtime. The newspark needed to begin forming sparkfelt connections with his own kind to further reinforce his true identity as a Cybertronian. 

Still, Prowl hesitated for a click longer than usual. However, such procrastination was unproductive and ultimately illogical. Waiting longer would not change the outcome; only Prowl's and the sparkling's actions would. 

Lowering himself to the floor so that he didn't loom over the tiny being and frighten him, Prowl said, "It is now your scheduled playtime. What would you like to do for it?"

"Leave," said the newspark.

Prowl shook his head. "That is not an option at the current moment. Once you have better integrated, we can consider field trips around the base."

The newspark scowled and returned to his game of activating STEPS. Every round, he climbed a little higher. It would have worried Prowl if his logic centers had not reminded him that Teletraan was constantly monitoring the containment room and would not allow physical harm to occur.

"We can use this as an opportunity to gather relevant information about both parties."

"That seems to be operating under the assumption that both parties are invested in gathering relevant information," the sparkling intoned voice 72.4% flatter and emotionless than usual. 

Prowl's optics narrowed. The newspark was…mocking him? The only ones brave enough to do that were Jazz and occasionally the twins. This did not bode well. 

Armor tightening around his frame in discomfort, Prowl forced himself to continue. Sitting on the ground, he observed the newspark and searched for a question to ask, but he immediately came up empty. 

Quickly, he accessed the downloaded information from the human's primitive attempt at a neural network, the Internet, located a file designated 'Get to Know You Questions,' and proceeded to ask the first one. 

"What's your favorite place on earth?"

"Anywhere but here."

Unsurprising but unhelpful. 

"What's one place you've visited that you never want to return to?"

"Wherever this room is," snapped the sparkling. 

Prowl's TAC-net and emotional centers whirled. This line of questioning was ineffective. He needed something new. Randomly, he selected another question from the list. "What's the best show on TV right now?"

The sparkling rolled his optics with enough force Prowl almost wondered if they'd fall out of his helm. "I don't know. Haven't really been able to watch any shows since the world ended. Wasn't a top priority."

Prowl's door wings twitched.  Why was picking an appropriate question so difficult? 

"If you could have dinner with any historical figure, who would it be?"

"Your mom."

That answer was illogical. Prowl was a cold construct. He lacked even a proper guardian, having been onlined in a fully formed frame, all coding for his function downloaded in. Was the sparkling then referring to his frame creator? 

His processor heated in a strained attempt to reason through the inane answer and determine how he should respond.  

Grimacing, he deleted the file of get-to-know-you questions, selected another file, and picked a new question: "Would you rather be hot or cold?"

The sparkling crossed his arms. "Upside down." 

"That was not an option," Prowl stated. 

Warning alarms appeared across his HUD that he was straining his logic and emotional centers. He should comm Jazz and ask him to come back. But the spymaster was correct in saying that Prime wouldn't call for him unless absolutely necessary, and Prowl didn't think he could handle the shame of requesting the aid of someone else. Besides, there was no telling how the sparkling would react to someone new. 

Gritting his denta, Prowl tried again. "What's your favorite number?"

"Red."

Logic centers ached at the absurd answer, making Prowl's door wings twitch in pain. 

"What's your favorite color?

"Forty-two" 

A sharp ping echoed through his helm. His left optic briefly flickered before stabilizing.

Prowl searched across data files for any color designated 42. His lightning-quick research revealed the nonsensical colors Goose turd green, Elephant's breath, Naughty Neutral, and Careless Whispers. But no definite color 42. 

The pain in his processor was growing worse. Asking the sparkling questions was proving unfruitful. Another strategy. 

"Are there any questions you have for me?" Prowl asked. 

The sparkling paused, optics growing distant in thought. Prowl's aching processor melted in relief. Finally, the newspark would speak logically, and some progress could be made. 

"Do you have a spleen?" 

Prowl's engine stalled, and his processor ground to a near halt. Spleen? 

His logical center, TAC-net, and emotional center threw themselves at the question, sorting through thousands of files to determine spleen function and if there was a Cybertronian equivalent. His optics grew dark, blue glow fading as he attempted to additionally decipher the sparkling's purpose in asking. 

A low whine emanated from his helm, growing louder and louder. New warnings flashed across his HUD, but it was too late. His system was already overloaded, and with a dooming click, his overtaxed processor switched into a forced stasis as he crashed. 

Sam stared at the alien robot. 

The collapsed alien robot. 

The collapsed, not-moving alien robot he may have killed. 

As he gripped his hair, a panicked sound, somewhere between a scream and a laugh, escaped his lips. 

He was pretty sure murder wouldn't be punished with only a time-out. 

Sam hadn't been trying to kill Prowl. Just annoy him enough to shut up—or at least be a fraction as miserable as Sam was. His responses hadn't been particularly clever, and he'd only asked about a spleen out of vague curiosity and exasperation. How was he supposed to predict that the bot would seize and make a sound like a phone line being strangled to death by a starting-up computer? 

Hesitantly, Sam paced closer. "Hello? Prowl? Are you dead?"

The alien said nothing, remaining prone on the ground, limbs splayed out. It was good that Prowl had been sitting during the conversation. Sam considered himself strong, but he knew his limits and a multi-ton mechanical monster falling on him was definitely outside them. The Autobots would have had a pancake to dote on since that's all Sam would have been. 

Stepping even closer, Sam called again, "Prowl? Prowler?"

No response, but listening closely, Sam could hear the faint rumble of Prowl's engine along with muffled clicks and whirls from his head. That meant he was alive, right? 

Although, humans could make noises after death thanks to a post-mortem air release. The wet, gurgling moan that almost sounded like someone begging for help when they were long past reviving. 

A shudder crawled up Sam's back as the memory of that moan echoed in his ears. Hot, acidic bile burned the back of his throat as he backed away from the downed Prowl. 

"No, no," he mumbled. "Not thinking about that. Not now, not ever." 

He spun around, racing towards the wall that was actually a door. He was going to get out of here, away from these lunatics, and then he was going to consume whatever it took to rebury that memory. 

The button Prowl and Jazz pressed to exit the room stretched high above Sam's head. Not even the tallest human or greatest athlete could stretch or jump high enough to reach it. 

But that was fine because the bots had built-in an escape mechanism. 

Raising his foot and pretending to step down, Sam watched as a portion of the floor shot out, catching his foot. 

While trapped in the blanket, Sam had realized that STEPS was designed to prevent him from falling or getting hurt. It caught Sam when he flung himself off the platform and when he tripped while running from Prowl. It had taken some testing while Prowl watched him, but STEPS could activate anywhere in the room, even by the door. 

Taking a deep breath, Sam started to walk, raising his feet as though climbing invisible stairs. The motion was awkward and more than a little embarrassing, but such feelings faded with every foot he climbed. 

Step by step, he climbed higher–first past his own height, then Prowl's laying down form, then the platform. The farther up he got, the more unnerving it was to step down into what seemed to be thin air, but STEPS did as it was programmed, never letting Sam fall. 

Sweat built up along his palms in anticipation as the button grew closer. It took some slightly strange side steps back and forth to position himself correctly along the button, but then it was there. The silvery etching that Sam now recognized as a glyph. 

"Please, let this work," Sam begged and pressed the button. 

For an agonizing second, nothing happened, and then, with a familiar hiss, the wall slid open, revealing the open door to the outside hallway. 

"YES!" Sam cheered, then jumped like a kid caught out of bed. Nervously, he glanced back to see if his babysitter was awake, but Prowl lay still, dreaming of robot sheep or sexy calculators or whatever else he was into. 

Grinning victoriously, Sam threw himself down the stairs, falling several feet at a time before STEPS could catch him in his haste to reach the floor. While still a story up, he tripped and fell face forward. 

A scream caught in his throat, but he shouldn't have worried. STEPS pillowed up around him, catching his body like a baseball in a pitcher's mitt, then carefully lowered him to the ground. 

"Th-thanks," Sam stuttered, slightly shaken from the sudden save. 

Then, bracing his shoulders, he ran out into the hallway. 

Escape awaited. 

Chapter Text

Maybe it was just because Sam was smaller in comparison to everything, but the halls seemed much more intimidating when he was alone.

He kept expecting to hear ominous music in the background like the Jaws theme–the eerie alternating two notes warning of approaching danger. 

It made him jittery, jumping at shadows and the low rumble of the base. Sam shook his head, trying to banish his anxiety. No, this wasn't a horror movie (even if it sometimes felt like it). This was a spy movie with Sam as the hero carefully navigating the enemy base. Trying to reassure himself, Sam hummed a few bars of Mission Impossible under his breath as he slunk down the hallway.

That's right. Sam was a cool, calm, collected spy. He'd been surviving the apocalypse; what was a giant alien base? Someday, they'd make a movie over his exploits with a badass title like Samuel Bond - 'Live Another Day' or Sam Whitck - 'Chapter Salvos.' They would be super awesome blockbusters with explosions and no mention of aliens thinking he was a baby.

Sam grinned, moving with newfound confidence—

BEEP!

—that immediately disappeared as he leaped in the air, much like a startled cat. 

Whipping his head around, Sam looked for the source of the noise. But there was nothing save for the stretching hallway. Still, he paused, waiting.

"Charlie!" a voice yelled.

Sam stiffened. He hadn't seen any humans yet. Hadn't even known there were any here. For all he knew, he was orbiting Earth from a spaceship. Although that option, he would admit, was unlikely since he was pretty confident they transported him via car, and last he checked, cars couldn't fly. That said, he wouldn't put it past the bots being able to fly just to spite him. 

Peering around the corner, he stepped into the next hallway, keeping low to the ground, searching for this Charlie. Hope glimmered in his chest. Maybe this Charlie, like him, was another human kidnapped and locked up by delusional aliens for being a sparkling. They could help each other. Escape together.

Clink, clink, clink—the patter of quickly moving footsteps. One breath, Sam was alone in the hallway; the next, a small bot was running towards him. 

Sam said small, but the robot was still taller than him by a foot or two. Her black, purple, and white paint sparkled under the warm light. Two black tires with white rims sat along her hips, and large door wings protruded from her back in a rather feminine build. 

"Charlie!" the voice called again, and the robot slid to a stop, looking back behind her. 

Disappointment soured Sam's insides. He should have known better. All the bots had strange names. Why wouldn't one of them be named after the NATO phonetic alphabet? At least Charlie was a better name than Alpha. 

Bitterly, he glared at the bot, urging her to hurry along. But instead, she turned and then froze as she caught sight of Sam. 

Flinching, Sam waited for an alarm to be raised—for one of the Autobots to snatch him up, but the bot merely watched him. 

A helmet-like armor covered most of her head but revealed her wide, round eyes. Her gaze was intent and should have been unsettling.

However, they were a different color than the other Autobots' eyes—a softer baby blue instead of that unnatural, hair-raising blue. 

The lens expanded, and delicate shutters closed over them several times as though blinking in surprise. 

He should be running away, but there was something about the tiny bot that calmed Sam's stuttering heart.

"Hello," Sam said nervously. "You wouldn't happen to know the way out?" 

A string of soft beeps and chirps sounded from the smaller bot. 

"I'm sorry? Could you say that again?" 

The oversized door wings on her back flared as though in frustration. Another chorus of noises escaped, although, like before, it sounded like someone playing with an old telephone, pressing buttons randomly to hear their beeps. 

"I don't understand." 

Loud footsteps approached. "Charlie," a voice called out again. 

Sam stiffened. There was no way that wasn't another bot. 

The little bot, Charlie, glanced between Sam and down the hallway where the voice came from. Then, with another beep, she took off, running back the way she came. 

"No, wait," Sam hissed in a whisper, reaching out a hand. She was going to reveal his location. 

Stomach-dropping, Sam found the darkest shadow possible in the hallway and curled into a tight ball. 

"There you are." 

Sweat formed along Sam's palms, and his heart pounded as a large, red robot appeared in the hallway. His angular armor looked dangerous, and his eyes were alarmingly blue, making Sam feel like he was drowning in them. 

'Please don't see me. Please don't see me.' Sam chanted in his head. 

But he shouldn't have worried. The alien's attention was fixed on the smaller bot standing before him.

"Starlight, you know you're not supposed to race off like that," he scolded.  

He plucked the smaller bot off the ground, cradling her against his chest. 

"It's time for the wash racks. While your racing was a delight to behold, your plating got dusty, and I want to make sure no organic filth got stuck in your rims."

Charlie made a whirring noise in response.

"No need for sass. Ratchet will never let me hear the end of it if you gain a rust patch. Besides, I might rip out my audials if I have to hear Screamer boast about his little one. When I'm done, the stars will be jealous of how you glisten."

Beginning to walk again, he sighed fondly as Charlie chirped. 

"My sweet, shining spark, what am I going to do with you?" 

Dipping his head towards hers, he murmured with almost evil contentment, "I know. I'm going to make you the most spoiled sparkling on this base. The best paint job, highest quality energon, comfiest berth. Until all those pesky nightmares are chased away." 

Charlie beeped at him, and the mech chuckled. 

And then they were turning the hallway's corner, leaving Sam alone again. 

Pressing a hand against his chest, he tried to steady his racing heart. That could have been bad if the little bot had said anything about him. Why hadn't she? Maybe she didn't understand that Sam wasn't allowed out of the room. 

Charlie had to be sparkling. Her petite frame along with oversized door wings and eyes, reminded Sam of a toddler. The lack of typical vocalization was also telling. So far, all the Autobots he had met could speak English, whereas Charlie was not. 

Sam snorted. If Jazz and the others thought he was a sparkling like Charlie, they were more delusional than he thought. She was quite clearly a transformer, while he was clearly a human. 

Still, it wasn't worth testing his luck. Turning in the opposite direction that Charlie and her caretaker had gone, Sam took off at a light jog. He was getting out of this base. 

Sam hated this base with the burning passion of 5,000 exploding suns sitting around a burning campfire watching marshmallows burn—in that he was both extremely frustrated and outrageously confused about what was going on (the metaphor had gotten away from him). 

He knew that it didn't help that he had been unconscious when he was dropped off in his cell, but he had seen a bit of the base when he first arrived, albeit briefly and while being carried. He should be able to navigate without getting lost.

But the stretching hallways, with their yellow color scheme and lack of noticeable doors, all blurred together. Sam didn't know if he'd even be able to return to the cell; he was so turned around.

It was a relief when he finally happened upon the open door of the Med Bay until it was immediately banished by a familiar voice approaching from behind. 

"Of all the fragging pit spawn excuses for a guardian!"

Ratchet. 

Panic seized control of Sam's motor functions, and he dashed recklessly into the Med Bay, his brain only stepping in too late to remind him that, 'Hey, Ratchet was a doctor, and this was a med bay, so do you want to guess where he's going?'

But there was no time to castrate himself as the heavy footsteps drew closer. 

Dashing underneath one of the large metal tables in the Med Bay, Sam crouched low to the ground, once again begging that they wouldn't think to look down.

Ratchet stormed in, face set in a scowl and brandishing a wrench. "One of these orn I'm going to completely reformat that one-optic, compassion-matrix glitched scientist. That the fragger is a guardian is an affront to Primus. He's negligent at best, leaving most emotional needs to Bumblebee."

First Aid added calmly, following behind, "Bee has been doing a good job with the sparkling."

"But he's not the guardian! Doesn't even have the protocols properly activated or the imprint spark bond."

Stomping around the Med Bay, Ratchet picked up a dangerously sharp tool with jagged teeth, tilting as he examined it under the light. "Shove this up his tailpipe if he doesn't step up to his responsibilities." 

Sam winced, sending a quiet prayer to whoever had ticked off Ratchet. RIP to them, but yay for Sam since they were distracting Ratchet from him.

First Aid exvented. "Do you really want Shockwave of all bots to take a more active role in raising the sparkling?" 

"What I want is for him to not have started a risky medical procedure on sparkling without permission and then assign himself guardian," Ratchet slammed the tool back down with a clatter. 

"What's happened has happened. We can't go back and change the conversion process."

Ratchet rubbed at his eyes, and First Aid put a comforting hand on Ratchet's shoulder.

"What about the newest sparkling, Sam? How is he doing?"

Underneath the table, Sam flinched. 

"How would I know?" Ratchet grumbled. "Jazz won't fragging let me near him." 

Annnnnd Jazz had officially reinstated himself as the most tolerable robot he'd met. Sam wasn't going to see Jazz again since he was going to escape, but silently he sent a mental thanks to the alien. 

"Did he put on the monitor at least?" 

The metal band around Sam's arm burned in reminder, and he gripped it, good feelings towards Jazz disappearing. 

"Yes. The readings are concerning, to say the least. The newspark's baseline is all over the place, completely dysregulated." 

What readings?! Sam desperately wanted to ask. He didn't think there was a tracker in it, but they were obviously monitoring something. It would be his luck for the stupid band to snitch out his escape. 

"I'm sure all he needs is time."

"What he needs is a follow-up appointment. One that I intend to collect sooner rather than later, or Jazz will find his pedes welded on backward the next time he gets injured." 

Sam grimaced. Another check-up? As if he needed more reasons to escape. 

"What!" Ratchet yelled abruptly. 

First Aid looked curiously, but Ratchet held up a hand to ward off questions. His facial features switched between annoyance, disappointment, and sympathy before settling on mild annoyance again. 

He ran a hand over his face. "Grab your kit. We're needed," lowly he said to himself, "and he'd gone almost a vorn without any crashes." 

First Aid must be used to his boss's moods, as he grabbed a toolbox from one of the tables and followed after Ratchet, who had turned into an ambulance. With a short woop woop, the ambulance sped off, followed by First Aid, who had transformed into another ambulance. 

Sam waited several seconds after the roaring engines faded away and slowly crept out from underneath the table. 

That… was weird. Right? Definitely weird. However, he couldn't honestly complain because it at least got the doctors out of the Med Bay and away from Sam. 

Still, the festering anger that had been building since he woken up in Jazz's trunk now rose to the surface, hungry for vengeance. Sam eyed Ratchet's desk and the collection of breakables resting on it. 

Without STEPS, it took more effort, but Sam was nothing if not resourceful, using the various supports to hoist himself up. He would never admit it out loud, but the regular meals and sleep over the past few days also helped. 

Scrambling onto the desk, Sam surveyed Ratchet's kingdom of metal tables, alarming tools, and humming machinery. He'd overhaul the entire place if he had time, but this would have to do for the moment. 

He started with Ratchet's data pad (much larger than the one Prowl had provided him with) and shoved it off the desk so that it fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Then several sharp edged tools, although Sam stayed far away from the pointy ends. They bounced noisily on the metal ground, delicate parts crunching. Lastly, a large blue cube filled with a liquid substance. It smelled faintly of ozone and burning sugar, and as Sam drew closer, the hairs on his arms rose slightly. 

Bracing his arms against it, Sam pushed the cube, sliding it along the desk towards the edge. The force of his shove proved stronger than he had expected, and the liquid sloshed over the edges, a couple of splashes landing on his arms. Something deep in his chest hummed warmly at the contact, and he was struck by the strange urge to lick it. The same type of urge you got when standing at the top of a tall bridge over a rushing river and had the stupid thought to jump off of it, cause why not? 

Frowning, Sam wiped the liquid off and continued pushing the cube. For a couple of seconds, it tilted precariously on the edge, then slowly tilted downward, like a roller coaster at the peak of a hill. 

The cube shattered on impact with the ground, sending the liquid exploding outward along with shards of whatever the cube had been made of. 

Sam whooped in glee, then immediately slapped a hand over his mouth and guiltily looked around. No bots, and more importantly, no Ratchet. 

Smirking, Sam climbed back down from the desk. His bare feet landed in a puddle of liquid. After trying his best to wipe off his feet, Sam took off at a jog towards the exit. 

He remembered that Jazz had carried him from an elevator to the Med Bay. If he could backtrack, he could find the elevator and get at least one step closer to escape. 

It took at least ten minutes of running along the never-ending hallways, his nerves stretched thin as he listened for the rumble of driving ambulances or the heavy footsteps of other bots, but finally, he found it.  

A somewhat familiar white wall with an orange border running around it and a sigil engraved higher up. 

"Yes!" Sam cheered, fist-punching the air. 

The elevator. 

The next step to his escape. 

Bracing his hands on his knees, he allowed himself a quick break. The hallways were designed with beings much taller than Sam, and so what might be a five-minute walk for them was a 15-minute jog for him. 

His arm and feet, where the liquid had splashed him, tingled. Sam rubbed at them, looking for any pink spots or signs of damage. Nothing. 

His chest spasmed suddenly, filling with a strange warmth. Sam pressed his hand against it. Stupid exercise combined with anxiety had his body playing tricks on him. 

A dark shape moved in the corner of his eye, and Sam's head whipped towards it. 

A massive mechanical cat slowly stalked down the hallway.

Sam gaped. He hadn't known the Autobots had animal versions, but there was no denying the low humming engine or the intricate whirling cogs. It had to be at least his size, with metal claws that clinked against the floor. Its black paint flashed ominously under the light, and its tail swished back and forth. 

Sam was a dog person through and through. While Mojo was more of his parent's pet, he'd still liked the Chillauau and had, once upon a time, dreamed of adopting his own dog once he left the house (ideally one a little bigger and less shivery). 

Cats weren't bad, per se, but Sam always felt awkward around them. Their large, unblinking eyes made him feel small and insignificant. He swore that if they could speak, they'd only do so to give Sam an itemized list of his failings. 

As the cat paced towards him, Sam couldn't help but step back nervously until his back was pressed against the wall. 

"Ah, umm, excuse me," Sam squeaked as the cat shoved its head into Sam's bubble. The sharp protruding teeth were inches from his vulnerable flesh as the cat sniffed. 

Its eyes were that same unnatural blues as the others, but this close, Sam felt trapped underneath them. His breath hitched, and his chest burned. Clenching his teeth, he prepared for the cat to attack and shred him like a cardboard cat tree. 

However, after several long seconds when the cat didn't move or attack, Sam hesitantly sidestepped away, his back brushing against the wall as he tried to make some space. 

The cat's body remained still, but its head pivoted to watch him slip away. 

"Not a mouse. Not a mouse," Sam whispered. 

That cat chuffed, and Sam had the strange notion that it was amused. 

When the cat continued to refrain from attacking him, Sam cautiously returned his attention to the elevator and how to open it. 

Prowl had opened it remotely, but there wouldn't be a button unless it served a purpose. 

"How to get up there?" Sam asked himself. 

Behind him, the cat sat on his haunches, its attention fixed on him. 

Okaaaaay so he had an audience. That wasn't ideal, but as long as the cat didn't stop Sam from escaping, he could deal with it. 

Lifting a foot up, he stepped down as if climbing up a stair and immediately stumbled, almost banging his head against the wall.

The cat let out a snort of air, and Sams's cheeks heated. So, no STEPS outside the room. He was going to have to reach that button another way. 

All he had to do was parkour it. Sure, the button was almost as high as the one in his cell, and sure, he'd been unable to reach that on his own, but this would be different. He had escaped his room; he'd get into the elevator and out of this base, too. 

Taking some steps back, Sam sprinted towards the wall, kicking out a foot to try to kick himself up the wall. Stretching out his arms like a basketball player going for a game-winning dunk…

And completely missed it. 

Like didn't even come close. 

The second try didn't gain better results. Neither did a third. Or a fourth. 

His unwanted audience rumbled, its blue eyes flashing in entertainment. Like really? You're going to try that pathetic attempt again? 

"Are you just going to watch?!" Sam snapped, embarrassed by his failure and the unwanted scrutiny. "You can always help." 

The cat's tail flicked, and then it got back to its feet, stalking over to Sam, pistons rising up and down in its haunches. 

"I'm sorry!" Sam cried, raising his hands. "I take it back. Just don't kill me."

But the cat paced past him until it was directly underneath the button. 

Then with that natural athletic ability of cats, its hydraulics and cables bunched then released in a smooth, explosive leap upward. Its paw slapped across the button like it was merely swatting a bothersome fly from the sky. 

Gracefully, it landed on all four feet as the elevator door slid open. The cat turned back and looked at Sam, head tilted to the side. 

Sam didn't speak feline, but the smug expression wasn't hard to translate. 

"Yeah, well, thanks," Sam grumbled, darting into the elevator, and the cat followed after.

Chapter Text

Sam would say this about the Autobots—they had weird taste in elevator music. 

Not bad. Just… weird.  

He guessed he hadn't noticed it the first time he rode the elevator, having been too preoccupied with warding off a panic attack and the stress of an approaching medical exam.

Now, though, standing tucked against the side of the elevator, anxiously watching the doors in case someone entered, he found his attention drawn by the music.

It sounded like someone had tossed synth music, whale song, old internet dial-up tone, and chiming electronics into a blender.

Sam's teeth buzzed oddly as he listened, and unconsciously, he started humming along to the music. Was he simply deprived of music because of the apocalypse, and that's why he liked it? The last time he had heard music was when locked in Jazz's trunk, and who knew how long before that. He probably couldn't ask the Autobots to burn him a disk or give him a file of the music. Kind of a shame. 

With a cheery chime, the elevator slid open. Sam popped his head out, peering to see if anyone was there.

No bots. 

Only more of the long, white hallway. 

Sam darted out of the elevator before it could close on him. Turning back, he saw the cat sitting in the elevator, watching him. 

"Soooo, are you just going to follow me or…" the cat gracefully rose to its feet and paced silently after him. "Annnnnd you're coming with me. Okay, that works, I guess." 

Even if it didn't, what was Sam going to do? 

Fighting a metal cat was not on his Alien Escape BINGO card, nor did he plan for it to be.

Setting out a jog, Sam tried to banish his fear. 

Still, his neck prickled uncomfortably, and Sam anxiously rubbed at the metal band on his arm. Which was another thing worrying him. He had no idea what the monitor did. Obviously, it was monitoring him, but what? Likely health readings like his heartbeat, but what if it tracked his location, too? It seemed unlikely since he hadn't been collected yet and returned to his room, but the worry continued to gnaw at him. 

He needed to get out. Even if the monitor didn't track him, who knew how long it would be before they discovered Prowl? 

Prowl, whom Sam had abandoned, collapsed, helpless, possibly in pain or dying, on the floor. (Like he'd abandoned his family.)

Sam viciously slammed down his rising guilt and forced himself to run faster. 

The cat loped beside him, almost bored in its effortless ease. 

Sam felt he ought to say something to his feline friend (no, that sounded corny). Cat buddy? (Better, he guessed) But this particular cat radiated an intelligence that Mojo only dreamed of. It was somewhat intimidating. 

Compared to the cat's sleek elegance, he felt like a half-drowned, bedraggled kitten hissing pathetically at perceived threats. 

Beside him, the cat snorted, and Sam was struck by the strange perception that, yet again, the cat was amused. He'd be slightly offended if he wasn't also highly aware that said cat could eviscerate him if it wanted to. 

Maybe Sam needed to change his perspective. The movie genre of his escape wasn't action or spy but a cheesy children's show with a new animal friend where they bonded through the power of friendship and overcame great evil. 

It was like a teenage horse movie, except it was a giant metal cat instead of a horse. 

"A Feline Tail" coming soon to theaters near you. 

Yeah, maybe not. 

The halls felt longer than Sam remembered, but perhaps that was nervous excitement influencing him or that his legs were much smaller than Jazz's. Still, the white walls with orange borders seemed to stretch on for an eternity, only broken up by the occasional window. 

Sam slowed to a stop below one of the windows and craned his neck to see out. 

The world outside the windows was dark, but not like the night sky was dark. There were no glimmers of starlight or blurred fuzz of clouds. Nor did the darkness have a window shutter's consistent color and shape. 

Frowning, Sam squinted, attempting to figure out what he was seeing. Then it hit him. 

Dirt. That was dirt. 

The base, or at least this portion of it, was underground. 

He had taken the first elevator as far up as it went. But then there was another elevator in the atrium. That had to be the one that led to the outside and, thus, Sam's freedom. 

His only worry was that he had no idea where he was, other than underground. Was he in one of the rebuilt cities? In the wilderness? By a refugee camp? 

Location affected his chances of survival. Some areas were easier to scavenge from than others. Sam had been mugged once before, and all his hard-scavenged supplies were stolen. Recouping from that loss had been difficult and time-consuming. And now, he was essentially in the same situation. 

The cat pressed its head against Sam's torso with a low engine-rumbling purr that vibrated through his body. Tension that he hadn't noticed loosened from his shoulders, and he leaned gratefully into the odd sensation of warmth and comfort radiating from the cat. 

"Thanks," he said, feeling strangely choked with emotion. 

Patting the cat on the head, he forced himself to run. Stressing about how he would survive out there wouldn't help him escape. And the longer he took to get out of here, the more likely the Autobots would find him. 

That thought was enough to propel him to a near sprint the rest of the way to the elevator. 

The atrium was as big as Sam remembered.

The capacious space echoed as he stepped into it, and the sound vibrated with strange finality. The cut-out doors in the walls towered over Sam, making him an ant in comparison.

This time, however, instead of feeling overwhelming, it filled Sam with giddy hope. He was so close to escape that he could almost taste it. 

No more robot babysitters or naptimes or baby talk. 

He'd get as far away as humanly possible and go back to his lonely life of trying to survive in a post-apocalypse world and not die. 

Sam blinked. Somehow, his movie's happy ending felt much less happy than it ought to be. 

Whatever. 

Glancing back at his cat buddy, he gestured awkwardly towards the elevator door and the button to open it. 

"Uhh, could you, you know, open it again for me?" 

However, his cat buddy didn't immediately move. They stood staring at him with those glowing blue eyes and then tilted their head as though listening to something.

"Please?" Sam added. "Please, with a cherry on top. Heck, the whole sundae too!" 

The cat snorted, then, with a slight shake of its head, paced over to the spot below the button. Like before, all it required was a single, effortless leap. Their paw slapped the button, then gracefully landed on all four feet. 

"YES!" Sam threw his hand in the air. "You are the best cat I've ever! Seriously, no wonder there are cat people. That was perfect!"

His face hurt from how wide he was smiling. This victory made every loss feel worth it. Who cared that they had slapped a monitor onto him or forcibly swaddled him before tucking him into bed. Who even cared that Ratchet would be out for blood once he saw what Sam had done. 

It didn't matter because he was escaping. 

Grinning wildly, he ran onto the elevator. "Come on, take me to the surface," he yelled. 

He waited for the elevator doors to hiss close and for the slight rumble as the floor rose, but… nothing happened. 

"Top level?" Sam asked. "Surface, please?"

Nothing. 

The doors remained wide open and showed no sign of changing.

"Come on!" The smile on Sam's face grew tight. "I just need to leave. Close. Cierra. Fermer."

His voice cracked, "Please, just let me leave!"

"It's not going to."

A smooth, feminine voice, like silk gliding across a well-crafted sword, polishing it to pointed perfection. 

Sam looked up. No one was there. Just him and the cat. 

"What?" he asked. 

The cat opened its mouth and, in the same silky voice he had heard earlier, said, "Teletraan operates all machinery, like doors and elevators, on the Ark. It's programmed not to let the exiting elevator operate when an organic lifeform is within proximity." 

Sam stared dumbly. "You can talk."

The cat's mouth twitched in a smirk. "So can you."

"But you're…" Sam searched for the words and came up empty. All he could do was repeat himself, "You're talking."

The cat's tail flicked in definite amusement. "Yes. And if we're stating the obvious, you should be back in your room, kitten."

At the mention of his room, Sam flinched. "No. I need to leave. I can't stay here." 

The cat tilted her head, and her glowing blue eyes (stupid, stupid , he should have realized those eyes meant trouble) narrowed as she considered Sam. "Why? I saw the records from your intake exam. You were barely surviving." 

Sam's throat closed up. At his side, his hands shook. "You saw my exam?"

That nightmare exam with Ratchet, Sam strapped to the table, screaming in terror because he thought he might die. He hadn't realized he had an audience to his terror. Knowing that others had seen his panic made him want to puke. 

But the cat shrugged, metal panels rippling at the movement. "Soundwave did. He watches everything. He knew when you had left your room and sent me to watch."

They knew. 

They knew he had escaped. 

The monitor burned painfully against his arm, and his chest spasmed as his breaths quickened. 

They knew. They knew. They knew . 

Had he ever even had a chance at escape? Or was he always doomed to fail?

The cat braced her paws in front of her and bent into a long, deep stretch as her mouth opened in a yawn, revealing rows of jagged metal teeth. Then it snapped shut, and she eyed Sam, who only now realized he was a cornered mouse. 

"And now, kitten," the cat purred. "I need to bring you to Soundwave." 

"No," Sam whispered. "No. No, no, no, nononono. " His voice trailed into a scream as he broke into a desperate run. 

His bare feet slapped against the floor, and his limbs churned, propelling him faster. His legs and lungs ached from prior exertion, but the pain didn't matter. 

Old wilderness survival skills reminded him not to run from a giant predator but to stand back and fight, but pure, unadulterated terror fueled him and told him to run . 

Sam screamed as a weight slammed into him, sharp claws scratching his back as he was tackled to the ground. Hot metal pressed against him, and massive paws braced on either side of his head. 

"The chase was fun, kitten, but it's time to come along." 

Something pinched the back of his shirt and the seat of his pants, pulling the fabric tight around him. Then, the cat lifted Sam off the ground. Dangling from the cat's mouth, Sam flailed. 

"Put me down!" 

The cat chuffed, unfazed by Sam's struggling.

She trotted away, the elevator behind them still wide open—freedom close enough to taste and now gone.

Sam took back everything nice he had ever thought or said about cats. 

They were the scourge of his existence. The worst creature ever to walk the Earth. If Mojo were still alive, he'd happily join his dog in barking at every cat that dared come too close. 

Instead, while swaying mid-air, Sam yelled. "Let go of me!" 

The cat had gotten a good grip on the waistband of his sweatpants and the back of his shirt and was holding him like a naughty, scruffed kitten being carried back to the nest. 

It was humiliating and uncomfortable. The clothes pulled tight around Sam's chest and waist, digging into his skin. The sweatpants were even beginning to ride up in the start of a wedgie. 

"Seriously, put me down!" Sam yelled, kicking out his legs. He tried to hit the cat but missed miserably. "I don't consent to this!" 

The cat growled lowly, "Settle, kitten." It should have been terrifying, but Sam didn't sense bloodlust but fondness . His chest spasmed, an old warmth radiating inward. 

"I don't want to go to Soundway or wave or whatever! I want to go back to the elevator and leave!"

The cat snorted, the hot air ruffling Sam's hair. 

"Feisty little one." 

Sam's temper flared. If he were being rational, he would know better than to struggle in the grip of a giant cat, especially one made of metal, since even one made of flesh would have no problem killing him. But Sam's rational mind had checked out and taken a vacation far, far away, leaving only irrational, emotional Sam in charge. 

"I AM NOT LITTLE!" Sam roared and threw himself into fighting back, lashing out with his arms and legs. Most of his blows hit only air, but a couple hit the cat. His body ached where it made an impact, metal far less forgiving than flesh, but Sam didn't care. If the cat had been within biting distance, he would have tried that too, chipped tooth or not. 

He had been close. 

So, so close. 

And it had been snatched away. 

His flailing caused him to swing back and forth like a pendulum, his clothes making sad ripping noises as the cat tightened her grip. The fabric was cutting off his circulation in places, and the near wedgie had transformed into a full one, but that only further enraged Sam. 

The cat picked up her pace, but Sam's fighting didn't stop. 

His clothes creaked as threads strained. It was the only warning they got when, with a loud RIIIIP, the clothes holding Sam tore, and he fell to the ground with a thump.

Instantly, Sam scrambled to his feet, running like he had never run before. His legs raced in tandem with his heart, pushing him faster and faster. 

"Kitten wants to play," he heard distantly. 

Blood roared in his ears. Escape. Escape. Escape. 

He needed an escape.

His eyes darted around, searching, pleading for something. Some chance. 

The there! Low to the ground, a dark hole in the wall, a spot of salvation in the blank, white. 

Without thinking, Sam darted for it, sharp teeth nipping at his back. 

And dove head-first into the darkness. 

Sam was an adrenaline junky. Before the world turned to crap, he liked to spend his summers dragging Miles to as many amusement parks as possible to ride coasters. The scarier the ride, the more thrilled Sam was.

Steep hills? The steeper, the better. 

Sudden drops? Bring it on. 

Loop-de-loops? Loop-de- yes . 

Miles would groan and complain that Sam was trying to kill him but always relented with Sam's promise to play (and pay for) some of the Carnival-like games that scammed you out of cash for cheap, blow-up toys. 

The point was, Sam was no stranger to scary rides. Yet even that past experience had nothing on the hole Sam had dived into.  

Sam fell through the darkness for several seconds, wind rushing past his ears, giving him long enough to wonder how royally he had screwed up. Then his stomach slammed into a hard, slick surface, and his freefall turned into an intense downward slide. 

Sam would have screamed had he not been so petrified. The darkness obscured any hint of where he was going, leaving him blind to predict the sharp turns and drops. His stomach swooped and lurched, and his eyes watered from the force of the speed. One second, he was in a near free fall; the next, he was riding the edges of the tube so high that he thought he might actually be upside down.

His body banged into corners and ceiling, and the speed left friction burns against unprotected skin.

At one point, he started spinning in a slow circle, adding additional dizziness to the terrifying experience. 

Please don't throw up, was Sam's only coherent thought. The vomit would get everywhere and might make him slide faster. 

Thankfully, his stomach obeyed him, and Sam's rapid ride began to slow. 

Eventually, he skidded to a stop. 

Sam didn't do anything but breathe for a minute, his forehead resting against the slick metal. His warm breath created condensation underneath him.  

The metal he rested on was painfully cold, chilling his bare fingers and toes, but it was almost a relief. The frigid cold grounded him from his racing heart. 

A giggle bubbled up, which turned into a chuckle and then a full-on laugh that shook him from head to toe. It was either that or cry. 

What even was his life anymore? 

Picking himself up off the ground, Sam felt cool air breezing along his waist and back. His pants and shirt were ripped, thanks to the cat. Maybe he could pretend it was intentional—a design choice by some fancy name brand. Purrada maybe. 

Sam burst into a new round of giggles. 

How? How?! How was this his life?

Sam rubbed at the cuff on his arm. His first escape attempt had failed, but he had snuck away from the cat. Hope wasn't lost. Sam could still escape.

The cold stung his feet, but Sam forced himself to move, his arms stretched out to prevent him from running face-first into a wall. The darkness was near absolute, with only tiny pinpricks of light to help guide him. 

It didn't matter though. None of it did. Because Sam was going to escape. 

"I'm getting out of here," Sam said defiantly. "Nothing is going to stop me." 

And then the floor opened up beneath him. 

Sam had a brief heartstopping second of weightlessness before he plunged through the newly opened hole into the bright light below.

Chapter Text

Once, when Sam was 8, his dad had wanted him to jump off the top dive platform at the local pool. Sam had been watching in awe as kids and teenagers leaped off the concrete platform to plunge into the deep water below, but he kept getting too nervous about going up. 

Until his dad said, "If you jump off, I'll buy you that video game you've been wanting." 

Suddenly brimming with fresh confidence, Sam climbed the ascending steps, chest puffed out proudly. He waited in line for his turn, and once the lifeguard nodded at him, he stepped up to the ledge. 

Standing several stories up, Sam's knees wobbled, but he didn't cry or run away like some other kids. Instead, he waved at his dad and then leaped off. 

As his toes left the rough concrete and he began to fall, Sam realized he wasn't scared of heights, but he was scared of falling. Roller Coasters had nothing on the terror of plunging helplessly downward, the surface below rapidly drawing closer, the wind howling in your ears. There were no harnesses or protective gear, nothing to give the illusion of safety—just you and the power of gravity dragging you down. 

A scream filled his ears as the ominous blue water reached up to grab him. Calm gone, Sam flailed, forgetting the instructions to keep his legs together. 

He hit the water hard, landing partially on his side. The force of his impact knocked the wind out of him, and water surged up his nose. Sinuses burning, air gone, body aching, Sam could do nothing more than sink. Eventually, the lifeguard had to intervene, dragging Sam out of the water and up onto the ledge of the pool. 

Humiliated, Sam had tried to explain, but at some point, tears joined the water dripping from his hair, and Sam cried until his mom came to get him. 

Needless to say, Sam didn't like falling. 

He liked it even less when he wasn't expecting it. 

When Jazz had oh so helpfully shoved him off the platform, STEPS had immediately launched up, catching Sam before he could fall more than a few feet. 

Not so this time. 

The abrupt shift from cold, dark vent to blinding, bright freefall left him no time to prepare. One second, he was charting his escape, the next, he was plummeting downward. 

His stomach swooped to his mouth as he tumbled head over heels, the world spinning in a confusing blur of lights and colors. As the seconds dragged on and he continued to drop, Sam knew he was dead. You didn't survive a fall from this high. 

The collapsed Prowl hadn't crushed him, but gravity would do that for them. 

Sam had hoped his death would be cooler. 

A large mass approached from the corner of Sam's eye, and then it hit him, scooping him out of the air into a tumbled mess. Sam instinctively curled into a ball, arms coming over his head to protect himself. But the impact still left him winded. 

Tucked into himself, Sam lay panting. His mind struggled to comprehend what the heck had just happened. 

He had been falling, and now he wasn't. 

Why wasn't he falling? It couldn't be STEPS; it didn't feel right. 

He should be dead. 

"Primus!" 

"What was that?"  

"Is it a scraplet?"

Something large nudged him like he was some sort of odd bug. 

"Bet it's a glitch mouse." 

The thing nudging Sam pulled away. 

"Well, I guess you could call it a glitch mouse."

Weakly, Sam started to unfold and peeked open his eyes. 

He quickly regretted it. 

Meters from him were two massive blue eyes staring at him, bathing Sam in their unnatural glow.

Sam made an undignified squeak and scooted away, prompting large fingers to curl around him. He was lying in the center of a robot's cupped palms with no escape possible unless he wanted to jump and die. 

Sam had never seen this bot before. He was the largest bot Sam had encountered. Massive with a round form that reminded Sam of a cannonball—strong, deadly, and not fun to be hit by. 

"Hello, there," the bot said. 

"What is it?"

A bot peered over the bulky arm holding Sam. She was a lithe form with blue armor and pink accents, and when she saw Sam, her sharp eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open.  

"That's a newspark."

"That's what I thought, Arcee," said the one holding Sam. "One of those human sparklings Search and Rescue bring in." 

"Wait, a sparkling? You're joking! I haven't seen one of them yet." Another bot. Why did there have to be so many of them? This one was bright red with orange and yellow accents and a cheeky smile. "Woah, it's so…small. And it looks so squishy."

Sam would have glared at the bots and maybe flipped them off, too, if he wasn't still recovering from the shock of almost falling to death. 

The red and orange bot yelled out. "Hey, Blue! You've helped with Search and Rescue. Recognize this bitlet?"

Another bot. Seriously, did the Autobots breed like rabbits? Why were there so many? 

This one, fortunately? Unfortunately? Was familiar. Sam recognized his red prongs and overeager expression from the atrium. 

Bluestreak cooed at Sam. "Awwww, it's you. Yeah, he's the one from the most recent mission. You know, the one with MECH. They'd somehow gotten ahold of him, and we had to get him out. Well, I didn't. Smokescreen, Mirage, Cliffjumper, and Jazz were the ones who got him out of the building. I was keeping a look out for unfriendlies but—"

"We get it," said a bright red bot with chrome accents (thankfully interrupting Bluestreak.). His blue eyes glimmered with amused disbelief. "Wait, this is the little fragger that had high command's chassis in a twist?!"

"Sideswipe! You can't use that language around a newspark," chastised Arcee, swinging an arm at Sideswipe, who dodged with a laugh. 

The one holding Sam let out a disapproving rumble. "Or call them that, for that matter." 

His voice reverberated through Sam, knocking him out of his stupor enough to start moving. He braced himself to sit up and tried to peer over the fingers. He needed to get down and get away. There had to be something he could leap to? 

A new, black and white bot with a severe expression and prongs like Prowl pointed at the bot holding Sam. "You'll drop or squish him if you don't put him down, Bulkhead. Unless, of course, that's what you want." 

Sam startled at the voice, the hairs on his neck rising. He recognized it… Instincts screamed at him to run.

But Bulkhead, the bot holding Sam, was already moving, his steps jolting Sam and preventing him from standing up. 

"Sorry, little bot. Let me put you down. Don't want to hurt yourself squirming." 

Turning his hands down, he created a ramp to slide Sam off and onto a large black table. 

The moment his feet hit the solid, unmoving surface, Sam scrambled away, desperate to create some distance from the bots. The table was massive, but it didn't really matter since there were no ladders to get down or other surfaces he could leap to. Thanks to his near-death by freefall, Sam knew STEPS wasn't active in this room, so throwing himself off the table wasn't an option either. 

Sam searched for something around the room that could be helpful but came up empty.

The space was massive, like two or three basketball courts squashed together. Machinery lined one of the walls with strange glowing, blue cubes next to it. Monitors covered several walls, displaying scrolling glyphs and old human new reports. Several large chair-like contraptions were placed in strategic areas, and towards the back was a massive ping-pong table. Somehow, Sam had landed in an alien version of a break room. 

To make matters worse, the bots surrounded the table, each taking a different side, meaning the only safe spot was smack in the center. 

Arcee leaned towards Sam, her face plates turning down in disapproval. "How did the sparkling even fall in the first place?"

Yeah, actually, Sam wanted to know the answer to that, too. 

"That was Hot Rod's fault," grumbled Bulkhead, pointing a massive finger at the red and orange bot. "He hit the control for the vent, creating a forced opening." 

So it wasn't anything Sam did; he just had horrible luck. 

Hot Rod threw his hands in the air. "I thought it was Jazz. You know how he's always crawling around in the vents. I just wanted to give him a surprise."

Sideswipe snickered, "He's been wanting payback since Jazz's last prank. You know the one where a glitter bomb went off in his alt mode?" 

Jazz was a prankster? Yeah… that tracked. 

"That's funny," said Bluestreak, mouth curving in a knowing smile. "I didn't think that one was Jazz. He had been better about his pranks since he repainted the Med Bay and got a wrench thrown at him. A glitter bomb sounds like something you and Sunstreak–" 

Sideswipe slapped a hand across Bluestreak's mouth, "Mech, you've got to learn to shut up sometimes." He laughed nervously when Hot Rod narrowed his optics. "Besides, that doesn't matter since we've got a sparkling on the loose that Jazz is supposed to be looking after."

Every eye swiveled back, and Sam cringed under the attention. "I was on a walk," he said. "You know, exploring, stretching my legs. I can just go back to it, too, if one of you will let me down. No harm, no fuss, you can go back to doing whatever it was that you were doing." 

"Sparklings aren't allowed to walk around the base unescorted." 

Of course, they weren't. 

"Where is Jazz then?" asked Arcee. "He knows better than to leave a sparkling alone." 

"You know I'm right here?"

"Yes, you are," cooed Blustreak. "And you're so cute." He reached out and mussed Sam's hair with a single finger. Sam batted at it, the terror of falling and being caught slowly being replaced with irritation. Despite what they thought, he wasn't a child!

"Mirage mentioned that there had been stuff going on with MECH," said Sideswipe. "Maybe there was a meeting. Seems like high command is always having them." 

"Figures," scoffed the black and white mech. His face turned in a scowl, disapproval radiating from him and leaving Sam feeling twitchy. "Of course, he runs off and leaves the sparkling behind. Especially this one." 

Sam's stomach flip-flopped, and his mouth dried out as the mech's blue eyes fell upon him. Familiar blue eyes—eyes he had first seen around a campfire with a stern man he'd fallen into conversation with.

"Cade," Sam whispered. 

"You know Barricade, bitlet?" asked Hot Rod. 

Sam took a hesitant step back, his legs shaking, and prepared to bolt.

Barricade snatched at him, and Sam, despite his hyper-awareness, couldn't avoid the grab. Barricade's fingers wrapped around him, plucking Sam off the table with a terrified, embarrassing squeak. 

Lifting Sam into the air, Barricade tilted Sam from side to side, examining him with a critical eye. Sam didn't know whether to clutch the hold or push away from it. Instead, he did neither, only trembled in terror. 

"I was one of the first who found him," said Barricade, his voice a growl. "Was in one of those refugee camps. Found him overcharged."

Several bots made disapproving noises.

"Thought he'd be tagged, and that'd be the end of it," said Barricade lightly, as if that encounter hadn't been one of the most terrifying moments of his life. 

"Nope," said Sideswipe. 

Barricade squished Sam lightly, "Figures he'd be a glitched little troublemaker."

The squish jolted Sam out of his terror, and he began struggling, kicking to wiggle out of the grip. Barricade's fingers tightened, pressing uncomfortably into Sam, grinding against his bones. He could feel the bot's warm metal through his torn shirt, tingling against his skin. It pressed uncomfortably on his bruised limbs and aching back.

"Settle down," growled Barricade.

"I'll settle down when you put me down!" cried Sam. He meant for it to sound bold, but his voice pitched high and frantic. Matched with his squirming, he felt like a trapped mouse.

"You're scaring him, holding him like that," said Arcee, pointing at Sam's dangling legs. "Sparklings need to feel safe and secure."

She plucked Sam from Barricade's hold, but instead of putting him down on the table like he wanted, she pressed him against her chest, one hand cupping his back, the other under his legs. 

"See," she said. 

Sam would admit that the position was better if only because his legs no longer dangled in the air, but she held him tight enough that he was squashed against the warm metal, unable to take a deep breath in. 

That had to be why his chest felt clenched and his breath constricted. 

"He really is cute," said Hot Rod, leaning closer to Sam. He reached a finger out, and Sam cringed at the closeness, but the bot simply stroked a finger across Sam's head. 

Sam tried to lean away, but Arcee's grip made doing so impossible, and Hot Rod merely chuckled at the action. 

"Can I hold him?" asked Bluestreak. "Please, please, please? I never got the chance to. Jazz took him to Ratchet when we returned, and I never got to cuddle him!" 

"I'm not some stuffed animal to hold!" Sam snapped. Hot Rod's petting was not helping to improve Sam's mood. 

"Of course not!" soothed Arcee. "You're a sparkling, and sparklings benefit from close proximity to other bots. 

"Not a robot either!"

But his protests didn't matter. Arcee handed Sam over to Blustreak, who cradled Sam in the crook of his arms like a baby.

"No, no, it's okay," Bluestreak said as Sam tried and failed to sit up. He rocked Sam back and forth.  "I've got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you. None of us will. You're safe here with us." 

"I don't feel safe!" Sam retorted. 

He clung to his anger and indignation, but it faltered under the rising tide of fear.

Bluestreak nuzzled his head, and Sam stiffened. 

"Of course, you're safe, little spark. We'll just have to show you." 

And it was as if that was the signal. The bots passed Sam around, each taking their turn to hold him, cuddle him close, stroke his head, back, and arms, and murmur how cute he was and how precious. 

Their hard, metal bodies pressed uncomfortably into Sam's body, which had begun to ache from his insane vent slide and surprise catch. Grunting, he would try to shift free, but if he moved himself an inch, the bots would readjust their grip or pass him to the next one. All while crooning at him.

"So little and sweet." 

"A perfect baby spark."

"An energetic, feisty thing."

He could feel their excitement , joy , delight , curiosity , and adoration pressing on him. It was too much. The emotional barriers keeping Sam functional began to crack. His breath turned short and shallow, and his heart thundered uncomfortably fast. 

He tried to speak, to ask them to put him down! But his throat was tight, unable to force out actual words. 

"Bitlet?"

Their faces blurred together, turning into a monstrous, swirling vortex of blue—the blue that was drowning him and pulling him down into the choking depths of terror. 

"Sparkling, it's okay."

No, no, it wasn't okay. Sam wasn't OK. He felt like he was dying. His basic body functions, like breathing, were failing him. His heart would explode or stop from how fast it was beating.

"What's going on?" 

Sam let out a wild, terrified, keen as their grips tightened. 

"Poor thing has to be hurt."

"Then someone comm Ratchet."

"Put him down for now."

The hands wrapped around him released. 

Sam stumbled back onto the table, shaking violently. He wrapped his arms around his torso to prevent himself from shattering into pieces.

"Sweet spark? What's the matter?"

Sam would have laughed in his lungs would work. 

What wasn't the matter? 

Today alone, he'd been swaddled, forced to nap, had a monitor strapped onto him, and carried through the hallways like a disobedient kitten. And that was all before this grabbing, holding, snuggle party. 

Fingers reached for him, and Sam flinched. The force toppled him to the ground, where he curled into himself. 

"Little one?" 

A new voice. 

Sam peeked open watery eyes to a vision of pink. 

"Little one, what do you want?"

The question stalled his panicking brain.

Want?

What did he want?

He wanted to be freed. To be released and let go.

But they wouldn't do that. 

What else did he want?

He wanted them to stop touching, and hugging, and poking, and crowding him. For someone who could make it stop. Someone to take him away from all of this.

Someone safe. 

"Jazz," he said, voice cracking. "I want Jazz." 

"Okay then," Pink said. A feeling of calm rippled from her, and Sam shuddered. "We'll get Jazz."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Little one, I need you to vent in and out. Can you do that for me?" 

A gust of warm air washed over him. "Like this. Can you do that? Give me one." 

Sam took in a shaky breath. It was harder than it should have been. His lungs ached. 

"You're doing so good. Now let it out."

Sam breathed out. 

"Good job, little one. Now, let's do it again."

Slowly, painfully, Pink coaxed Sam through the breathing exercise. It took all of his focus, which was good because if Sam thought too hard about where he was and about who was surrounding him, he would lose it. 

He couldn't see the Autobots, but he could feel their presence, weighing on him: concern, worry, reassurance . He curled deeper into himself. 

Tires screeched. 

Sam peeked open his eyes to see a silver coupe skid into the rec room, turning at a sharp angle to avoid crashing into thestanding bots. With a smooth clunk chink, the car transformed, and Jazz slid out to a stop.

A guilty flush of relief filled Sam, and as Jazz hurried forward, Sam struggled to stand up and meet him. 

The bot's customary smile was gone, and his expression was unreadable behind the visor. However, as his hands curled around Sam, gently lifting him up, Sam was flooded with a feeling of safety . 

"Hey, there, sweet spark," Jazz murmured. He tucked Sam against his chest plate, grip tight enough that Sam felt secure but not suffocated. "What're ya doin' out? Didja get hurt?"

His fingers delicately probed Sam, noting the torn shirt, beginning bruises, and stinging scratches. 

Jazz gave a low, sad whistle, "Aww, bitty bot."

Voices muttered apologies, but Sam tuned them out, his panicked mind unable to handle it. He pressed himself to the warm metal of Jazz's chest. He could hear the bot's spark spinning, a low thrum that resonated warmly in Sam's heart and numbed his terror. 

"There ya go," Jazz crooned. "I gotcha."

Sam was content to rest in Jazz's hands after the nightmare ordeal. But a sharp "Where is he?" snapped him out of his pleasant haze. 

"Righ' here, Ratch'. I got 'im."

"No," Sam croaked. He tried to curl into himself–to hide from the medic.  

"I need to make sure he's not injured."

Jazz shifted as if to hand Sam over. "No!" Sam cried. He dug his hands into gaps in Jazz's plating, clinging to it desperately. "No, please. Don't make me. Please, don't."

His voice hitched, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. If he had been more cognizant, Sam would have been humiliated. 

"Please, Jazz, please," he begged over and over. 

Distantly, he thought he heard Jazz and Ratchet arguing, other voices chiming in, and what sounded like Prowl, but his attention was focused on clinging to Jazz and not letting go. 

" Please ."

Jazz's finger stroked Sam's back, and a low, comforting rumble rose from his engine. 

"It's okay, sweet spark. Ya alrigh'. Ima take ya back now, m'kay?" 

Jazz stepped forward, the motion rocking Sam back and forth. 

"Everythin's gonna be alrigh'."

Too wrung out to argue otherwise, Sam nodded his head and limply allowed Jazz to carry him away.

Chapter Text

As the door to the sparklings room slid shut, Jazz released a long ex-vent. 

Despite his smile and cheer, he was more than a little hesitant leaving the newspark, especially after the stressful recharge cycle. Bitty bot did NOT want to take a nap. It would have been amusing had the sparkling not gotten so worked up. But the angry , upset pulses of his spark had left Jazz's plating crawling. 

It had been physically painful to not pick the sparkling up and cuddle him until he was happy. Jazz's Guardian protocols demanded it, flashing warnings across his HUD. But Jazz had suspected doing so wouldn't help. He'd been forced to mute the alerts if only to hear himself think. 

Switching into alt mode, he cruised through the hallways, allowing the sensation of spinning wheels to calm him. 

The sweet spark would be fine. He was in good servos with Prowl. 

As the command center door opened, Jazz transformed back into root mode, sauntering in. 

The room was mostly empty. Megatron and Ultra Magnus stood discussing something in a corner while Ironhide rested in a chair. Jazz moved towards Ironhide, throwing a casual salute at the weapons specialist. 

"Heya, Hide."

"Jazz," Ironhide grunted, though not unfriendly. 

Jazz's smile turned more genuine and less forced. "Heard Prime needs to talk wit' me. Some slag with MECH?"

"Somethin' like that. Prime should be here soon 'nough. Last ah saw, he was with Elita." His field resonated with amusement. "Actin' like a buncha newbonds."

"Like you and Chromia were much better."

Ironhide snorted. "Suppose so. Ahm not too surprised though. It'd been a while since she's been here."

"Make your life easier. Lil' more time off from guardin' Prime." 

"Thank Primus. Been busy enough as is."

Jazz tapped a beat on the table. "Sparkling keepin' ya busy?"

"Always," Ironhide grumbled. Those who didn't know Ironhide well would think the mech was irritated, but Jazz saw Ironhide's twitching smile and the soft warmth filling his field. "Will's a tough one."

"Yeah?"

"Chromia adores him," Ironhide chuckled. "Ya'd think she was the one with the imprint bond. Still, ah can't complain. She's been real helpful wit' Will. He's been strugglin' with his new frame, but we're makin' progress." 

Jazz's tapping picked up in tempo. The sparkling was still ages away from his frame transfer. The bitlet needed to get healthier and accept his new home before the conversion could happen, but hearing about another sparkling struggling made Jazz worry. "Any idea why?"

"Ah'm sure the missile that 'bout sent him back to Primus had somethin' ta do with it. Trauma. Crash looping appears in lotsa forms." Ironhide shook his head. "Though, Will says humans call it PTSD."

Jazz's fingers twitched. Would the sparkling struggle with that as well? He would have to do research. Or make Prowl research and learn from him. 

"Other than tha', it's fine. Some nightmares, but Ratchet says all the bitlets have been strugglin' with that."

Nightmare. It was a strangely human condition and worrying to see in the newly converted sparklings. Jazz hadn't noticed that in Sam either but hadn't observed his recharge cycles closely. That would have to change.  

"Ratchet has somethin' he wants ta try too. Figures it might help. Ah'll ask Will what he thinks, then try it." Ironhide nodded at Jazz. "How's the bitlet you're Guardian for? Sam, righ'?"

"Not his Guardian. Jus' lookin' aftah him until Prime picks someone."

"Mmmm."

Jazz rolled his optics. "I'm not Guardian material, Hide, ya know tha'. There are bettah bots. Still, he's alotta fun." Jazz laughed lightly. "He's higher charged than a turbo-fox kit. Bouncin' around. Yellin’. Lots ta say. Opinionated lil' thing." 

"Jus' make sure ya don't roll over him." 

Jazz quirked an optic ridge. 

"These human sparklings…" Ironhide rubbed at his neck. "They aren't what we expected. Ya can't stomp over wha' they want and expect it ta go well. The slaggin’ guardian protocols…”

Jazz's tapping stopped. "What about them?"

Ironhide's face contorted as though thinking hard about what to say. "Sometimes… they're more of a hassle than they're worth. All ah'm sayin'."

Before Jazz could question Ironhide further, Prime stepped in, the soothing pulse of his presence pausing the conversation. Ironhide turned respectfully towards Prime, leaving Jazz with more questions than answers rattling in his processor. 

This meeting was taking forever. 

Why was it taking so long? 

Tap, tap, taptey, tap. Jazz's fingers drummed a rhythm, bringing sound to the worry spinning in his spark. 

Not for the first time, he brought up the comm link for Prowl and drafted a message before deleting it. 

'Prowler would be fine,' he told himself. As it was, he had more experience with sparklings than Jazz, having helped raise Bluestreak. The bitty bot was angry, but Prowl was a pro at letting anger roll off of him.

Besides, as soon as the meeting was over, Jazz would hurry back and see that everything was fine. 

"Jazz!" an angry voice snapped. 

Jazz glanced up to see Megatron scowling at him. The canon on his arm hummed threateningly, a clear sign that the Lord High Protector was ticked. 

"Yeh?"

Megatron's scowl deepened. "Have you not been listening to a word that's been said? Prime asked your opinion, and yet you sit there staring off into space like a glitch!"

"Peace, Megatron," Optimus said, holding up a hand. "It is no matter." 

Privately, Optimus sent a comm to Jazz, ::Is everything alright? You've been more distracted than usual.::

The rebuke was gentle, but Jazz had to suppress a wince. :: I'm fine. Sorry 'bout it, Boss Bot.::

Optimus watched Jazz with that eerie, all-knowing gaze. ::Is this about the newest sparkling?::

There was no point in hiding it. ::He got a bit upset righ' before I left. Prowl's with 'im.::

::But you are concerned.:: A feeling of reassurance and pride slipped through the comm. ::I am happy to see you taking your responsibility so seriously. I will endeavor to keep the remaining meeting short so that you can return as quickly as possible.::

It was more than Jazz deserved, and yet one of the reasons Jazz would follow Prime to the ends of space if ordered. 

"Jazz," Prime said, turning off his comm link and speaking to the room as a whole. "Search and Rescue has been noting an increased measure in MECH's activity since the retrieval of the newest sparkling. They're noting more movement and an uncovered chatter over retrieving 'the kid.'"

Everyone in the room shifted. Ironhide and Megatron's blasters whined as they powered up. Jazz himself was not immune, his claws slipping out at the notion of MECH trying to abduct the sparkling. 

"On my spark, I won't le' it happen," Jazz vowed, voice steely. 

Optimus nodded, "Red Alert is already working on adjusting security protocols to safeguard the sparklings in our custody, but Special Operations skills are needed."

Megatron glowered, "We can't protect against what we can't find. These fraggers are devious. We need to know bases, numbers, and weaponry."

Infiltration. 

Jazz tapped his fingers, sorting through which bots would be best for the job. "I'll talk wit' 'Raj. He'd be the best. Hound, too." 

"You may need to get your servos dirty," Megatron warned. 

Jazz's armor tightened against his frame, "I'm more than capable o' that." 

Optimus's optics softened, "What Megatron means is that you may have to leave the base. I know you have been looking after the newest sparkling, and we will do what we can so that you can stay and work with him, but your skills are invaluable."

"I'll do wha' I have ta." Even if it made Jazz's tanks churn as he considered leaving the sparkling alone. Who knew how long a mission like that would take? He'd have to speed up the integration process for the sparkling. Get him more comfortable with others so that when Jazz left the sparkling would be okay. 

Probably for the best, too. Jazz would need to find the new spark's guardian sooner rather than later.

"I'll work with Search 'n Rescue. There's more o' them. Start figurin' out where MECH migh' be hidin' and then start sending in my agents and—"

A comm from Arcee flashed across his HUD. ::Jazz::

::Kinda busy at the moment.:: Jazz replied, terser than usual. 

:: It's the sparkling. Something's wrong. We can't get him to calm down.::

The surprise jolted Jazz enough that he spoke out loud. "What?!" 

Ironhide looked oddly at Jazz. 

"Comm," Jazz said with a tight smile. 

::What do you mean?::

::He got out somehow. He's in the rec room. Everything was fine, but he's panicking now.::

Jazz's processor whirled. How? How had he gotten out? He should have been safe?!

::He's asking for you.::

Jazz's buzzing processor ground to a halt, stalling with a loud whine. Distantly, he wondered if this was what Prowl felt like before crashing. 

But then he was saying something to Prime; Jazz didn't know what, and his pedes were moving, sprinting out of the room. He transformed into his alt the instant he was free, engine roaring as he tore down the hallway at an unsafe speed. 

Surely, it wasn't MECH. They shouldn't have been able to get in! But the newspark also shouldn't have been able to leave the room with both Prowl and Teletraan monitoring him. 

His tires screeched as he jerked into a tight turn, skidding across the floor and leaving dark marks. 

He gunned it into the rec room, nearly taking out Bulkhead and Barricade, and transformed while still braking, his pedes sliding to a stop. 

Elita-1 was kneeling on the ground by a table, her field releasing soothing waves of calm and safety. But Jazz ignored her and all the other bots awkwardly standing around. His attention locked onto the small, shivering bundle on the table. 

Terror, anger, and exhaustion radiated from the sparkling, his field a landmine of pain that had Jazz's guardian protocols howling to 'fix this!' 

The sparkling lifted his head, face flushed and eyes glassy with tears. He wobbled as he got to his feet but took one step, then another, trying to get to Jazz. 

His spark swelling with emotion, Jazz carefully wrapped his servos around the sparkling and picked him up. Trembles wracked the newspark's fragile frame as Jazz tucked him against himself, right over his spark chamber. 

"Hey, there, sweet spark. What're ya doin' out? Didja get hurt?"

Something had to have happened to Prowl. The tactician never would have allowed a sparkling to run around unprotected. 

Probing the sparkling revealed beginning bruises and bloody scrapes. A patch of skin even appeared red and raw. 

Jazz whistled sadly, "Aww, bitty bot."

It wasn't fair. The little one had gone through so much. Been forced to struggle to survive in a broken world. There should be no more tears or sadness. 

What had happened for the sparkling to get so upset? More importantly, why had it been allowed to happen? He shot a sharp look at the bots gathered in the rec room. 

Off to the side, Bulkhead shuffled awkwardly, his helm lowered in shame, "Sorry, Jazz. We didn't mean for him to get so upset."

"Yeah!" said Sideswipe, "He just started freaking out. We couldn't get him to calm down."

Jazz's smile tightened. The sparkling wouldn't 'freak out' for no reason. They had done something. 

Jazz ground his denta. He wanted to interrogate them. To chew them out. They knew better than to traumatize a sparkling. The click they realized the sparkling had escaped his room they should have commed him. Not when the little one was falling apart. 

But then the newspark trembled and made a sad whining noise, and Jazz's rising fury fell away. 

The sparkling came first.

Jazz revved his engine, letting the vibrations soothe away the sparkling's tension, and pushed out pulses of comfort and safety through his EM field. 

"There ya go. I gotcha."

With a sniffle, the tiny bundle of warmth settled, pressing closer to Jazz.  

"What happened?" he asked lowly, keeping his tone mellow to avoid frightening the newspark. 

"He fell through the vent out of nowhere," said Hot Rod, flailing arms pantomiming the fall.

"He seemed okay but then he started freaking out," said Bulkhead. "Elita-1 showed up and started calming him down, but he kept calling for you."

Glancing down at the little one, Jazz felt pride, joy, and a tiny bit of fear flicker in his spark. The sparkling had asked for him. Called for him. 

It almost made the near spark attack worth it. 

Arcee shifted, "Ratchet said he got overstimulated."

As if summoned by Primus, the medic's distinctive pedesteps came clomping into the room. His face set in a furious scowl, Ratchet demanded, "Where is he?" 

Wisely, everyone pointed towards Jazz and the small body he held, then took a step back. Unless one wanted a new dent in their helm, it was best to stay back when Ratchet was this ticked off. 

Even Jazz wasn't immune, but he forced himself to call out, "Righ' here, Ratch. I got 'im."

Ratchet's gaze locked onto the sparkling like a targeted missile. 

"No," came a quiet, sad sound. The newspark tucked his limbs close, burying his face into the smooth planes of Jazz's armor. 

Ratchet's optics flickered, but then he held out a servo. "I need to make sure he's not injured."

Reluctantly, Jazz shifted his grip. He knew Ratchet wouldn't hurt the sparkling, but his guardian protocols ached at the thought of handing over the little one when he was so distraught. 

"No!" A sudden, sharp cry. 

The sparkling lurched forward, digging his tiny digits into the gaps of Jazz's plating. Jazz stilled, afraid that the slightest movement might pinch the delicate digits. But the sparkling was unaware of the danger, clinging to Jazz's armor as if it were the only thing saving him from destruction. 

The sparkling's words came in tremulous, frantic gasps. "No, please. Don't make me. Please, don't."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," said Jazz, alarmed at this terror. 

However, the sparkling only grew more agitated. "Please, Jazz, please. Please, don't. Jazz, please." 

The other bots watched in unease. Elita-1 looked ready to fight Unicron himself if it made the sparkling stop wailing. 

However, Ratchet's mouth thinned into a line. "Give him to me."

"He's panickin'." 

"Of course he is," Ratchet said curtly, servo gesturing impatiently. "But I need to make sure that he's not hurt." 

"I can't when he's actin' like this. He's too scared for an exam." 

Ratchet's field flared with worry and frustration. "I don't need to do an exam; I simply need to examine him! I am not going to be responsible for a sparkling offlining because you won't allow me to do my function!" 

"Can't you conduct a scan?" asked Prowl. 

Jazz's attention shot towards the tactician. He hadn't heard Prowl come in, but there he was, holding a cooling pack to his helm, his optics dull with pain. When he spoke, his vocalizer glitched slightly with hints of static. 

Jazz hadn't seen Prowl like this in nearly a vorn. 

He crashed, Jazz realized. 

Ratchet spun around, fixing Prowl with his fiercest glare. "And you! You should be in the Med Bay. I didn't give you permission to get up."

Prowl readjusted his cooling pack. "I heard that sparkling Samuel was hurt and wanted to make sure he was okay."

The pieces were starting to fall into place. The sparkling must have slipped out when Prowl suffered a crash. Somehow, he'd ended up in the vents and then fallen into the rec room. It solved the mystery, but not how to calm the little one. 

"Please," the newspark begged. 

"Scan him," Jazz said. 

Ratchet narrowed his optics, but Jazz remained resolute. Would he regret it next time he needed Ratchet to weld him back together? Most likely, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Please, Ratchet," said Elita-1.

After several clicks, Ratchet sighed and activated the built-in scanner on his arm. The ray of blue washed over the sparkling twice, then shut off.

"Anything? 

Ratchet remained silent before reluctantly saying, "Nothing life-threatening." 

Jazz nodded. "Then I'm taking 'im back."

Ratchet opened his intake to argue, but Jazz cut him off. 

"He's crash looping, and all this ain't helpin'. I'll look everythin' ova' and bandage 'im up. Letcha know everything I find."

The entire room stilled. This was the third time Jazz had defied the CMO. That he hadn't been hit on the head yet with a wrench was a miracle from Primus.  

But Jazz knew Ratchet and could feel the worry threading through his field. Despite his bluster, he cared, deeply. Unlike Shockwave, he would never do something that might harm a newspark. 

It was why Jazz wasn't surprised when Ratchet suddenly slumped, letting out a tired ex-vent. "Fine," he said. "But you're bringing him to the Med Bay tomorrow, or I will hunt you both down and drag you there myself." 

"Understood," said Jazz. 

Turning his attention back to the sparkling, Jazz revved his engine soothingly and brushed a finger down the sparkling's back. 

"It's okay, sweet spark," he murmured. "Ya alrigh'. Ima take ya back now, m'kay?" 

With a glance at those in the room, Jazz headed for the exit. 

::Talk later?:: he commed Prowl. 

Prowl winced. Must not be fully recovered then. Ratchet was going to be pissed. But Prowl still managed to give a nod. 

Swaying the newspark back and forth in his arms, Jazz dropped his voice into a tender croon. "Everythin's gonna be alrigh'," he promised. "I'm here now, and 'm not gonna let anything happen ta ya." 

If Sam were smart, he would have watched as Jazz carried him back to the cell, tracking the route he took and cataloging it for future escape attempts. But he didn't. 

He felt like an old tissue, used, then washed and dried out, only to be used again and again until it was see-through. Too much more and he would disintegrate. 

Tomorrow was another day, but for now, he didn't have the energy to do anything but lie limp in Jazz's arms. 

Doors hissed open, revealing familiar white walls. 

Jazz shifted, kneeling down. Then, while cradling Sam's head and legs, he slowly lifted Sam away from his chest plates and set him down on the berth. 

"There ya go. S'all right. I gotcha," he murmured, somehow radiating a feeling of safe and care . 

Sam's chest spasmed, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the pleasant coolness of the metal berth against his skin and how it relieved some of the built-up flush. 

Dully, he watched Jazz grab a blanket off his mattress along with several pillows, adjusting them so that they surrounded Sam. He plumped the pillows and tucked the blankets around Sam. When that wasn't enough, he pulled another blanket from his subspace, laying it over Sam's lap. 

The part of Sam's brain still paying attention noted that Jazz was fretting. He was acting like a flustered hen whose chicks had gotten away from her and now protectively looking them over. It might have made him laugh if he hadn't felt so numb. 

"Are you comfy?" Jazz asked. 

"I'm fine."

Jazz's visor flickered, and although his smile was back, it appeared tight and worried. 

"I wantcha ta be comfy, so if you need anythin' else, you le' me know."

Pillows and blankets weren't going to change things, but Jazz appeared to need reassurance, so Sam nodded. 

"Sweet spark, wha' happened? They didn't hurt ya, did they?"

Sam wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain that if he said yes, Jazz would make all the bots in the rec room come to regret it. 

If he hadn't felt so drained, he might have said yes to enact revenge. Instead, the truth tumbled out.

"They wouldn't stop touching me," Sam admitted quietly. "They wouldn't stop when I asked."

Jazz made a sympathetic sound. Sam hunched into himself. It sounded pathetic to say it out loud. 

But Jazz didn't laugh or yell. "'M sorry, bitlet. Tha' shouldn't have happened."

Sam turned wide, tired eyes towards Jazz. "But that's what's been happening."

Jazz winced. "Yeah, that's fair. We can talk 'bout it later. Righ' now, though, I gotta look you over. Patch ya up, m'kay?"

Taking a step back from the berth, he folded into himself, arms tucking towards his chest, legs sliding together, until parked beside the berth was a shiny, silver coupe. 

Static buzzed, and then, with a pop, a man filled the space in front of Sam. 

He jolted at the sudden apparition, dislodging one of the blankets placed around him. 

The man crouched down, hands held up in the universal 'not a threat' position. Long locs were fastened back in a bun, and his dark skin was complemented by the blue shades perched on his nose. He wore dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a silvery jacket. 

He was human. And without a doubt, Jazz. 

"What?" Sam rasped. 

"It's my holoform," Human Jazz explained. "I can only use it tho' when I'm in my alt mode. You've seen it 'fore." 

Yes, Sam certainly had. He remembered that grip pulling him through the smoke, that brief thrill of relief that was crushed when he was pinned to the floor and drugged. 

A box appeared in Jazz's hand with the words' First Aid' printed across it in bold, blocky red letters.

Sam hunched into himself. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Ya got hurt, sweet spark. Like I said, I need ta patch you up."

"I don't want you to. I'm fine. Just leave me alone." Sam wrapped his arms tightly around himself.  

But Jazz shook his head. "M' afraid I can't. S'not right to leave ya hurt. 'Sides, Ratch'll offline me if I don't getcha fixed. It's either me or him. I'll do whatcha want, but I can't leave you like this."

Jazz or Ratchet. 

Wasn't really a choice, was there?

"You."

Chapter Text

Jazz paused, his unnaturally blue eyes trailing over Sam's form before saying quietly, "Alrigh' then."

Reaching out, Jazz gently took Sam's left arm and tugged it away from where he held it tight against his chest.

"You le' me know if I hurt you or if you need a break."

Sam nodded.

Jazz's touch felt real. Warm and firm but achingly gentle. If Sam hadn't seen him appear out of nowhere, he would have never guessed him to be a secret alien. 

Jazz's fingers brushed over Sam's arm, lightly pressing against developing bruises. 

"How'd ya get these?" Jazz asked. 

Between falling off of STEPS, trying to open the elevator, getting carried by a mechanical cat, sliding down the world's most terrifying slide, and then falling through the ceiling to get held and squished by alien robots… Sam didn't have the faintest idea. 

"I don't know."

Jazz's eyes narrowed, but he didn't push. 

Instead, he cracked open the First Aid box and pulled out what looked like a spray bottle. Tilting Sam's arm, he pressed the plunger, a light mist landing on the tender section of skin. A chill formed where the mist landed, sending cool relief. 

"That okay?"

Sam nodded and watched as Jazz continued his ministration, spraying the mist on each aching bump and bruise. 

When he found scratches, he wiped them clean, then pulled out another bottle and painted a clear gel-like substance. It dried upon contact, creating a thin membrane over the injury.

Throughout it all, Jazz was painstakingly careful, as if he were handling priceless, precious porcelain where the slightest pressure would shatter it. It made it easier for Sam to mentally step back, his own body feeling like a puppet that he moved distantly. Numbly, he watched Jazz perform first aid until the holoform paused. 

His thumb brushed over a pale white scar; the jagged edges puckered where the skin hadn't met right. 

"What's this from?"

Sam's mind struggled to function properly, but this was a simple task. An easy answer.

"I was scavenging and found a house that looked untouched. Broke the window and climbed in but cut myself doing so."

He had bled everywhere until he had found a roll of toilet paper and wrapped it around his arm. The paper had clotted in the cut, and afterward, Sam had had to pluck out the soggy, bloody clumps.  

"And this?" Jazz asked, pointing towards a perfectly circular pale dot.  

"Made someone I was traveling with mad. He had a cigar he was smoking and…" Sam shrugged. 

Jazz's face tightened, and Sam got the faintest flicker of rage and fury . Had he been more emotionally present, Sam would have been terrified. 

But in the next heartbeat, it was gone, and Jazz stroked Sam's arm. "I'm so sorry, little spark."

Jazz continued this process as he patched Sam up—treating the injuries and then asking about each faded scar, like he wanted to know. Like he needed to know. 

After years of surviving on his own, Sam's scars had multiplied, but it wasn't until someone asked that he realized how much he had been through. He had been all alone. No one had cared for so long. 

Yet Jazz dutifully listened as he tended to Sam's injuries. 

After one story where Sam described falling through the rotten floor of a second-story building and then having to treat his injuries, Jazz said, "Oh, little one, you've been so brave for so long. Haven't ya?"

There was a feeling of pride mixed with sadness , but above all, love . 

It made a tender part of Sam's heart melt and finally relax. 

Maybe that's why his eyes started to droop and his head nod. Exhaustion from the day pulled at his limbs. He had refused to nap during the scheduled time, and after lessons and a failed escape attempt, he felt ready to collapse into sleep. Along with the gentle treatment and Jazz's crooning voice, it was no wonder he didn't notice Jazz was repositioning him until he felt hands on his back. 

Shivering, he realized he had been maneuvered to lay across Jazz's lap. A pillow supported his stomach and another his head while blankets draped over his legs. 

"Wha-"

"Hey, hey, don' fuss, sweet spark," said Jazz crooned. A hand firmly pressed Sam's head back down onto the pillow, then rested there to stop him from lifting it up. "Jus' need ta clean and fix up these scrapes on yer back. It's the last thing, and then you'll be done. Can you be good fer me a lil' bit longer?"

Sam squirmed, and the movement made the scratches on his back twinge. "Kay," he said quietly. 

"Good boy."

Sam's back had been the worst off. The cat's teeth and claws had left stinging scratches, and between the insane slide and the bots squishing him, he was sure bruises had been added to it, too. 

Jazz hummed as he cleaned the scratches, dabbing gently at the bloody marks. "How'd ya get these?"

"The cat."

Jazz made an unhappy whirring noise that a human definitely would not be capable of making. "Ravage."

Sam snorted. That name felt appropriate. 

At one point, as Jazz treated Sam's back, his hand resting on Sam's head began stroking it. 

The touch felt nice, but Sam stiffened in surprise, and the hand paused. "This alright, lil' spark?" Jazz asked. "Didn' hurt you, did I?"

"No," Sam whispered. 

"Lemme know if I do." Jazz said, then continued. 

The feeling of someone playing with his hair distracted Sam from the worst of his pain. Jazz's fingers worked through his hair, detangling the knots and lightly scratching his scalp. It made Sam's head pleasantly woozy, and his body melted into the pillows underneath him. 

He had always loved when people played with his hair. When he was a little kid, he'd pretend to fall asleep on the couch next to his mom in the hopes that she'd play with his hair. 

He could almost imagine he was sitting next to her, safe , peaceful , and happy . 

When Jazz began rubbing circles into the base of Sam's neck, he made a quiet, content hum. 

"The cycle's jus' tuckered you out. Such a precious lil' bitty bot, aren't cha?"

Groggily, Sam mumbled, "Mmm' not a bot."

"Oh?"

"Mm' jus' Sam. Thas' m' name. Sam."

Jazz paused in his stroking, then said softly, "Okay, Sam."

Sam sighed in relief at being heard.

One hand now carded through Sam's hair while the other rubbed out knots in Sam's neck. His eyes had slipped close a while ago, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

His chest radiated a soft warmth, and the air was filled with a feeling of safety .

"Tha's it. Go to sleep, Sam. M' gonna keep you safe."

The sparkling laid curled over Jazz's lap.  His face, flushed from his previous distress, was now lax. Soft, even breaths puffed from his slightly open mouth. As Jazz continued to stroke his hair, the sparkling made a faint, content noise. 

Seeing the newspark at ease calmed the guardian protocols that had been ringing in Jazz's processor ever since he got the comm. The sparkling was safe. All of his injuries were treated, and like Ratchet said, none were threatening to the little one's health. 

Jazz smoothed his thumb over the sparkling forehead. It was strange to interact with the newspark in holoform. He seemed both smaller and bigger at the same time. Warmth radiated from him, and this close, Jazz could hear the steady beating of his heart.

The containment room doors hissed open and soft pedesteps entered. The delicate but strong gate could only belong to one bot.

"Lita," he acknowledged, without turning his attention from the newspark.  

"Jazz," came the reply. Elita-1 stepped closer, the lens of her optics contracting as she peered down. "Is he in recharge?"

"Yeah." 

"He's so small," Elita-1 marveled. "And so adorable. Hard to not want to pick him up and squish him. Might be one of the cutest sparklings yet." But beneath her delight, her optics were sharp, scanning for injuries Jazz might have missed.

Jazz smiled faintly, "M' sure you got more to say than comment on how cute he is." 

Elita-1's field shifted to something more serious, although her gaze did move from the sparkling. "Optimus has gathered everyone involved in the incident in the command center. However, he won't start until you arrive."

"Right," Jazz said. They need to get down to the truth of how the newspark was able to escape and wind up so hurt. However, that didn't mean he wasn't more than a little reluctant to leave the sparkling. "Lemme get 'im tucked in. Pretty sure bitlet's out for the rest of the cycle. Will you get his pajamas for me?"

At Elita-1's confused noise, Jazz explained, "It's a garment humans wear for recharge cycles. Teletraan usually puts a fresh pair in his wash rack before each cycle. You'll jus' have ta ask."

Elita-1 was nothing if not efficient, and a few clicks later, she returned with a small pair of pajamas. 

"It's so soft," she said, rubbing her digits across the fabric, before handing it to Jazz.  

"Gotta keep 'im cozy."

He brushed his fingers over the sparkling's head. "Okay now, gonna need ya to work wit' me," he murmured. Tucking his hands under the newspark's armpits, he lifted him into a seating position. 

"There we go." 

The newspark made a tired, grumbly noise, and his eyelashes fluttered. 

"I know, I know. M' sorry, sweet spark," Jazz crooned as he pulled the shredded shirt off the little one. His eyes narrowed at the clear rips, a flicker of rage filling his field. 

The sparkling whimpered, and Jazz clamped it down. Odd. The little one wasn't usually so sensitive to fields.  

Jazz guided the newsparks arms through the sleep shirt, then his head. When it popped out, his hair was mussed up.

"There we go."

The bottoms went on even quicker, and Jazz was able to lay the little one back down on the pile of pillows. 

"Tha's better. Yeah, it is."

Releasing his holoform, Jazz's sensors activated in his alt form. The transition was always jarring, and he took a few clicks to orient himself before transforming as quietly as possible. But he didn't need to worry. The sparkling hardly moved from his spot. 

After stretching out his cables, Jazz approached the berth and scooped the sparkling up, carrying him from the pile of pillows to his mattress. 

"Gonna be more comfy here."

Jazz tucked blankets around the recharging sparkling, smoothing out the fabric. Then, for good measure, he added pillows surrounding his form. 

Brushing a digit over the little one's arm as a last reassurance, Jazz's spark trembled as the sparkling made a quiet, sleepy sigh and nuzzled his digit. His warm breath brushed across Jazz's plating. 

Jazz's voice crackled with static. "Oh, baby bot, you're beakin' my spark, actin' sweet like this. But I gotta go."

With a final caress, Jazz pulled away. 

"Promise I'll be back."

Nodding to Elita-1, he tapped into Teletraan, having the lights in the room dimmed to a soft twilight blue. 

Pausing at the door, Jazz considered the sparkling, chest rising and falling in recharge. "Be good…Sam."

The designation tasted as sweet as energon gummies on his glossa. Jazz had avoided using the little one's designation, afraid that in doing so he would grow too attached and be devastated when it was time for a different guardian to be selected.

"Mm ' jus' Sam. Thas' m' name. Sam."

Sam. Maybe Jazz could indulge in using the sparkling's designation every now and then. Especially since the little one requested it. 

As Elita-1 and Jazz exited the room, Mirage and Smokescreen stood at attention outside the door.

Mirage nodded formally, "I'll be watching him from inside the room, sir."

"If he realizes…" Jazz warned his agent. 

Mirage smirked, "He won't even know I'm there." 

"I'm standing guard out here, sir," Smokescreen said. "Won't let alone in unless I get a comm from you saying so."

Affection and pride for his agents swelled in Jazz. "Thank you." 

The sparkling would be okay under their care. 

Jazz's field sharpened as he turned down the hallway. Now, to learn who was responsible for Sam getting hurt. 

Despite it being 0.967 vorns since Prowl's last crash, he never truly forgot the sensation. Onlining was a disorientating cacophony of pain and confusion. His vision blurred, and his processor rang with warnings, alarms, and corrupted files that demanded his attention. 

It took at least one cycle, typically three, for his processor to resort itself.

He should be in the Med Bay convalescing. Ratchet had reminded him of that five times already. But Prowl knew neither himself nor his guardian protocols would be at ease until he knew what happened to sparkling Samuel. 

Which is why, despite Ratchet's furious gaze, Prowl sat in the command center, a fresh cooling pack applied to his overheated helm. 

However, Prowl was not alone. Present in the command center were Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Soundwave, Bulkhead, Arcee, Sideswipe, Hot Rod, Bluestreak, Barricade, Ironhide, and Megatron. 

Once Elita-1 returned with Jazz, there would be 13 bots in total (14, including himself). 

An impressive number but understandable. All involved would be required to determine what had happened with sparkling Samuel. 

Prowl's door wings twitched in warning, clicks before the door to the command center slid open, and Elita-1 walked in, followed by Jazz.

The spymaster's visor obscured his optics, and his plating clamped tight against his protoform. The flickers of his field that Prowl could sense reminded him of one of Earth's thunderstorms, looming as it prepared to unleash its fury.  

There is a 99.89% certainty that Jazz was angry, Prowl's tac-net supplied. 

Yes, thought Prowl with a hint of exasperation. That much was obvious. 

Jazz stalked toward one of the chairs, sitting down with a barely suppressed violence that made the mechs beside him shift away slightly. 

Clearing his voice box, Prime addressed the room, "Thank you all for coming. As you well know, there was a situation this cycle involving the newest and youngest sparkling. He has been returned to his room and his injuries treated. However," the slightest hint of warning entered Prime's tone. "I wish to know what happened and how we can avoid a repeat of this situation." 

"I was with the baby bot along with Prowl," said Jazz. "I got a comm about a meeting, so I asked Prowl to look after him and then left. As far as I knew, everything was okay until I got a comm saying that the sparkling was out of his room and upset." 

Jazz's voice remained even and unassuming, but Prowl struggled to suppress a wince.

Optimus turned to Prowl, his heavy gaze landing on the cool pack pressed against Prowl's head. "And then what happened?"

Prowl straightened, forcing all emotion from his voice. He was responsible for the harm the newspark had come to. It was illogical and cowardly to shirk responsibility. 

"Upon finishing his lessons, we transitioned to his scheduled playtime. The sparkling was quite...cranky. He had thrown a tantrum over his mandatory recharge cycle and was still upset. He ignored attempts to interact and instead played with STEPS. As Jazz suggested, we started playing a 'Get-to-Know-You-Game,' and he responded with nonsensical answers."

"Then what happened?" growled Megatron, arms crossed. 

Prowl's processor throbbed in discomfort. 

"He crashed," snapped Ratchet. "And should still be recovering in the Med Bay."

Prowl ignored the jab. 

Ratchet wasn't finished. "It was a Tier 2 Logic cascade crash further exacerbated by stress within his emotional processors." 

"Because of the sparkling?" asked Megatron, unimpressed. 

Prowl's digits dug into his cooling pack. "Yes. When I onlined, I was in the containment room with Ratchet and First Aid. Sparkling Samuel was not to be found."

"Then how in the Pit'd the scraplet get out ?" Ironhide growled, disbelief and a touch of admiration in his tone.

"Soundwave, if you would?" requested Prime. 

Soundwave nodded wordlessly as the monitor behind them flickered to life. Everyone watched, intakes hanging open as the sparkling cleverly utilized STEPS to reach the control button and escape the room. 

"The little glitch is smarter than I thought," Sideswipe muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"Escaping the room isn't that unexpected," said Jazz, directing attention back to him and his too-sharp smile. "What I want to know is why he wasn't immediately detected and returned." 

Ratchet raised his servo. "Red Alert is on medical leave. It had been too long since he properly defragged and had a routine checkup. Which means Soundwave was on monitor duty." 

"So, Sounders," said Jazz with false cheer. "Were ya watchin' the monitors? Didja see him?"

Soundwave didn't display a single emotion from beneath his mask and visor. "Affirmative."

Jazz hummed and tapped a few beats against the table. "Then why didn't you comm me?" 

"Sparkling: Testing Boundaries. Soundwave: Monitored." 

Jazz's visor burned bright, "Right, right. Monitored by you. But no one with him?"

Soundwave tilted his head. "Answer: Sparkling Supervised. Supervisor: Ravage."

Jazz's tapping stilled, and a new warning flashed across Prowl's HUD. According to TAC-net, if Soundwave didn't speak carefully, there was a 73.8% possibility that Jazz would stab him. 

"Yes, Ravage ." 

Jazz leaned forward, visor aglow, one servo twitching like he was restraining a blade from deploying. 

For the cassette's sake, Prowl hoped she was tucked in Soundwave's chassis or otherwise hidden far away. 

"Sparkling Attempted Escape: Injury Accidental."

Wrong response. 

Jazz rose so fast his chair screeched. Visor flaring, he slammed both servos on the table. "He has bloody scrapes up and down his back!"

"Calm." Optimus's deep, commanding voice cut through the rising tension. "Jazz, your frustration is understandable but ultimately unproductive. Can you maintain your composure for the rest of the meeting?"

Prowl swore he saw the flash of a plasma blade in Jazz's servo. But then the spymaster was smiling, arms wide open and friendly, "Course, Boss Bot." He sat back down, but Optimus's optics lingered on him a click longer. 

When Jazz didn't stand up and try to stab Soundwave, Optimus ex-vented and said, "Soundwave, while your intentions were understandable, Jazz is correct that they allowed our newest sparkling to come to harm. In the future, Ravage is not permitted solo contact with the sparkling." Optimus's voice channeled warning. 

"Understood," said Soundwave with a nod, though Prime's gaze lingered for 5.7 clicks longer than usual.

With that, Optimus had the clip of the sparkling's escape played. It was almost amusing watching him scurry around. His encounter with sparkling Charlie was surprising but not negative. And when he started wrecking things in the Med Bay, everyone was trying to hold back a laugh. 

Even Ratchet, who grumbled, "I needed that," appeared to be fighting back an amused smile. 

However, when Ravage appeared, the tension tightened. Prowl carefully observed Jazz the entire time Ravage was on screen. Jazz said nothing and did nothing, but his armor remained clamped tight to his protoform. The only motion he made was a slight jerk when Ravage accidentally scratched the newspark's back and when he dove into the ventilation system. 

"Why was the cover for the vents off?" asked Optimus.

"Umm, that might have been my fault?" ventured Bluestreak. "I was trying to figure out how Jazz kept getting around in them, so I took a vent off and shoved my head in, but then it was really dark, and I wondered if it was even clean. So I was planning on wiping it down and trying again, but then I got a comm from Sideswipe and left. And I think I forgot to putthecoverbackon." 

"In the future, please abstain from exploring the vents."

"Right, sir. Yes, sir! Won't do it again." 

"So the sparkling began running around in the vents," said Megatron. "How did he end up in rec room then?" 

"I hit the emergency open switch," admitted Hot Rod. He looked at Jazz. "I thought it was you, crawling around in the vents. We didn't expect a newspark to come falling out."

"I caught him," said Bulkhead. "He seemed alright, so we played with him for a little bit."

"And why wasn't I commed?" asked Jazz. It was the first thing he'd said since Optimus lightly scolded him.  

Bulkhead's biolights lit up in embarrassment. "Figured you were in a meeting and didn't want to bother you."

"Look, I'm gonna say it," blurted Hot Rod. "The bitlet is cute! We got carried away. Some of us had never even seen a sparkling before. I'm not saying it excuses what happened, but we didn't mean to scare or hurt the little guy. He just started freaking out. No idea why."

"That's when we commed you," said Arcee, "While Elita-1 tried to calm him down." 

"Since I was forbidden from examining the newspark," Ratchet said with an annoyed glare at Jazz. "I have only my scans to go off. But from what I could tell, the sparkling received no injury from his time in the rec room. I'd assume the little one became overwhelmed. He was retrieved not long ago, and that was likely the most bots he's ever been around. It's unsurprising that he grew scared."

The bots who had been in the rec room turned solemn. 

"Ratch' is right," said Jazz, a hint of a hint of a growl returning. "He said you kept holdin' and playin' with him when he asked you not to. That's what upset 'im."

Sideswipe scratched his helm. "But that's what you're supposed to do with sparklings. It's what the guardian protoco–"

“Slag the protocols!” Jazz snapped. 

Prowl wasn't the only one who flinched at the venomous curse. Especially when Jazz looked ready to curse more. Thankfully, Elita-1 stepped in. 

"Jazz is correct," Elita-1 said. "It was obvious when I arrived that the newspark was scared. Even if the protocols encourage you to act one way, if that behavior is unnecessarily upsetting the sparkling, there is no reason to continue. We are more than our coding." 

Remorseful EM fields flooded the room, carrying hints of shame and sorrow.

"Sorry, Jazz," said Sideswipe. There was a chorus of agreement. "We didn't mean to scare the newspark." 

Jazz nodded his helm but otherwise said nothing. 

"Jazz, is the sparkling okay now?" asked Optimus.  

Jazz ex-vented slowly. "Yes. I left 'im rechargin' on his berth."

"Good." Optimus surveyed the room. "Then, moving forward, I want the STEPS readjusted in the containment room to not activate within a certain distance of the door. As well, any unsupervised sparkling should be reported immediately to high command and their designated guardian. Am I clear?" 

The room unanimously shared their agreement. 

"Then this meeting is dismissed."

Everyone stood up and began to leave, save for Prowl, who stayed seated, gripping his cooling pack in a death hold.

Multiple bots murmured quick apologies or well-wishes to Jazz, but only Ratchet pulled the mech aside, gesturing as he made his point clear, then storming out in a huff.

Optimus rested a servo against Jazz, quietly sharing a few words, to which Jazz nodded.

Too soon, the room was empty, save only Prowl and Jazz.

Prowl set his cooling pack down, brushing aside the 26.9% increase of pain in his processor. He wanted to recharge. Desperately needed the defrag, but duties required him.

He approached Jazz, then stiffly dropped into a bow, door wings splayed. 

"I'm sorry, Jazz."

Jazz startled, and then his servos were on Prowl's shoulders, pushing him to straighten up.  

"Mech, what're ya talkin' about?"

"Newspark Samuel...you entrusted me with him, and his injuries only happened because of my negligence."

"Prowl, I'm not mad at you."

At Prowl's blank, confused stare, Jazz reached over the table to grab the cooling pack and press it against Prowl's aching helm. 

"Look, you asked not ta be left alone. That's on me. Ya did everythin' right. You didn' know you were gonna crash, 'n I saw how you were racin' to the rec room the click you realized the sparkling was there. I don' blame you."

Prowl nearly crashed again in relief.

But Jazz was still tense, clearly upset.

"Are you alright?" asked Prowl. 

Jazz laughed humorously. "I'm fine. But baby bot 'bout gave me a spark attack." He rubbed at his visor. "'M supposed to keep him safe. He's not supposed to be so scared."

Prowl hadn't been in his right processor when he raced to the rec room, so he only saw the aftermath of the newspark's panic. However, Jazz had seen the sparkling's terror and been the one to soothe him. His field felt conflicted, snapping between anger, relief, worry, pride, and frustration at a dizzying speed.

Hesitantly, Prowl reached out with his field, lightly pressing reassurance and support. "I will still assist as needed. If you so want," added Prowl. After the cycle, Jazz might not want Prowl's assistance. 

Jazz poked Prowl's chassis. "Prowler, just cause I'm fretting doesn' mean you can roll off inta the sunset 'n leave me worrying 'bout the bitty bot on my own." 

Finally, Prowl permitted himself a smile. It had been a long first day of the sparkling's new schedule. But tomorrow was a fresh cycle. They could try again and again until the sparkling realized he was safe here. 

Chapter Text

Hands.

Hands reached for Sam, the fingers impossibly long, breaking and twisting as they whipped around corners. 

Sam ran. His legs spun beneath him, but the hands followed after. 

The hallways warped, flickering between blinding white and pitch black. He didn't know where he was or how to escape, but the hands wouldn't stop. 

The floor disappeared beneath him, and Sam screamed as he fell off the diving board towards the pool below, but as he hit the water, it exploded into darkness. 

Haunted voices whispered out. Plaintive. Pleading. 

'Why did you leave us?'

"It's your fault.'

Sam flinched back, curling his arms over his head. Guilt poured over him, choking his lungs, cutting off his breath. He was drowning. Dying in filthy brown water that poisoned his insides.  

'You killed us.'

Sam learned not to scream when waking up from nightmares. 

It was too dangerous when traveling alone and too annoying when traveling with others. Instead, Sam curled towards himself, hands pressed against his mouth to hold back pained whimpers. 

This morning was no different. 

Sweat beaded across his forehead, and his body trembled with a hazy terror. Gripping his blanket, he pulled it up towards his face, stretching it across his mouth until he knew he wouldn't scream. 

The lights in the room slowly turned on, an artificial sunrise that Sam usually hated, but today he was grateful for. Forcing the lingering nightmare from his mind, he tried to focus on what was around him. 

His prison cell. Four plain white walls that stretched high above him, making him feel like he was residing at the bottom of a canyon. 

He wanted a drink. 

Or a shady pill offered by a grizzled man with haunted eyes. 

Whatever that could banish the echoing accusations in his mind. 

It had been a while since his last nightmare—before he met Cade and was tagged like an animal. 

Rolling onto his back, Sam rubbed at the skin under his eyes. He was fine. 

One of the walls hissed as it slid open, and heavy footsteps padded into the room. They were slower than usual, cautious almost as they approached. 

Sam dared to glance at his visitor and felt a brief flicker of relief at seeing Jazz. 

The bot's visor was dim, and his smile was not as big. However, his armor remained relaxed—non-threatening and not angry. A reassuring sign considering yesterday's events. 

Sam cringed, remembering the failed escape attempt. He'd learned valuable information, but still, he'd failed and potentially killed Prowl in the process. There would be a consequence. 

Jazz knelt by the berth so that he was at eye level with Sam. "Hey, there, sweet spark. How ya feeling?" 

Sam fiddled with one of the blankets tucked over him. His body ached with bruises, and several patches of skin were rubbed raw. His back twinged when he shifted. But, all things considered, he didn't hurt nearly as bad as he should. 

If Sam had been out on his own and suffered these minor injuries, he would have considered it a win. But Jazz was looking at him like he'd nearly died. It made Sam's heart clench. 

Maybe his punishment wouldn't be too bad. 

He shrugged, the motion pulling at the scrapes. "I'm fine," he said. 

Jazz's gaze softened, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and sincere. "Gave us quite a scare last cycle, you know? Thought my spark was gonna stop seeing you all sad 'n hurt." 

Sam didn't know what to say. Apologize to his kidnapper for scaring him? They scared him every day. "What a shame that'd be," he said quietly, then cringed. He was already going to be in trouble for escaping. Why make it worse by mouthing off. 

Jazz laughed. "There's the sassy spark I know."

He wasn't angry? 

Did that mean Sam wasn't going to be punished? 

"Okay then, we got places ta be. 'M gonna pick you up."

The warning was so unexpected that Sam didn't think to protest when Jazz's fingers curled around him and then plucked him off the bed. He cradled Sam next to his chest plates, the low rumble of his engine vibrating through him. 

"Okay, there?"

"Sure," Sam said, confused by the careful tone Jazz took. 

"Let me know if ya start feelin' overwhelmed," Jazz said. His thumb brushed over Sam's head in a comforting gesture, and then he started walking towards the door. 

"So you know, STEPS won't activate anymore if you get too close to the door," Jazz said. "Your stunt was very clever, little spark, but it won't be happenin' again, ya understand?"

Sam grimaced. He understood. He'd blown his best chance of escape, and now the bots would be on guard. Not that he had had much of a chance, he thought bitterly. Buried deep underground and unable to use the sole exiting elevator.  

"Where are we going?" Sam asked as the door slid open, and Jazz exited, toting Sam with him. 

Visions of potential punishments flashed through Sam's brain: torture in a creepy lab until his brain broke, a month of solitary confinement in a dank cell, snuggled and cuddled by bots until he passed out. 

Sam gritted his teeth. He could take it. Whatever the consequence was for his escape, he would face it like a man.

"We're goin' ta Ratch'."

Except that. 

Sam instantly began fighting Jazz's hold, arching his back and kicking out. 

"Easy there, wiggle bot. Wha's got you all squirmy?" asked Jazz. He paused to secure his grip on Sam.  

"Don't take me to Ratchet!" 

Jazz tilted his head, "Whatcha mean?"

Shame curdled in Sam's stomach, but he didn't care. He wasn't against begging. "Please, Jazz, please. Don't take me to Ratchet. I'll be good! I promise! I won't try to escape again. I'll let you hold me as much as you want."

Anything to stay out of the Med Bay. 

Jazz's smile faltered, his tone turning serious. "Sam, listen to me."

Sam flinched at the use of his name, and his thrashing stopped.

"There we go," Jazz said, stroking Sam's hair. "Seein' Ratch', it isn' a punishment. You got hurt."

"And you fixed me, right?! So everything is okay."

Jazz shook his head, dashing Sam's hope. "Still gotta let Ratch' look you over. He's been pestering me fer cycles now to bring you back for 'nother appointment, and I've been tellin' him no. I wanted ta give you some time to adjust, but I can't put it off any longer."

Jazz chuckled. "If we don' go, he'll hunt both our afts down and drag us to the Med Bay himself."

Sam failed to see the humor.

"Please," he begged again. He widened his eyes, trying for his best puppy dog look. They thought he was a sparkling. That meant they thought he was small and cute. People liked doing what small, cute things wanted, right? Right?! 

Jazz ex-vented, the warm air rushing over Sam. "We gotta' go."

Sam crumpled, and he pressed his eyes closed. 

He was not going to cry. 

He was not.  

"I'm sorry," Jazz murmured. The worst part is that he actually sounded upset. "I don' like seeing you this scared, baby bot. What can I do? How can I help make this less scary for ya?"

Sam's fingers curled into the gaps of Jazz's armor, clinging to it like it was the railing at the edge of the cliff. 

"The belt," he managed to say. "I don't want the belt."

"The restrainer Shockwave made?" 

"I don't want to wear it." 

He hated how it left him feeling trapped and helpless. If it was off, Sam at least had the illusion of safety and escape.

"Hmmm, I don't know if I can promise tha'...but I'll make sure it's only used if ya really need it. If you can sit still and be a good bot then it won' be a problem."

That was better than nothing: a tiny dab of aloe on an aching red sunburn. But the apocalypse had taught Sam to take what he could get. 

"Fine," he said, feeling the furthest from fine imaginable. 

The remaining walk to the Med Bay went too fast. Stupid Jazz, with his stupid height and stupidly large steps. If Sam had walked himself, he could have dragged it out to a slow, ambling walk that took at least an hour. It was just rude, Sam thought, that Jazz was so tall. He should file a complaint. 

Jazz paused outside the entrance to the Med Bay. 

"Ya ready?" Jazz asked, bouncing Sam lightly. 

"I'd rather snort pepper-flavored toothpaste than do this, but sure."

Jazz laughed. 

Sam swallowed thickly, "Will you stay?"

Surprise flitted across Jazz's face, and then his gaze softened. "Of course, baby boy."

The universe must occasionally smile upon Sam because when they entered the Med Bay, Ratchet was nowhere to be found. 

Instead, a bright red Autobot (the one Sam had seen with the sparkling Charlie) was there, buffing out a portion of his armor. 

"Hello, Jazz," he said, setting down the buffer. His blue optics locked onto Sam as he purred, "And a darling newspark. What's your designation, little one?"

"Sam." 

"Knockout," he said, giving a bow. 

He plucked a familiar hated belt off of a tray and fastened it around Sam's waist. Sam's breath caught at the familiar click. The belt adhered to his skin, creating a weight around his waist that made his stomach churn. His fingers twitched with the urge to tear it off.

"It's okay," Jazz murmured, giving a reassuring squeeze. "Won't use it if we don' have ta."

Then, to Knockout, he asked, "Where's Ratch'?" 

Knockout ex-vented dramatically and turned around to start grabbing tools. It was quite noisy, making it difficult to hear the next part. "Ironhide had an issue with newspark Wheel."

Wheel. That… was an unfortunate name. Seriously, how did they name these bots? Was there one called Tailpipe or Muffler? It felt like a human naming their new baby Toenail or worse… 

'Aww and this is little Stomach Ulcer. We named him after the one that killed his grandfather, a memorial to him.'

"Is the bitlet hurt?" Jazz asked, setting Sam on the table but not letting go.  

Knockout shrugged and placed a tray of tools beside the exam table. "From my understanding, it's been a continuous problem. Wheel has struggled more than the others to adapt to his new form. As such, Ratchet entrusted me to start the examination."

"Can you do it without using the restrainer?" Jazz asked. 

"If the little one can behave, I see no reason. Will you be a good baby spark for Doctor Knockout?"

Sam cringed at the pet name. "I'll be good."

"Excellent. Then lay down, and we can begin."

The examination mirrored Sam's previous one with Ratchet. Vitals checked and logged meticulously with extra attention paid to the injuries Sam sustained during his failed escape. Sam struggled not to flinch every time Knockout prodded him or attached a new instrument but mostly succeeded in his goal of staying still. It helped that Sam knew what to expect and that for each part, Knockout explained what he was doing.

"Someone told me you met my little Starlight during your escapade," Knockout said as he ran a clawed finger down Sam's arm, checking his escape injuries. 

The comment shocked Sam out of his anxious stupor. "Charlie?"

Knockout clicked, "Naughty thing. She should have told me there was a sparkling running around. I could have made sure you were brought back safely to your room." 

Sam was glad she hadn't. His escape would have been over before it had even started. He owed her. A horrifying thought occurred, "Don't hurt her," Sam said, prompting Knockout to pause. "It was my fault, not her."

"Hurt her?" repeated Knockout, sounding affronted. "I would never hurt my Starlight. She'll get a light talking to, but no more."

"We don't hurt sparklings," Jazz said, brushing a finger over Sam's hair. "You're little. The occasional naughtiness is expected. Though when a consequence is required, you would never be hurt."

Sam frowned. "I was hurt yesterday."

Jazz's visor flashed, and for a heartbeat, his smile seemed more like a bared snarl. "And the ones who hurt you have already been spoken to. It won't be allowed to happen again," he said, tone steely. 

A trickle of fear crept up Sam's spine. This was a side of Jazz he had never seen before—a protective violence vowed on Sam's behalf. The last to offer him such was his parents. 

"You promise?" 

Jazz made an 'X' motion over his chest plates, "Cross my spark."

That… was a relief. While Sam felt embarrassed that he had freaked out in the rec room, the thought of those bots once again hugging and squeezing him made Sam feel nauseous. 

"Speaking of injuries," said Knockout, "I need to examine the scratches on your back, so shirt off."

"Do I have to?"

"Since Primus did not see fit to bless me with a phasing ability, yes. Now, chop chop."

Grumbling, Sam took off his shirt. "Happy?"

However, Knockout didn't have the opportunity to respond since the universe saw fit to take away Sam's happiness in the form of a grumbly medic. 

Sam's breath caught in his throat as Ratchet strode into the Med Bay, placing a portable First Aid kit on an examination table. Irritation and exhaustion oozed off the medic. 

He spared Sam a quick glance before asking Knockout, "How is he?"

"He is fine," Sam snarked, annoyed by the slight. "Or were you talking to me?"

Ratchet slowly turned his head to fix Sam under his unnatural blue gaze. Sam fought not to fidget. Giant robot medics smelled fear or something like that. The stare-off dragged on until Ratchet scoffed. 

"Are all sparklings this sassy?" Ratchet grumbled. "I don't remember sparklings being this sassy."

"Sometimes, but this one is a step above the rest," smirked Knockout. 

"That's what we like about him," Jazz said, giving Sam an affectionate nudge. "Sweet but sassy."

Sam's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and Jazz clicked fondly. 

"Is there a reason he hasn't been restrained?" asked Ratchet. 

Sam's heart rate picked up, and the belt surrounding his waist seemed to press into him. Please, no restraints. He had been good. He had!

"Sam requested not to be and has been a well-behaved sparklet, so I saw no need," said Knockout. 

"Miracle of Primus," said Ratchet. He eyed Sam. "Will you continue to behave for me, or are you going to need help to stay still?" 

"I'll behave if you behave," Sam said, then immediately regretted it when Ratchet's optics narrowed. 

"Down on your stomach, then. I need to examine your back."

Turning around suddenly felt far more daunting. Sam's hands shook as he lowered himself onto his stomach, his bare skin pressing against the cold metal of the examination table. Unable to see Ratchet, his mind supplied the worst—pointed needles, sharp knives, laser scalpels. 

"Shhh, you're okay, sweet spark. Lil' bit longer is all."

Jazz's voice cut through the rising panic, and when Sam glanced over, he saw that the bot had lowered himself so that his arm rested against the table, hand propping up his head.

"There we go," he crooned when Sam made eye contact. "Cutest baby bot on base."

"Not a baby," Sam grumbled. 

He jolted when Ratchet's servos touched his back, nearly rolling over and scrambling away. 

"Course you are," countered Jazz. "You're a little sparkling, a baby bot. Although maybe not cute."

Sam felt mildly affronted. Not that he wanted a giant robot to call him cute, but if he wasn't, did that mean he was ugly? Cause rude. 

"Nah, not cute, 'cause yer adorable." 

Sam glared. "I know what you're doing."

"Mmmmm?"

"You're trying to distract me."

Jazz smiled cheekily. "Workin' ain't it." 

It was, actually. Jazz's smile was warm, and his voice steady, and he looked at Sam like he was something precious. Besides, Jazz's teasing commentary distracted Sam from the cold metal fingers prodding at his tender back and reapplying the seal to the scratches. He was so busy feeling annoyed with Jazz that he forgot to be scared. 

Ratchet finished treating Sam's back and then ordered Sam to sit up for more tests. Yet, all the while, Jazz chatted. 

"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time Bee and I got mistaken fer each other, and I got challenged to a race 'cause of it? Nearly got arrested by ol' Prowly…"

"And so I had ta pick three locks to get in, then creep over to the energon dispenser and sneak in the dye packet…"

"Almost broke my servo, but I couldn' give up; I had ta win the bet. 'Raj woulda been insufferable, so there I was, suspended in the air…"

The stories blurred together. Names, places, dates. Tales of mischief and adventure with narrow escapes. Jazz's lilting voice, weaved together the rhythmic narrative that towed Sam in. He felt hypnotized under Jazz's spell, but one he willingly accepted. Sam could ignore what Ratchet was doing to him and focus on the smooth cadence of Jazz's voice as he told story after story. 

It made the appointment almost pleasant. 

A mechanical whine caught Sam's attention. A glowing blue laser hung above him, the same laser Ratchet had tried to dissect him with during his first appointment. 

"Woah, woah, woah!" Sam yelled, interrupting Jazz's story. He scooted backward on his butt, feet scrambling. 

"Uhp, uhp, we're not doing this again."

The magnetic restrainer buzzed and then slammed against the table, dragging Sam along with it. 

"Get it off of me! You promised!" Sam cried, clawing wildly at the belt. "You promised you wouldn't use it."

A large metal hand settled over Sam, lightly pressing him down. 

Sam screamed, striking out at it. "I swear if you do not get this off of me this instant, I'm going to lose my mind. Get it off!"

"Sam!"

His name. 

It cut through his terror for an instant. 

"Sam, bitty bot, I need ya to breathe. Deep breath, righ' now. Ya hear. Needja to do it."

Sam sucked in a deep breath, and then another, and another. The oddly warm hand resting on him rubbed a soothing circle over his chest. His skin prickled at the contact, but Sam started breathing in time with the circles. Each revolution another breath. 

"There we are," Jazz crooned. His face was only a couple feet away from Sam. Hot air from his vent rushed over Sam, ruffling his hair. "Lil' calmer now?" 

Sam looked wildly between Jazz, Knockout, Ratchet, and the glowing laser of doom. 

"Did the spark scan scare ya?"

"Spark scan?" Sam asked weakly. 

Jazz nodded towards the giant laser looming above. "Tha's a spark scan, sweet spark."

Knockout tapped a claw against the metal laser, making a musical ting. "It's a medical instrument designed to check your spark's health and ensure there aren't any problems. Non-invasive and not harmful." 

"Ain't gonna hurt you. Won't even feel a thing."

"Which is why this panicking is unnecessary," grumbled Ratchet. "Really, acting like we're going to offline you. The spark scan is simply to ensure your health, especially after you got into things you weren't supposed to yesterday."

Ratchet looked meaningfully at his desk. The very one Sam had climbed and knocked things off of. It was the first time he'd referenced the chaos Sam had caused, and his stomach swooped anxiously. 

"The scan will be over like this," Knockout said, snapping his digits together. "And then your appointment will be over. You'll be free to go."

"For now," added Ratchet ominously. 

Jazz tapped Sam's chest, right over his heart. "You're such a brave bitlet. C'n you be brave for me a lil' bit longer?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want the spark scan, but Ratchet had drugged him before when Sam wouldn't stop fighting it. Ultimately, Sam would rather be awake than not. "Fine," he whispered. 

"That's ma good boy," crooned Jazz. He lifted his hand off Sam but then used a digit to gently tilt Sam's head towards him. "Now, I've got a very important question for you."

Sam could hear the laser whining as it powered up, blue filling Sam's peripheral vision. However, Jazz didn't let up on keeping Sam's head directed towards him. 

"I've been meanin' ta ask you for a while. Been curious."

"About what?" Sam asked. He knew what was going on. Jazz was trying to distract him again, but since he thought he might scream if he looked at the laser, he allowed it. 

"Serious stuff," Jazz said, nodding his head. "I need ta know what your favorite animal is."

Sam blinked. "Animal?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's a dog."

The whining machine crescendoed, and a strange buzzing filled Sam's chest. He gasped, trying to turn his head and see, but Jazz's digit didn't let up. 

"Sammy," Jazz called, forcing Sam's attention back to him. "You said you like dogs, but any specific kind?" 

"Not really," admitted Sam. "I like them all."

"Any type of dog," Jazz repeated as if trying to commit important information to memory. 

In a fleeting flicker of boldness, Sam asked, "What about you?"

Jazz grinned. "Naughty lil' turbo foxes."

The whining ended with a crackle of static, and the buzzing in Sam's chest vanished. 

"Annnnd, that's it," said Knockout. 

Jazz lifted his digit off Sam's head, and in the next second, the metal belt released its magnetic hold. Sam instantly scrambled to his feet. He snatched his shirt off the table, throwing it on while watching Ratchet. 

"We'll look over the readings and contact you," Ratchet told Jazz. "Although he'll most definitely need another appointment in a cycle or two."

"Does that mean we're done?" Sam asked. 

Ratchet rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you're done."

The relieved smile that spread across Sam's face made Jazz laugh and Ratchet scoff. 

While walking back (well, carried back in Sam's case), Sam's stomach released the noisiest, grumbly sound possible. 

It echoed in through the massive, white hallways like a discontent animal snarling its displeasure. Sam frowned. He was getting spoiled with frequent meals. Not too long ago, Sam would have been content with foraged dandelions and whatever meal he could get from the refugee camps. He'd gotten soft. 

"Hungry, bitty bot?" Jazz asked, ignorant of Sam's internal condemnation. "No wonder, nothin' to refuel with last night, and Ratch' wanted ta see you firs' thing. Don't worry, we'll get something in your tanks."

As if responding to the promise, Sam's stomach released another gurgling growl, prompting Sam to blush.

Upon their return, Jazz gently set Sam back on the berth, but not before stroking Sam's hair one final time. 

"Well, ready ta refuel?"

Sam expected Jazz to leave and get food. He hadn't expected the wall to slide open, revealing a ghost. 

Sam's mouth dropped open as what had to be the ghost of Prowl paced into the room, the wall closing behind him. Black and white paint gleamed in the room's light. Feet stomped on the ground, not floating mid-air. Air hissed ominously from ghost Prowl's vents. 

Sam wondered if this was what Scrooge felt when visited by the condemned Marley. A specter raised from the dead, spelling doom to the listener. 

And then Jazz clapped the ghost on the shoulder with a loud clang. 

"Heya, Prowler. Nice o' you to swing by."

"You're alive?" Sam asked, his voice strangled. 

Prowl raised what passed as an eyebrow. "Clearly."

"Oh."

Apparently, Sam wasn't guilty of involuntary manslaughter (botslaughter?). That was good… right? He didn't think they'd throw him in prison since he already was in one, but Sam hadn't been eager to see the consequences of killing a bot. Nor had he enjoyed the blooming guilt in his chest. 

Prowl's door wings twitched. "I experienced a crash. It had been nearly a vorn since the last one." 

Prowl certainly had crashed to the floor. 

"However, I was examined by Ratchet and deemed fit for light duty," explained Prowl. 

Sam was conflicted with a confusing jumble of emotions over Prowl's reappearance. 

Frustration at the bot who was complicit in keeping Sam trapped. Relief that he wasn't responsible for another person's death. Pity that another soul had been subjected to Ratchet. And lastly, hunger because his needy stomach kept reminding him that he had eaten. 

Hunger won out when Prowl pulled a tray of steaming pancakes and bacon from his subspace. Everything else could wait, Sam thought as he shoveled half a pancake into his mouth. 

At least until he'd finished his pancake. 

Chapter Text

Despite the insanity of Sam's first day following his new schedule, he slowly started to settle in. Admittedly, it helped that he mostly went along with the Autobots' wishes. He ate when they brought him meals and completed his data pad lessons. He even laid down for a stupid nap, but not without threatening vengeance if they swaddled him. 

Jazz chuckled and agreed, but when Sam was distracted, he gently tucked the blanket around him. 

Sam had dreaded when playtime rolled around, but even that had been tolerable. One day, Jazz brought in a giant shimmery bass-like instrument and proceeded to blow Sam's mind with the best concert he'd ever experienced. 

Wide-eyed, he's watched the bot's fingers dance across the strings, coaxing upbeat rhythms one second, then slow, sultry waltzes the next. Watching him play, blue visor alight with joy, the name Jazz suddenly made much more sense. 

The next playtime, Jazz and Prowl just talked to him, letting Sam ask questions in exchange for answering theirs. He'd been hesitant, but most of their questions were basic and boring, like:

"What's your favorite color?"

"Green." 

"What's your favorite type of food?"

"Cheeseburger with string fries."

"Do you have any family?"

"...not anymore."

They never pried too much, content with the simple answers Sam gave. As for him, he used it as an opportunity to gather information about where they were holding him. 

For starters, he was, unfortunately, correct in assuming he was underground. But it wasn't a base he was on. Oh no, they had buried a massive spaceship known as the Ark. The same spaceship that they flew to Earth in. 

When he asked how many Autobots were on the Ark, he got the terrifying response of, "It depends. No less than 25, but usually no more than 200. All 'bout who's off on a mission or not."

Sam had even figured out who Teletraan was that they were constantly mentioning. 

Upon asking, Prowl explained, "Its full designation is Teletraan I, and to explain concisely, it is a semi-sentient computer in charge of running most operations aboard the Ark." 

An unknown horror rose from the depths of Sam's imagination. "It's an AI system with one of its purposes being to watch me."

"Yes," said Prowl, somehow completely okay with this. 

Sam laughed hysterically. "And that doesn't strike you as a little creepy? At all?"

Judging from Prowl's blank stare, the answer was no, not at all. 

After that, Sam made sure to thank Teletraan every time the computer system activated STEPS or opened the bathroom door for him. The Autobots might not be worried about a new HAL 9000, but Sam would be polite if it convinced the eventual AI overlord to not slaughter him. 

Outside of the schedule, things with the bots had been okay. 

Yes, he had freaked out a little seeing Prowl resurrected from the dead, but the bot didn't appear to harbor any anger towards Sam. If anything, he was more careful in his interactions with Sam, always maintaining a healthy distance. Sam would assume the bot was scared of him (and wasn't that a funny thought) except for how his blue eyes were constantly tracking Sam and filled with intense concern. It was a little unsettling, but he didn't try to pick Sam up or treat him too much like an infant, so Sam tolerated it.  

However, Jazz had changed the most. 

For starters, he actually used Sam's name. 

It hadn't escaped Sam's notice that most of the Autobots didn't use his name. Instead, he was referred to as "sparkling," "sweet spark," "bitty bot," or another embarrassing nickname. Like that was all they saw him as. 

Jazz was the worst about nicknames, although, in fairness, he seemed incapable of using anyone's actual name. Despite Prowl's annoyed looks, he still called Prowl by the nickname Prowler or Prowly. 

And yet, Jazz had started using Sam's actual name. Only occasionally, but every time, Sam jolted a little. Most of the time, it was "baby boy" or "sweet spark," but whenever Sam got a little freaked out, Jazz softly called him "Sam," snapping him out of his spiraling terror. 

When Sam asked why, Jazz responded, "You asked me to. Dontcha remember?"

Sam vaguely remembered mumbling about not being sparkling but not asking to be called by his name. He wasn't sure whether he felt annoyed by it or strangely grateful. So he said nothing instead. 

Another odd but pleasant change was that Jazz always asked or warned before picking Sam up. Being carried around like a baby doll was unpleasant, but Sam appreciated having a second to mentally prepare himself. 

His captivity had been almost tolerable…which meant he knew something bad had to happen. 

"Gonna have someone join us for playtime, sweet spark."

Sam's finger hovered over the datapad, paused in the process of typing in an answer to the algebra equation. 

"It's not Ratchet, is it?" 

Anxious dread curdled in his stomach. It had been three days since his appointment with Ratchet, and the doctor had threatened a follow-up. So far, Sam had remained blissfully Ratchet free. 

Jazz snorted. "No, Ratchet won't be joinin' us. I see 'im enough in the Med Bay."

"Or Barricade?" Sam whispered, struggling to speak the name. 

Jazz shook his head. "Nah, not 'im. You haven't met this bot before, but he's real nice. Very excited ta meet you."

Sam's fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm, forming dark indents. It would be okay. Sure, the last time he'd met new Autobots, he had been passed around like a new toy and had a panic attack, but that meant more room for improvement. The false optimism rang painfully hollow. 

"Joy," monotoned Sam. "I can hardly wait." 

Jazz ruffled Sam's hair fondly in response. 

The new bot was small. 

Not Charlie small, but certainly one of the smallest bots Sam had seen. 

His engine buzzed excitedly as he came in, "Thank you, Jazz! I'm not late, am I?" 

Jazz clapped a hand against the bot with a clang. "Ya'll good. Bitty bot finished his recharge and lessons not too long ago." 

At that, they both turned towards Sam. Bending his knees slightly, Sam braced his feet, ready to bolt if the bot tried to pick him up. 

However, the bot kept his hands clasped behind his back and approached Sam slowly, like he was a spooked animal. Stopping outside of reaching distance, his joints hissed as he crouched to Sam's level, careful not to startle him.

Unnatural blue optics shone brightly as the bot said, "Hello. I'm Bumblebee."

Sam's gaze traveled over the bot, taking in the bright yellow paint, black stripes, antennae-like horns, and door wings sticking off his back. "Woooow," he drawled sarcastically, "wonder how you got that name."

Bumblebee's armor shifted, flaring outward to better catch the light- preening at Sam's comment. Unbothered or unaware of Sam's tone. "Thank you! I thought it was the best Earth translation for my designation." He blinked curiously at Sam. "What's your designation?"

"Sam." 

Bumblebee's wings fluttered. "It's so nice to meet you, Sam!" 

"Wish I could say the same," Sam mumbled. 

Bumblebee's horns fell, and his armor sagged. "Do you want me to go? Jazz said he thought you might be ready to meet some new bots, but I can leave."

Drooped in on himself, voice disappointed; he resembled less a bumblebee and instead, a sad, kicked puppy. Sam could hear his mother's voice chastizing him for being mean to the sweet robot.

"No," said Sam, his face twisted as if sucking a lemon, "it's fine."

Bumblebee's bright eyes widened, "Are you sure? I can leave if you want me to?"

"I didn't have a great experience the last time I met bots, but you seem nice," Sam said lamely. "You can stay. It's fine."

Jazz's nod of approval made Sam's chest tighten with warmth. 

Bumblebee chirped happily and smiled like Sam had offered him a million dollars. "Thank you!" 

He shifted, bringing attention to how he held his arms behind his back. "I have something for you," he said shyly. "I'm making them for all the sparklings."

Cupping his hands together, he presented what rested inside to Sam. 

"It's a stuffed animal to cuddle with. Jazz said you liked dogs, so that's what I made."

Like a morbidly curious teenager preparing to poke a splayed-out skunk to see if it was actually dead or merely sleeping, Sam leaned in closer to the stuffed animal.  

It had a muzzle, ears, and a tail, so technically, if a half-blind Sam was held at gunpoint, he could call the stuffed animal a dog. 

It looked like an insane diety had taken all the breeds of dogs in the world, tossed them into a blender along with a crocodile and giraffe, and then baked the resulting slush into a vaguely animal-like shape.

Or if someone who had never seen a dog before tried to describe a dog to a glitching AI machine that forgot halfway through what it was making. 

Sam's mouth instinctively dropped in horrified fascination, a strangled noise dying in his throat. 

Big bulging eyes and a muzzle that looked smashed in with a rusty hammer, then stretched out like old chewing gum. Mishappen ears sprouted from its head: one long, dangling ear and another short one. Its tail stretched long with odd, jagged edges. 

It was, without a doubt, the ugliest thing Sam had ever seen. 

It was also, impossibly, kinda cute. 

Like in the way, possums with their creepy beady eyes, bald tails, and angular snouts could be called cute. It didn't work, but it did. 

Bumblebee pressed his hands a little closer, an indication for Sam to take the gift. Biting his lip (whether to hold back laughs or screams, Sam didn't know), Sam plucked the stuffed animal "dog" from Bumblebee's hands. 

Oh. 

Sam's fingers brushed across the plush, velvety fur. 

Oh… that was unfairly soft. 

Sam gave it a testing squeeze. 

And unfairly squishy. 

Pressed against his midsection, the stuffed animal remained firm while melting against him in all the right sections, like spooning a cloud. 

"I gave him a green collar cause Jazz said your favorite color was green."

Sure enough, encircling the dog creature's throat was a silky fabric collar. Sam rubbed his thumb against it. Then, he gave the stuffed animal another squeeze. 

"Do you like it?" Bumblebee asked, making a questioning beep.

Sam wanted to refuse. He should refuse. He wasn't a small child, and he didn't need their bribing gifts. 

Bumblebee fiddled, radiating anxious hope. 

"It's…really nice," he admitted, unable to stop hugging it. 

Bumblebee whirred in delight, and Jazz chuckled, "Think ya jus' made his cycle. He's been real worried you wouldn' like it."

Sam's cheeks burned. "No, it's a nice gift. Thank you."

"You're welcome! Yours was the first I've made. Ratchet had to help a little bit with the stitching; it was harder than I thought it would be!"  

The stuffed animal was a decent size for a human but was laughably tiny for an Autobot. How had he even made it? Did he have to use his holoform? 

"I brought something else," Bumblebee said. His hand did the odd subspace thing. One instant, it was empty; the next, he held four small remote-controlled cars and set them on the berth next to Sam. "I thought we could race. I'm still working on the controls. It's a lot harder than actually racing, but it's pretty fun." 

Again, Sam wanted to refuse. The "no" was on his lips, but then Jazz said, "Tha' green car looks fast. Why don' you give it a try? Ya don' have to keep playin' if you don't like it."

Sam raised a brow. 

Jazz leaned back against the wall. "Betcha can't beat Bee in a race."

Narrowing his eyes, Sam said. "I know what you're doing. And it's not going to work."

Jazz smiled angelically. "Doing what, bitty bot?" 

"You know what!"

He shrugged languidly, "S'bummer, I had gotten a prize for the winner, but I guess I'll have to keep it." 

"I don't need a prize."

Jazz nodded, "Which is why it's probably best tha' I'm gonna keep it. Suppose I could give it ta Prowler, not sure he'd like it."

Sam ground his teeth, but Jazz wasn't done.

"Sides, it's unfair o' me ta pit you against Bee. He's a good racer. Not sure you'd even be able to beat him."

"You're a pain, you know that?" Sam growled as he snatched up the green car. 

"I know. It's one of my bettah qualities."

Bumblebee waved his hands. "If you don't want to play, we can do something else-"

"Do you have a remote?" Sam interrupted. 

Bumblebee handed Sam a remote control. While Sam started fiddling with the controls, STEPS rose from the ground to create a seat for Bumblebee next to the berth that allowed him to stay eye-level with Sam. 

"This joystick is for turning, and this one is for acceleration," Bumblebee said, pointing at sections of the remote control. 

"And the back bumpers?"

"The right one is a brake, and the left one is a turbo boost. Only lasts a click or two, but it's awesome." 

"Fancier than I ever played with," Sam said, starting to fiddle with the controls. The green car zoomed around the room and would have crashed into Jazz's foot had the bot not leaped nimbly away. 

"Yup!" said Bumblebee proudly. He picked up his remote and began fiddling with the controls, performing tight spins that swirled into controlled donuts. "Raf helped design them. His car is orange and yellow. We wanted to

make the turbo boost even stronger, but Ratchet vetoed."

"Of course, Ratchet did," Sam said. He tried to replicate Bumblebee's tight turns but slammed into the wall instead. With a grimace, he backed the car and then tried again. 

Bumblebee tilted his remote (which, although it had been sized up, still looked laughably small) and demonstrated the motion slowly so that Sam could follow. 

"Who's this Raf?" Sam asked, once again trying the tight turn. 

He didn't think he'd met a bot with that name, but since there were sometimes over 100 bots on the base, who knew. 

"Raf is one o' the other sparklings on th' base. Real small, but an impressive processor. He's a clever lil' thing. Even if he c'n be a bit forgetful. And he's got the shiniest yellow and orange paint coat."

"You'll have to meet him," said Bumblebee. "He's so nice. I get to bot-sit him sometimes, and it's always really fun."

Bot-sit. Was that what this was?

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, but he pushed the thought from his mind, refocusing on copying Bumblebee's moves and experimenting with his own. The cars responded to the lightest touch of the remote and could switch directions with startling ease. 

However, the turbo boost was the best part. A single tap launched the car with explosive force. Sam let out a gleeful whoop as the turbo boost rocketed his vehicle forward. 

Before long, Sam's driving matched Bumblebee's as they raced around the room. 

"Well, well, well. Migh' prove me wrong after all, bitty bot. But let's see how ya do with an actual track." 

The ground shuddered as STEPS began to lift up, creating winding, narrow paths, arching bridges, tall ramps, curving tunnels, and even a loop-de-loop. 

Sam's mouth dropped open. "It can do that?"

"Yup!" Jazz said, popping the 'p' and looking far too proud of himself. 

"Ready?" Bumblebee asked.

"Ready to beat you."

Bumblebee ex-vented dramatically but followed it up with a grin. "Let's see it."

The two drove their remote control cars to the starting place. 

"Annnnnnnnnd, here we have it. The race of the century. The reignin' champ, the yellow hornet 'imself, Bumblebee. And the challenger, the mean, green, racing machine, sparkling Sam!"

Jazz revved his engine loudly. "Racers, start your engines."

On cue, the lights in the room began to flash. 

Red. 

Sam tightened his grip on the remote.

Yellow. 

His thumbs slid into position. 

Green.

"GOOOOOOOOOO!" yelled Jazz.

Sam slammed his fingers onto the turbo boost, launching his car past Bumblebee with blistering speed. 

"Statin' off with a quick turbo! But what's this? Bee isn't one to be left behind! Quickly following suit and is on Sam's aft." 

Sam leaned forward, eyes narrowed, attention intent as he maneuvered the course. He'd always been a quick learner, and controlling the car was all about reflexes and spatial awareness. 

He was going to win if simply to shut Jazz up, but he didn't expect the rising thrill. His heart pumped as he steered the car through the course, trading first place back and forth with Bumblebee. All the while, Jazz continued his constant commentary like he was the announcer at an actual race. 

"Ohhh, look at the skill on that turn. Nearly clipped the edge bu' kept on goin'."

"Here comes the loop-de-loop, mechs! Can they make it? Can theyyy? And they made it!" 

"JUMP THAT RAMP! Watch 'em fly!"

Sam couldn't help but cheer as his car soared across the gap, catching air before landing solidly, tires spinning for contact and tearing forwards. Besides him, Bumblebee likewise made a celebratory beep. His car quickly returned to Sam's side, matching his turn for turn. 

Sam bit his tongue when he nearly spun out coming off the loop-de-loop but managed to wrestle back control. 

"Second lap down! Onta the third 'n final! Both racers are drivin' strong, but who will win?!"

Bumblebee revved his engine in a challenge. "Don't think that you're gonna beat me!"

"Yeah, well, watch this!" 

Sam slammed the turbo boost button, knocking Bumblebee's car out of the way. 

"Wha's this? Sam pulls inta the lead, but Bumblebee is close behind. Can he pull it off?"

"Come on! Come ON!" Sam yelled as his car neared the finish line. 

Bumblebee pressed his turbo boost, but it was too late; Sam tore across the finish line with Bumblebee following seconds after. 

"YESS!" Sam cheered, throwing his arms in the air. 

"I don't believe it, mechs; the mean green machine has gone n' done. He's won!"

Bumblebee collapsed dramatically on the floor, emitting a despairing whine. "So close!"

Jazz's hands wrapped around Sam, lifting him off the berth. "You did it, bitty bot!" 

Laughing, he tossed Sam into the air before catching him. "Such a good racer!" He nuzzled Sam's head. "Gonna be the fastest spark yet." 

But then he paused, face contorting in embarrassment, "Ah, sorry." With extra care, he placed Sam back on the berth. "Forgotcha don' like ta be picked up like that."

"It's okay," Sam said, still caught up in the rush of winning. "I know you didn't mean anything by it."

Jazz's smile softened. "Thanks, lil' spark." He ruffled Sam's hair. "But I'll not ta make it a habit." 

"That was awesome!" Bumblebee cheered. 

Sam placed his hands on his hips. "So, you mentioned a prize." 

Jazz scratched at his head. "A prize? When did I say somethin' like tha'?"

Sam must have made an outraged expression because Jazz burst into laughter. "Fair 'nough. I am a bot of my word," one of his blue eyes flashed on and off in a wink, "Mos' o' the time." 

He reached into subspace but closed his hands into fists before Sam could see what.  

"Got two prizes for ya. First is this," Jazz said, opening his right hand. 

Cupped in his palm was a datapad but with a video game controller attached. 

"'S got a game on it, Jackie and Prowl designed. It'll only turn on once ya've finished your lessons, but thought it migh' be fun. Fight enemies, race, and stuff like that. Design a lil' bot avatar and give it stats. Figured you could play durin' your free time."

Sam took the data pad and controller, fiddling with the buttons. He would have preferred a game he recognized, but his four days of mind-numbing boredom when he first arrived had proven the usefulness of having something, anything to do. 

"Then this," said Jazz, opening his left hand. 

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Is that chocolate?"

Jazz raised his brow, smirking. "Only one way ta find out." 

Reverently, Sam took the chocolate bar. With trembling fingers, he peeled open the shiny wrapper. The rich, sweet smell was unmistakable. Sam took a small bite. Chocolate melted on his tongue, buzzing sweetness across his tastebuds. 

"How?" he gasped. 

It had been years since he'd enjoyed a candy bar, and if he had found one scavenging, it would have been too valuable to eat. People would trade a lot for genuine chocolate. 

Jazz and Bumblebee both laughed. He took another bite, cramming the chocolate into his mouth and fighting back a pleased moan. 

"We've been helping out with humanitarian aid for a while. Chocolate doesn't do anything for us, but enough humans requested it that we tried to include it in aid packages," explained Bumblebee. 

"Then, you don't have chocolate?" 

"Nah, don' do nothin' for us, but we've got our own kinda treats."

Sam took another bite. "You were never going to give this to Prowl."

"I said I didn' think he'd like it."

Sam tried to scowl, but his mouth wouldn't make the motion, too excited about the rare treat. He wanted to pace himself, but the chocolate disappeared too quickly. 

Jazz grinned, "Ya go' something over there," he said, pointing at the side of his mouth. 

Sam scrubbed at his face before Jazz could do something annoying like try to wipe it away himself. 

"So, did you have fun?" asked Bumblebee

Sam wrestled for an answer, and honesty won. "I did."

Bumblebee pumped the air, and his speaker blared a victory noise. 

Rolling his eyes, Sam grabbed the toy car to hand it back.

Bumblebee shook his head. "No, the car is for you. Thought you might get bored here in the room, so that way you can play with it when you want. Maybe even practice for a rematch."

"I'll still win," said Sam, earning a sassy chirp from Bumblebee. 

The bright yellow bot waved goodbye and exited the room, leaving Sam and Jazz alone again. 

A happy buzz filled Sam for the rest of the day. He ate his dinner. Got ready for bed. Joked with Jazz a little. 

However, once he climbed into bed with the covers tucked around him and the lights dimmed, the happiness began to fade. 

What had he done? 

He'd acted like a child. Like a sparkling. 

Even worse, he had fun. 

He'd gone along with their game and accepted his 'prize' like it hadn't been manipulated from the start. 

Was he that weak? So easily persuaded by toys and chocolate? 

Sam buried his face in his pillow. 

He couldn't escape using STEPS anymore, and what he'd learned about the Ark made escape even less likely. His one hope was to gain their trust and manipulate them into letting him out. The Autobots needed to believe that he liked them and would do what they said. Today, then, was a significant step forward. A victory for Sam! 

So why didn't it feel that way? 

The truth was as evident as the stuffed animal held tight against him. Because, for once, he hadn't worried about survival and goofed off like he used to with Miles. 

He'd been happy with the Autobots. 

Under such troubled thoughts, Sam drifted into an uneasy, nightmare-filled sleep. 

Chapter Text

"The sparkling needs to be converted," said Megatron, Lord High Protector, confidant to Optimus Prime, and currently, the biggest pain in Ratchet's aft. 

Megatron knew better than to bother Ratchet in his Med Bay without a good reason, and yet there he was, standing around, scowling ominously with his arms crossed. 

"The sparkling managed to escape the containment room. He got to the elevators."

And trashed the Med Bay in the process, thought Ratchet. His poor quantum cyro inducer had been wrecked and sent to Wheeljack for repairs, although he worried it would return more damaged than it had been. 

"Waiting for him to adjust isn't working. He needs to be converted." 

"Yes, yes," said Ratchet, sorting through his syringes to find the ones with the tiniest needles. "He will be eventually." 

"Not eventually. Immediately," growled Megatron. 

"And how do you propose that?" snapped Ratchet. "Have you, by chance, finished creating the protoform? Or processing the memory chip? Or preparing the Photonic crystal? 

"Shockwave converted a sparkling quickly." 

"Shockwave got lucky! The sparkling was dying, and he started experimenting to find a way of saving him," Ratchet scoffed. "It was a miracle from Primus that the sparkling survived the process. As it is, his memory chip struggles with the occasional glitch." 

"The other sparklings—"

"Were also dying! We were fortunate to scrounge together what we needed in time. For once, we have a sparkling not at-risk of offlining. I will not rush a sensitive medical procedure when it does not have to be."

Megatron glared, his field radiating disapproval and annoyance. As Lord High Protector, his coding inclined him towards protecting those he was responsible for and the vulnerable. Outside of securing Optimus Prime's safety, sparklings triggered his instincts the most. Learning that the sparkling had escaped the containment room had only made it worse. 

Ratchet rubbed at his optics. Patience. He could be patient. 

And then Megatron made the mistake of opening his intake. "Jazz's glitched scheme of coaxing the sparkling into accepting his new role isn't working. However, once he's in his proper frame, he will no longer be able to deny it. It needs to happen now."

Ratchet's armor snapped against his protoform, and his voice dropped into the tone he used when explaining to the twins that launching themselves off a cliff to tackle seekers as a joke was a fragging, stupid idea. 

"The sparkling has been on the Ark for a little more than one Earthen week. Adjusting to a new home and expectations takes time. From my observation, Jazz has been making progress with the sparkling. However, if we rush his conversion, you won't be the one dealing with the constant tantrums and medical problems. I will."

Ratchet picked up his favorite wrench and began tapping it against his servo. "I'll also be the one who will break into your room and shove your fat helm up your tailpipe. So, if you want to keep your helm where you like it, stop yapping about things you don't understand—and Get. Out.

Ratchet pointed at the Med Bay exit, flaring his field with frustration and determination so that Megatron understood how fragged he'd be if he ignored the CMO. 

"Fine," Megatron growled. "But this conversation isn't over."

"For now, it is. So get." 

Ratchet kept his wrench in servo until Megatron stomped out. Then released a long ex-vent. 

He needed a cube of high grade. Or two. 

"Is he gone?" called First Aid from the backroom. 

"Finally," grumbled Ratchet, picking up a data pad from his desk. 

First Aid crept out, "Thank Primus, I thought he'd never leave."

Grunting in agreement, Ratchet turned on the data pad, the screen immediately flashing onto the correct page. Unsurprising, considering how often he checked it. His digit trailed over the screen, reviewing the current stats. 

Heart rate: 85 bmp. 

Blood oxygen level: 97%. 

Cortisol levels were still higher than he liked: 25 mcg/dL.

Otherwise, all within an acceptable range. Blood sugar levels also indicated that the sparkling had refueled not too long ago. Ratchet had made it clear to Jazz that he wanted the sparkling's meal settled before his appointment. Purged organic fluids were highly unpleasant to clean up. 

"Did you finish preparing the vaccines?" Ratchet asked, reviewing the exam checklist.  

"Yes," called First Aid. "Like you requested: Meningococcal, Tdap booster, and Influenza." 

"Good. We'll start with those three this appointment, then give his frame several cycles to adjust before administering the others." 

Safely protected within the Ark, the sparkling shouldn't contract such diseases, but Ratchet preferred to prevent it when possible. He already had one sparkling almost offline due to a human affliction. Watching the sparkling spasm on the berth, her jaw locked tight, airways constricted, unable to speak—it had been spark-crushing. Knockout had been beside himself, although thankfully capable of setting aside his personal feelings until the sparkling was safely converted. 

Came Jazz's comm flashed across Ratchet's HUD. ::Heya Doc. We're 'bout to roll on out to you.:: 

::Everything is prepared and ready.::

Jazz sent confirmation before adding, ::He ain't the happiest 'bout the checkup, but said he'd behave. So maybe hold off on usin’ the restrainer, if ya can?::

Ratchet didn't bother to reply. He didn't enjoy restraining sparklings, but his function was to ensure their safety, even if they were scared or threw a tantrum in the process. It was one of the key reasons he had disabled his guardian protocols. Ratchet couldn't do his job with them urging him to pick up and soothe the crying sparkling when what he really needed to do was finish the exam. 

He personally doubted Jazz's naughty newspark could behave himself, but he'd do as asked and avoid activating the restrainer until necessary. 

"They're on their way, " he told First Aid. His apprentice's field lit up with delight. 

Unfortunately, like Jazz had warned, the sparkling didn't feel the same. 

When Jazz entered, sparkling held carefully against his chest plates, the sparkling glared as if the Med Bay were the Pit and Ratchet were the unholy spawn of Unicron. If the sparkling had been bigger or older, his expression would have been more alarming. Instead, the sulky, pouty face made the sparkling look even younger. 

Ratchet snorted hot air through his vents. Dramatic little thing. 

"Hello, sparkling Sam, " First Aid said as he clipped the magnetic restrainer around the sparkling's midsection. "How are you feeling?"

"Better if I weren't here."

"C'mon bitlet, it'll be good, " Jazz soothed, one of his digits stroking the newspark's helm. "We just ' care 'bout keepin' you healthy. Yer in excellent servos wit ' First Aid and Ratchet . "

"I'm perfectly healthy without them, " the sparkling argued back but didn't fight when Jazz set him on the exam table. 

Ratchet commed First Aid. ::As discussed, take his readings and compare them to the monitor. We need to ensure that the data is correct.::

"Okay! We're going to get started with your exam, little one, " said First Aid in his brightest voice.

First Aid was more than capable of administering the baseline tests, thus enabling Ratchet to triple-check the vial he had prepared with Wheeljack's assistance. 

Ratchet tilted the glass bottle back and forth, watching the pale blue liquid slosh. 

The last spark scan had confirmed Ratchet's suspicion. The sparkling's spark was slightly stronger with the energy beginning to coalesce. Nothing had happened to trigger that–save the sparkling accidentally splashing himself with energon. 

Usually, an organic coming in contact with energon was cause for great alarm. But human sparklings were strangely resistant to the substance. When Ironhide's sparkling had gotten doused with Energon (and accidentally swallowed some), the entire base (Ratchet included) had panicked. 

Yet after thoroughly cleaning the little one off, there was no sign of burns, rashes, or other harm. The sparkling was a little groggy and cuddlier towards Ironhide for a short time, but after, he was more energetic and showed stronger spark health.

Ratchet had intended to test the phenomenon further but was unable to after the sparkling nearly offlined, and they had to rush the conversion. 

However, sparkling Sam offered the opportunity to test it again. 

::All readings are matching with what the monitor shows.::

::Good. Prepare the vaccines then.::

Ratchet switched comms to Jazz, ::We have three shots to give to the sparkling. Would you prefer to not tell him beforehand? We can hold him down and swiftly administer them.::

Jazz didn't look up, his attention fixed on the sparkling. ::No. He'll panic more in the long run, and it'll be harder to get 'im to come back. I wanna try to get his willingness' fore resortin' to restraints.::

::Very well.:: replied Ratchet, resigning himself to the inevitable tantrum. 

The sparkling did not disappoint. 

"NO! " came the shrill cry. 

It was loud enough that Ratchet considered turning down the volume for his audials. 

"Little one, it's okay, " First Aid soothed. 

The sparkling's face flushed red, and his optics bulged with panic. He tried to mask it, though, by scowling and gesturing violently. "You want to stab me! With needles! With who knows what in it!"

"We've explained what each vaccination is, " said First Aid with a level of patience Ratchet didn't have. "They are all vaccinations you should have received already and will not harm you other than creating some slight soreness."

"I don't care! I don't want them, and you can't give them to me!"

Ratchet scoffed, and the sparkling glowered at him. 

Really, he was trying so hard to be threatening with that angry look and tight posture, but instead, he resembled a feisty turbo-fox pup. 

"Don't you dare touch me!"

Ratchet nearly pressed the button on the restrainer then. This was why he didn't want to say anything. They could have avoided the dramatics by quickly administering it without warning.  

"Sammy, " Jazz said, resting a digit against the sparkling's back. "I needja ta calm down."

"I am being perfectly calm! "  

Jazz ignored the nonsensical response. Instead, he began stroking the sparkling's back. "Sweet spark, you know we care 'bout you. We'd neva give ya somethin' that would hurt you."

"You drugged me before, and so did he, " the sparkling cried, pointing an accusing digit at Ratchet. 

"I know. Tha ' was scary and wasn' nice o' us. M ' sorry about that. But I promise ya, First Aid ain't gonna give you anything ' tha'll hurt you. So will you please be the good lil' spark I know you are?"

The sparkling's features flashed between anger, fear, and guilt before his frame slumped in defeat. "Fine."

Jazz's EM field relaxed. "Thank you, bitty bot."

True to his word, the newspark behaved during the administration of the vaccines. He shuddered when First Aid wiped down his arm with an alcohol wipe and flinched during each shot, but he didn't fight back. 

This! This is what Megatron needed to see.

As First Aid carefully sealed each puncture wound and ran a spark scan, Ratchet mused about sending video evidence of Jazz's sway to Megatron. If it got Megatron to shut his intake, Ratchet would in a spark beat. But the Lord High Protector had always been stubborn, and Ratchet doubted he would be happy until the sparkling was in his new frame. 

:: I've finished everything.:: commed First Aid. ::Spark scan is also showing marginally stronger readings like you said.::

::Good. I'll take over from here.:: 

Picking up the vial, he approached the table. The sparkling flinched, subtly shifting closer to Jazz, whose engine purred comfortingly.

Jazz commed Ratchet. ::What is that?::

::A mixture of filtered low-grade energon plus trace minerals and nutrients necessary for newspark health. Essentially sparkling energon formula.::

::For Sam?::

::Obviously.::

Jazz's servo curled protectively towards the sparkling. ::Yer sure it's safe?::

Ratchet's armor bristled reflexively. As if he would ever give a sparkling anything that he wasn't certain was safe.

::Sorry Ratch’:: came Jazz’s quick apology. ::Jus ' been a bit on edge since bitlet's run around. I trust ya.::

At least someone did because the sparkling did not. 

"I'm not drinking it, " spat the sparkling. 

Ratchet fought back a groan. Hadn't they just gone through this? 

He had a feeding tube, and while he didn't want to use it, he could. 

"It's medicine, " he said testily. 

"For what?"

Ratchet grabbed a datapad, pulling up the spark scan. "Do you see this, " he said, gesturing at the graph with swirling vortexes. "This is your spark scan from today, and this, " he turned to the previous spark scan, "is from your first appointment. "  

Most of the data would be lost on the newspark since he didn't have the training to read spark scans, but he could at least tell that the scans were different. 

"This medicine, " Ratchet said, jostling the vial. "Is to keep your spark healthy."

"I don–"

" Uhp, uhp, uhp. You wouldn't want your muscles to atrophy, neither should your spark. Doing so would be harmful in the long run. "  

"It hasn't killed me yet, " countered the sparkling. 

"And as far as I'm concerned, we're not going to let it reach that point. Hence, your medicine. "  

Jazz leaned close to the sparkling, "Sweet spark, this is like the shots. It ain't gonna hurtcha. We wan' you to be healthy and happy. "  

"But I've seen your spark, " said the newspark. Both Ratchet and First Aid's optic ridges rose in shock. "And I can't have anything like that in me."

"Your's isn't like Jazz's spark, at least not yet, " said First Aid. "The energy is there, but it's dispersed and weak. And it needs en– medicine to keep it healthy."

"I know I've been askin' an awful lot of ya this appointment. So, can we make a deal? Somethin' I can do ta make you feel bettah?"

The Med Bay grew silent for several clicks as the sparkling sat thinking. He shifted slightly, the muscles in his jaw working, and then he nodded slightly, "I want a tour of the base. Of the Ark."

Ratchet barked a laugh. "Absolutely not."

"I wasn't asking you. " the newspark snapped, turning back to Jazz with a challenge in his optics.

First Aid wheezed suspiciously, but Jazz didn't even bother to hide his laugh. 

"You keep me in the same room every day except when we come here, " the sparkling said with disgust. "Which isn't exactly fun."

"Fair 'nough ."

::Jazz, don't tell me that you're considering this.::

::The bitlet has a point. It's not fair ta keep 'im in the same place day aftah day. It could help him getta know the other bots.::

::Or make it easier for him to try to run away, get hurt, and then leave me having to clean up the mess.::

Jazz rubbed at his face plates, humming in consideration. 

"Please, Jazz, " the sparkling said, widening his optics. 

Oh, the manipulative, little scraplet. 

" Alrigh', " said Jazz, "We cnn take a tour, not this cycle cause I'll need a lil ' more time ta plan, but it will happen. " He held out his digit. "Deal? "  

The sparkling bit his lip, then shoved out his servo, took Jazz's digit, and shook it. "Deal. "  

Slightly skeptical, Ratchet handed the sparkling the vial. While it was miniscule in Ratchet's servos, it was normal in the sparkling's. The newspark tilted the vial back and forth, eyeing the light blue, glowing liquid. His servos trembled slightly, and his field fluttered lightly with fear. 

"You can do it, " Jazz said quietly. 

The sparkling's grip on the vial tightened, and then he tossed the energon back in a single swallow. 

His glossa swiped across his lips. "It tastes…good? Kinda fizzly like carbonation or pop rocks. "  

The newspark's helm nodded slightly, and he slumped towards Jazz's servo. 

Intake opening, the newspark yawned, revealing tiny white denta. "Why'm I feelin' sleepy?"

"A temporary side effect, " said Ratchet, running his scanner over the sparkling. All readings were coming back as normal. 

The sparkling's face pinched slightly as if he wanted to protest, but the words tangled somewhere in his slow, sleepy throat. " You didn ' say tha ' , " the sparkling slurred. "Noh, fair."

"The effects won't last long, " said Ratchet. 

Privately, he commed Jazz. ::Help him lie down.::

Jazz gently lowered the sparkling onto the berth, "Easy now, bitty bot. Gonna lay back, yeaah, tha's it."

Resting on the berth made the energon's side effects progress faster. The sparkling's breathing slowed, and his eyelids fluttered, going half-lidded. "Mmmm, tire'dd ."

"Then go ahead 'n rest. We gotcha. "  

After another several clicks, the sparkling's frame relaxed, and his optics turned hazy. He had fully entered the side effect phase. A good opportunity for another spark scan. 

Ratchet maneuvered the scanner into position, and Jazz started to pull his servo away. The newspark whined, pawing at Jazz's digit. 

Jazz chuckled, "Okay, then. Not goin' anywhere. " His visor glowed with amusement, and using one of his spare digits, stroked the sparkling's arm. " C'n you still get yer reading even wit ' me here? "

"Yes, yes, " said Ratchet absently, hitting the button on the spark scanner. The sparkling twitched, but otherwise, he didn't move. 

Ratchet's field radiated satisfaction as the scan loaded. Already, the scan reading was showing positive growth: energy coalescing and strengthening. He compared it to the previous scans and analyzed potential growth. If the sparkling maintained a regular energon feeding, slowly increasing the dosage and amount, they would see excellent progress in time for his conversion. 

He turned to share the news with Jazz but paused. Both Jazz and First Aid were bent close to the sparkling, cooing over the little one. The sparkling nuzzled close to Jazz's servo, one arm cuddling a digit. 

"Oh, look at you, " Jazz said with a fond click in his voice. "You're so cute; yes, you are. Cutest baby bot on the whole base. I mean— look at those pretty optics, huh? Can't take it!"

The sparkling quietly chirped in response. 

"Was that a chirp?! " First Aid squeaked. "How is he so cute?"

Ratchet rolled his optics, but it was with secret fondness. 

Jazz's field emitted contentment and safety, gently blanketing the sparkling, who in turn pressed into it, his frame relaxing more with every fluctuation. 

"He's so in tune with my field, " Jazz murmured. 

"Part of energon consumption, " said Ratchet. "It'll only last while he's under the influence, though. "  

Jazz rubbed his digit over the sparkling's helm. "Tha's okay. Jus' nice to see 'im not scared."

"What's that on his limbs, though? " asked First Aid, leaning close. "They're all bumpy. "  

"It's the pilomotor reflex, " said Ratchet. "Happens in response to cold temperatures or emotional distress. "  

"Think the upstairs soldiers call 'em goosebumps. "  

"So he's cold? Oh, poor little thing. "  

Ratchet frowned. Reaching into his subspace, he pulled out a soft, thick fabric and handed it to Jazz. "Here. I've gotten the readings I need. All that's left is for him to wait out the effects, but there's no point in the sparkling suffering in the meantime. "  

"Awww Ratch, ya big softie, " Jazz said, accepting the blanket. He spread it out on the exam table and then carefully lifted the newspark onto it. "Easy now, " he murmured fondly. "Stay still fer me, m'kay? " 

The newspark's frame remained limp, allowing Jazz to grab the edges of the blanket. He folded it over the sparkling, tucking in edges under his back and around his legs. With ease, Jazz wrapped up the sparkling until only his helm peeked out from the bundle of fabric. 

Jazz's servos slid under the swaddle and lifted the sparkling up. "Look atcha, all cozy and snuggled up. Not gonna be cold any longer."

The sparkling chirped again, his hazy optics filled with contentment as Jazz positioned him against his chassis where his field was strongest. 

Ratchet hummed in approval. This was what a newspark should be like. Safe, happy, and cuddled up to their caretaker, trusting them to take care of them. Sad that the energon's effect would last only three breems, but for the moment, at least the sparkling knew the truth. He was safe here with the Autobots. 

His parents wouldn't have approved, but since their deaths, Sam had become well acquainted with narcotics and drugs. Experimenting with what drowned out the pain in his heart so that he could function. But whatever medicine Ratchet had made him drink was a million times better than anything Sam had experienced before. 

It was like lying on a beach as the tide rolled in. Wave after wave washed up over him, the warm water running over his skin, wiping away accumulated grime and then carrying it away. But it wasn't water washing over him, but a feeling. 

Each wave that swept over him carried a ringing hum. A haunted, unheard melody teased the corner of Sam's mind, urging him to listen closer. Playful swooping chords that pressed happiness and contentment . 

He could feel it. Taste it like a long-remembered flavor buzzing across his tongue. 

He wanted more of it: craved the safety and peace and happiness that danced across his senses. 

Nosing his face closer to the feeling, he voiced his desire in a chirp. More , he pushed back.

"Arentcha the cutest? " a familiar voice echoed from far away. 

Sensation brushed over his head. Someone was playing with his hair, stroking through the strands. Sam melted at the contact, all his muscles relaxing into a puddle. Combined with the happiness and the soft warmth wrapped tight around him, he basked in the bliss. 

He didn't know where he was or what was happening other than the euphoric calm and found that he didn't care. Like a cat curled up in a sunbeam, Sam dozed in contentment for an unknown amount of time. Minutes, hours, days—he didn't know, but he didn't care when his heart pulsed in happy peace. 

But like a hand warmer losing heat when faced with a bitter winter storm, the sensations began to fade. Sam tried to tighten his grip on it, preserving every ounce of warmth as it leached away, but nothing helped. Little by little, it disappeared. 

Sam squirmed in discontent. He wanted it back! Where was it going? It couldn't leave him alone; he was so, so tired of being scared and alone. 

A crooning voice, fond and low, sang in Sam's ears. 

"My little sparklet, shining so bright."

He shifted, the pain of losing the warmth distracted by the voice. 

"Recharge in peace in the starry night."

Sam's face scrunched. The voice was familiar. 

"And when one vorn, you grow big and tall,"

Sam's eyelids fluttered open as the song crescendoed. 

"Know I love you, throughout it all."

Jazz kissed Sam's hair as he hummed the final bars of the song. 

"J'zzzz?"

Jazz tilted his helm, blue visor reflecting Sam's groggy, bundled reflection back at him. "Hey, there, bitty bot. Back wit ' us?"

Sam's tongue was fat and heavy. "Mmmghghh. " He rolled his mouth, then cracked his jaw open in a massive yawn. " Wha ' happened?"

"You took yer medicine, 'member?"

Sam wrinkled his nose, "Yeaaaah, tasted weird. "  

He tried to lift his head, but the muscles in his neck wouldn't cooperate, and it flopped back onto Jazz's chest. 

Ratchet leaned in close, and Sam tried to shift away from the medic but found he didn't have the energy. 

A tingling blue scan ran across Sam. "Hmmm, everything is looking within the normal range. "  

"Ahh, not gonna ask me? Stup'id robo doctor always ignorin'. "  

Ratchet snorted. "His speech is slightly slurred but should fade quickly. Although he doesn't appear to be completely aware of what he's saying. " He bopped Sam on the head. "How are you feeling?"

"Mm ' good. Relaxed. Was funny."

"Yes, properly feeling EM fields for the first time would."

Ratchet straightened, "Well, he appears to be mostly recovered. I want to start him on a regular feeding every three cycles, but we'll increase the frequency as he adapts. For now, you are free to return him to his room, although I would recommend putting him down for a recharge cycle. When he wakes, he should be very alert and energetic. Good luck." 

"Don't need a nap, " Sam grumbled. He twitched. His limbs were tucked tight together, and he could only wiggle awkwardly. "You put me in a blanket? I want out."

Jazz bounced him, "No can do lil' mech, ya've gotta recharge. Doctor's orders. So let's go gotcha comfy on your berth. "  

Sam grumbled, but was dozing off before they left the Med Bay.

Chapter Text

When Sam had bargained for a tour of the Autobot base, he hadn't imagined it would require him to be strapped into the passenger seat of Prowl's alt mode. 

Five thick straps—two over his shoulders, two across his waist, and one between his legs, all meeting at a thick buckle. Sam's thumbs dug into the release button, spam pressing it like he was desperately fighting the final boss in a video game. "Come. On," he grunted. 

Prowl's holoform tilted his head, his mouth twitching in a half-smirk as he watched. Prowl's holoform had jet black hair with the faintest hint of grey along the temples and lines by the corner of his narrowed eyes. Dressed in a crisp, dark blue uniform, he managed to look almost as intimidating as a human as he did as a robot.  

"The seat belt did not undo the first one hundred times you pressed it, nor will it if you continue," remarked Prowl dryly. 

"Says you." 

"Says the tactical analysis that you have a .0039% chance of succeeding." 

"Still a chance," countered Sam. 

Prowl sighed, "You are becoming more like Jazz with every passing cycle."

Should Sam be insulted or complimented? 

Prowl unfurled a warm, thick blanket over Sam's lap and wrapped it around his legs, essentially tucking him in. 

"You promised Jazz that you would behave for me," Prowl reminded Sam as he squirmed in his seat.  

"He didn't say anything about a blanket," Sam grumbled.

To make Sam's humiliation worse, Prowl set the eldritch abomination dog stuffed animal on Sam's lap. Look, Sam liked Bumblebee's gift, and despite himself, kept falling asleep with a stuffed animal cuddled in his arms, but he didn't need it for a tour! 

"I'm not a toddler!" 

"No, you are a sparkling."

The passenger door slammed shut, the lock clicked into the closed position, and Prowl's holoform fizzled out of existence. 

Engine revving, and lights on the dashboard flashing to life, Prowl said, "Let us proceed with the tour."

Bartering for a tour had been a tactical decision. Despite being given the illusion of a choice, Sam wasn't delusional. He knew that if he hadn't taken the strange, pale, glowing medicine, Ratchet would have pried his mouth open and dumped it down. The stupid medic had had it in for Sam since the beginning. If he was going to have to take sketchy alien 'medicine', Sam was going to get something out of it. 

A tour would let him see more of the base, necessary for strategizing future escapes. Plus, while Sam's data pad lessons were engaging, there was a whole world outside the boring, white walls of his room. Variety was the spice of life–or something like that. 

Unfortunately, when Sam made that deal, he had expected Jazz to be his tour guide. Not Prowl. 

Sam hadn't necessarily been avoiding the black and white Autobot (sort of impossible when stuck in a room), but he'd tiptoed around him. Most would attempt revenge for a failed murder attempt, and while Jazz hadn't punished Sam, there was no telling what Prowl would do. 

So yes, Sam's hands shook a little under the blanket, and the locked door made him twitchier than a chihuahua, but it would be fine. Jazz said he'd meet them halfway through the tour and take over. 

Sam had viewed only a tiny fraction of the Ark during his failed escape attempt. His focus had been on getting out, and all the doors had been made for beings 4 to 5 times his size. Opening the doors and peeking inside hadn't been an option. However, he was quickly beginning to understand how little he'd seen. 

"These are the archives," Prowl announced as he drove through an open door. Rows of neatly lined shelves, stacked with dark datapads, were spread out in concentric circles. Strange alien artifacts sat on pedestals, inscribed with glowing glyphs. Navigating the corridors, Prowl slowed, allowing Sam to lean closer to the window. 

"So it's like a library?"

"That is the closest human equivalent." 

Sam attempted to count the datapads on one shelf and quickly gave up. "There are so many." 

Prowl sank on his axles, "There used to be more. Much of our ancient records have been lost, and it wasn't prudent to bring valuable datapads when traversing space. However, Optimus Prime is fond of learning, and had duplicates made of his favorites and loaded onto the Ark."

Prowl's driver's seat was empty, the steering wheel turning under ghostly hands. Conversations would have been awkward, but the symbol embossed on the wheel glowed when he spoke, giving Sam something to talk to. It was that symbol that he addressed when he asked, "Can I read any of them?"  

Prowl's engine stalled, then smoothly continued with a pleased hum. "I will have one or two of the translated copies loaded onto your datapad and incorporated into your lessons."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." 

Exiting the archives, Prowl continued down several other hallways, pointing out what was behind each door. The Med Bay, thankfully, they did not enter, but Sam still slouched down as far as his seat belt would allow until it was far past. 

As they drove, they passed multiple Autobots who nodded respectfully towards Prowl, their hands differentially clasped behind their backs. Was Prowl a big deal? Or did the intimidating aura he exuded extend to robots, too?

Intimidation or not, Prowl's presence didn't prevent the bots from peering at Sam, their blue eyes glowing fervently. It was a relief to pass them and enter the engine room. It was at least double the height of Sam's room, with massive trubines stretching several stories high. Their buzzing vibrated through Prowl's wheels and up Sam's body.

Pipes snaked across the room, plugging into steel tubes and strange clinking machinery. Random bursts of steam exploded from vents in the floor. The entire room was doused in unnatural blue light, the same color of the Autobot's eyes.

The engine room, more than any other place, felt pulled from a science fiction novel.

"Since we are not actively flying, the Ark's engine is in low power mode, requiring less Energon. Like this, half rations of fuel can last for a vorn, although extra remains in storage should it be needed."

Three bots sat by an overturned crate, messing with a pile of glittering chips. At Prowl's arrival, they threw down a handful of cards and stood up. 

"Prowl! I didn't expect to see you." One of the bots said, snapping to attention. He bowed his shiny chrome head respectfully. "Is there a problem?"

Prowl definitely had to be high up the totem pole, Sam thought. 

"There is no problem," said Prowl. "I was merely requested to escort sparkling Sam on a tour of the Ark."

"Sparkling?" said one of bots with the same enthusiasm of a toddler hearing the word free candy. Clasping her purple hands together, she exclaimed, "Oh, this is the newest one? The scraplet Special Operations brought in? Jazz has kept him under lock and key. Hardly anyone's seen him."

She bent down, peering hopefully through Prowl's windows. 

Sam curled into his blanket, resisting the urge to cover his head with it. Please stop looking at him, he mentally begged. 

The last bot wandered over, his pushing his teel frame closer, "Did you say sparkling?" 

"He's a cutie!" agreed the purple bot.

"Hello, little one," Chrome head cooed, waving a hand.  

"Can we hold him? He looks so cuddly." 

Sam flinched, and the seat belt tightened against him, reassuringly pressing him back into the seat. "I'm afraid not. He is rather shy and has reacted poorly to unfamiliar bots." Prowl back up, pulling away from the crestfallen bots. "If you wish to meet him one-on-one, you'll have to speak with Jazz."

"We understand."

"Bye-bye," they called as Prowl drove away. 

The seatbelt didn't let up until the door closed behind them. Still, Sam remained hunched until they entered a new room, this one thankfully bot-free and looking like a jungle had been transplanted into it.

Prowl slowed to a stop beside a massive star-shaped bush. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Sam mumbled.

"Your monitor is reporting an increase in your heart rate." 

"Well, I'm detecting an increase in your creepy stalkerness," Sam snapped. He rubbed at the stupid band, hating that it wouldn't come off. "Get a hobby outside of watching me." 

"I have plenty of hobbies."

"Yeah, like what?" 

"Practicing Diffusion, meditating, reviewing past statistical analysis for error... And watching reruns of human reality shows. They are surprisingly processor-numbing."

"My mom liked watching those," Sam said, shocked into speaking—he hadn't expected that last one

"Statistically, they are a waste of time, but I indulge in an episode once every couple of cycles, usually with high grade." 

Sam had always hated it when his mother hogged the TV to watch her shows; now, what he wouldn't give to watch them with her. 

A sigh like whoosh of air blasted through Prowl's AC vents, fluttering Sam's hair. "I apologize if the bots in the engine room upset them. You'll have to forgive them, the novelty of sparklings has yet to wear off."

Baby fever was real, but the glint in the bots' eyes was borderline obsessive. Sam shifted uncomfortably, the seat belt rubbing against his skin.  "They act like they've never seen a sparkling before."

"Many haven't, not until recently," said Prowl, then added, "There haven't been sparklings in a very long time." 

"Wait, seriously? How is that possible?"

Prowl hesitated, the lights on his dashboard flickering, "I am aware that humans create fetuses after sharing genetic information through coitus, typically—"

“NO! NO!” Sam shrieked. He covered his ears and shook his head.

He'd already suffered through a mortifying 'how babies are made' conversation with his parents that left him unable to look either of them in the eyes for a week. An alien robot review course was not needed. 

"I know how babies are made! I do not need a refresher. Thank you, but no!"

Prowl's dashboard lights flared like a blush before settling. Clearing his vocalizer, he said, "My point is that Cybertronians do not repopulate by exchanging bodily fluids like mammalia do." 

Was Sam about to get the robot equivalent of the birds and the bees? He scrambled with his seat belt, but the straps refused to release. No, oh no, please have mercy on him. Sam would throw himself back into the mercies of Ratchet if it made Prowl stop. 

Caught up in fighting to escape, he missed the first part of what Prowl said. "...the AllSpark. It was a sacred artifact capable of producing sparks." 

Sam's flailing stilled. "A machine makes you?"

That actually wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. Mentally, he envisioned a conveyor belt with baby robots on it, machine claws adding on parts and painting sections before swaddling each in a blanket. Cute little Charlie rolled off the belt into Knockout's waiting hands, who eagerly snuggled her. 

Prowl bristled, sections of the car flaring before resettling. "A gross simplification."

Okay, don't call the alien robot a machine made unless he wanted to be killed. Noted. 

Continuing, Prowl said, "Even the high priests disagree on how the AllSpark produces sparks, only that each is a gift from Primus and a fragment of him." 

"So did this AllSpark run out of juice or break?" Triple A batteries probably weren't gonna power it, no matter what the Energizer Bunny said. 

"No, it was lost," said Prowl.  

"How do you lose a sacred artifact? Indiana Jones nab it?"

Prowl ignored the sarcastic reference, slipping into his lecture voice, "Like your own planet, Cybertron experienced a time of warfare. A civil war that shook the foundations of Cybertron and wiped cities from the planet."

Sam's mouth dried out. He hadn't expected the aliens who had stopped humanity's apocalyptic warfare to have experienced their own. Had Jazz and Prowl lost their friends and family? Seen their home destroyed? Watched everything they loved fall apart around them, leaving them painfully alone? 

A thin beam of light shot out of Prowl's dashboard, depicting a glowing planet with circuitry running across its surface. Their home planet: Cybertron. "Originally, Cybertron was governed by the original thirteen primes, who protected the planet and maintained order. However, they were betrayed by Sentinel, a trusted advisor. Craving power, he colluded with the Quintessons—"

"The who?" Sam interrupted.

The glowing image of Cybertron shifted, replaced with a creature that wouldn't look out of place in a Lovecraft story—twisted metal head with dripping tentacles and rows of jagged teeth. "Cybertron's ancient enemy, an alien species set on enslaving all bots." 

"Ewww." 

Prowl vents let out a gust of amused air. "Indeed. Sentinel secretly lured the primes into a Quintesson trap and killed them. Upon return to the capital, Iaacon, he falsely claimed the Primacy. Sentinel ruled Cybertron for many vorns until Orion Pax, along with Bumblebee, Elita-1, and Megatron, discovered his treachery."

The Bumblebee that gave Sam a hideous stuffed animal and drooped when Sam was rude had been a freedom fighter? The mental image didn't commute. How common a name was Bumblebee? Was there another one Sam didn't know about? 

"When they confronted him, Sentinel escaped, gathering a small gathering of his most loyal forces. Together, his forces and the Quintessons laid siege to Cybertron. There were hundreds of vorns of violent warfare, tearing Cybertron apart."

"Did you fight?" Sam asked.

"Yes. I was Orion Pax's head tactician."

That answered Sam's question about Prowl's position among the Autobots. The same bot he made pass out over a question about spleens was a top-ranked military leader. 

"However, eventually it became obvious that Sentinel was losing. In desperation, he infiltrated the temple of Iaacon and attempted to steal the AllSpark. Megatron and Starscream had been lured to Kaon, and Elita-1 to Praxus, leaving Orion Pax alone to safeguard the AllSpark."

The quintesson image shifted to that of a glowing cube, strange glyphs inscribed across its side.  

"Sentinel planned to launch the AllSpark in an escape pod to a secret location where he could later retrieve it. Orion Pax fought valiantly until Sentinel stabbed him in the spark and threw him into the depths of Cybertron. His sacrifice was not entirely in vain; he managed to alter the ship's destination, sending the AllSpark's ship spiraling into the depths of space and preventing Sentinel and the Quintessons from claiming it. When Megatron, Starscream, and Elita-1 returned, the AllSpark was lost, and Orion Pax had been remade as Optimus Prime." 

A mournful silence filled the cabin. The holoform cube rotated on an axis, strangely forlorn as if grieving its loss.

"The loss of the All Spark proved the battle cry that revitalized Cybertron. Within the next decavorn, Sentinel and his followers perished in battle, and the Quintessons abandoned their conquest of Cybertron."

Prowl's voice was pained, like retelling the story had torn something inside him. "We had won, but the AllSpark, the source of our lives, was lost. Hundreds of decavorns were spent searching for it without success. Until finally, the combined efforts of Perceptor and Wheeljack allowed us to trace its signal to Earth." 

Sam jolted in his seat, forgetting about the seat belt that held him in place. "So it's on Earth!"

That's why the Autobots had come in the first place! They had been looking for the life source of their people. 

Prowl rocked in agreement. "From what we can tell. AllSpark energy saturates your planet, although we have not found the artifact, but its influence is undeniable. Your spark, like all of ours, comes from the All Spark." 

Sam scrubbed at his face. "So a crash-landed alien artifact infused me with alien radiation and royally screwed me over, which is why you kidnapped me, and the other Autobots looked at me like I'm a bacon strip in a dog kennel." 

Prowl's engine clanged, "While that is not the language I would use, you are technically correct."

Sam stared at the glowing holoform of the All Spark, a strange longing filling him. "The other sparklings on the base, they came from this All Spark, too?"

"Yes." 

So Sam was either the lucky or unlucky one to spawn with a human body. 

"And you can't pull this energy out of me, and let me go along my merry way?" 

The hologram of the AllSpark cut out, leaving the cabin strangely empty. "Your spark is you. One does not exist without the other. We will not let you die," said Prowl intently. 

Why did that sound like a threat? 

Prowl continued the tour as if he hadn't dropped an atomic bomb of a revelation on Sam. Sedately, he drove through the Conservatory and its rows of blossoming trees and luscious plants.

"Beachcomber is the primary caretaker, although bots like Hound occasionally assist. The collection currently contains over 70 different Earth species of plant life, although he is petitioning Prime to allow more."

Sam gawked at a strange purple bush with neon yellow blooms, "That doesn't look like any plant I've ever seen."

"There are some samples from other planets, but not as many. Earth has an unusual diversity in its organic growth."

From there, they drove to the Recreation Room, the odd couches and giant ping pong table alarmingly familiar. Bots stood around talking to each other and drinking from strange blue cubes. Sam squirmed in his seat, anxiously expecting to be picked up. It was a relief when Prowl finally left. 

Along the way, they passed dozens of doors that Prowl noted as living quarters to various bots. They didn't enter any of them, leaving the interior a mystery. Sam hadn't considered where Jazz and Prowl went when they weren't with him. Were their rooms like garages? Did they have beds? He could imagine Prowl in a blank, sterile room, but that didn't suit Jazz at all. There would have to be at least three instruments hanging on the walls. Maybe posters? 

Entering an elevator, Prowl rode it up several floors. "For the next room, I'll need to hold you. It's often busy, and maneuvering will be easier in my root mode. Will you be alright?" 

Sam grimaced. "We can't skip this room?"

"We could, but I believe that it is worth you seeing," when Sam fidgetted uncomfortably, Prowl added, "If you become uncomfortable and wish to leave, we can do so at any time."

"Fine," said Sam. 

"Good." 

The seatbelt unclicked, slithering back into the hidden depths of Prowl. Sam was allowed a couple of seconds to stretch before metal shifted around him, tucking his limbs close. Fragments folded together while others stretched out, lifting Sam higher. Fingers curled around him, pulling him out of the cascade. With a clunk and hiss, the final sections of Prowl spun into place, with Sam pressed firmly against the bot's windshield. Prowl even kept the blanket and stuffed animal with him. 

"Are you secure?" 

Since Sam was encased in a metal hand that he had no hope of budging (and he'd tried plenty of times in the past), he said, "Yes." 

"Excellent. If you ever start becoming overwhelmed, tap one of my digits five times, and we will leave." 

Sam didn't squeeze the stuffed animal for comfort (he didn't!) as orange accented doors slid open, and Prowl stepped inside. 

The room was built on several platforms, slowly descending in height, with the lowest being at the far end. Workstations were arranged in neat rows around the room, with monitors and odd flashing buttons. Autobots sat at each, typing in information or speaking out instructions, occasionally getting up to speak to a different bot. Towards the center rested a table with half-filled, glowing, blue cubes on it. One bot causally drank from a cube as she tapped at a data pad. 

Several monitors were embedded in the wall, but the largest one displayed a massive map of Earth's continents. Little pinpricks of light flashed over key cities, and text scrolled towards the side as information filled in. 

"The operations center," Prowl said, his door wings raised in pride. 

Truly, the space was impressive, but Sam's eyes darted as he counted five…eight…ten…at least fifteen different Autobots in the room. Each worked with dedicated focus, their pistons pumping as they moved around or stood jacked into one of the monitors. 

One Autobot, a femme with purple armor and orange accents, strode towards them. Sam cringed, wilting in Prowl's grasp. 

"Prowl, sir, we weren't expecting you," she said, snapping off a salute. 

"Lancer," Prowl said with a slight nod. 

"Your arrival is fortunate, we were about to comm you. The Mongolian government is requesting an increase in aid. Plague is spiking again in that sector, and medical supplies are in high demand. They claim that the last shipments were miscalculated, although I'd assume they were either misplaced or stolen. I've compiled an analysis of the situation. The Aid Transports require your sign off, though, since it will require increased guard support."

Pulling a data pad from subspace, she handed it to Prowl. Accepting it one-handed, he scrolled through, while keeping Sam tucked against him. 

"Have you spoken to Special Operations?"

Lancer shuffled, "No."

"See that you do. They are engaged with identifying MECH bases, but may have useful information regarding the situation. As for the analysis, it appears complete, although I would review section 2.4b and 8.1a as well as the end charts." Prowl handed back the data pad. "I will be with you in several breems once I am no longer engaged."

Lancer's face crinkled in confusion. "I don't–" her bright blue eyes landed on Sam, and her voice cut out. 

Sam cringed, squeezing the stuffed animal tighter.

"Hello there," she said in a syrupy voice. "Aren't you the smallest, squishiest little sparkling ever?" Her blue eyes glowed with adoration, pinning Sam like a bug under a needle. "I didn't know you were on sparkling duty, sir."

"For several more breems, yes," he said curtly, then strode away. 

Sam curled against Prowl's armor, grateful that Prowl's stern demeanor warded off most bots. However, it didn't stop them from watching him, blue lights tracking him across the room. 

"There haven't been sparklings in a very long time. "  

What did Sam mean to them? Hope for a dwindling species? Renewal after an eternal war. Humans had no difficulty reproducing despite the apocalypse, yet each new life was met with joy. New mothers and babies were treated with greater care than most. 

Could he blame their fervor when faced with a sparkling after thousands of years? 

Perhaps not, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the obsessive attention. 

Prowl ignored the looks, walking purposefully towards the end of the room where three Autobots stood conversing. One of them stood menacingly in gunmetal grey, his face pulled in a scowl, while the pink one felt vaguely familiar. However, Sam's attention was stolen by the tallest Autobot yet. 

Painted in navy blue and vibrant red, he towered over Prowl and the other bots. His glossy windshield radiated a magnetic blue light. Like a bug drawn to a lamp at night, Sam leaned forward. Warmth bloomed in his chest in response to the bot's presence. 

Upon Prowl's approach, the giant bot paused, tilting his head in consideration. A grey mask slid back from across his face, revealing a faint smile. 

"Hello, Prowl. And hello, little one," he rumbled. 

Sam's mouth dried as he realized who he was in the presence of. 

It was a voice that he and every survivor had played on repeat. Disbelief warring with hope at the voice's message. 

"Prime, this is the newest sparkling, Sam," Prowl said, lifting Sam closer. "Sparkling Sam, this is Optimus Prime." 

Chapter Text

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sam,” said Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots and hope of humanity. 

His voice was somehow deeper in person than it had been on the radio. It echoed in his brain yet contained a calm promise of protection, like balm on a burn or a nightlight warding off nightmares.

How many people had listened to this bot’s voice and rejoiced at the promise of peace? 

Optimus’s words demanded attention. 

However, there was more to it than his voice. Optimus’s very presence was magnetic, drawing Sam in like a swimmer in a riptide. The sensation radiated from behind his windshields, similar to the feeling of Jazz’s spark. 

Sam needed to speak, but instead made an odd noise, something between a squeak and a chirp. His body relaxed under the commanding presence, brain melting into gooey soup. If Prowl hadn’t been holding him, Sam would have flopped to the floor.  

“Optimus,” chided a soft voice. 

Optimus’s nose crinkled, and a faint glow of blue lit across his face. “My apologies,” he said. The presence lessened as if it were the volume on a radio being turned down so that Sam could hear himself think. “The Matrix of Leadership is often overwhelming for others, especially the young such as yourself,” Optimus said, as if that explained anything. 

Sam forced his rubbery excuse for a tongue to function. “It’s okay.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus with a smile, as if Sam had accomplished a noble task. 

“Don’t keep all the attention for yourself,” teased the pink bot. She swayed with the confident restraint of knowing she could easily beat you into last week, and merely chose not to. She jabbed Optimus in the side and then leaned forward to address Sam, “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Licking his lips, Sam struggled to remember where he had met her before. The pink, horn-like things on her head felt familiar, and her voice resonated in his memory, but no name appeared. 

“Who are you again?” Sam hesitantly asked, half-afraid she’d smack him for the question. 

But her mouth curved in an amused smile, “I suppose we’ve never properly met. My designation is Elita-1.”

Sam stiffened, “You were the one in the rec room.” The one who’d made the touching, fondling, and cooing stop. Who helped him breathe until Jazz came. 

Elita-1’s bright, blue eyes glittered, “Yes, I was. And I’m happy to see you safe and well.” 

Sam would be better if he weren’t trapped on an alien spaceship, but the sentiment was nice, he supposed. 

The dark grey bot finally decided to stop looming in the background, pretending to ignore them. Crossing his arms, he rumbled, “So this is the sparkling that threw the Ark into chaos.”

Sam reflexively squeezed his stuffed animal tighter. “I didn’t ask to be here,” he snapped. 

“And where would you prefer to be, little mech?”

“Gone.”

“Really?” the bot growled, managing to make the two syllables sound like a deadly threat. 

Prowl’s door wings stiffened, but Elita-1 beat him to a response, soundly whacking the grey bot with a thunk. “Megatron, be nice to the sparkling.” 

“Nice is not a word used to describe me. Besides, the sparkling is fine. With that troublesome fighting streak, he’d be a fierce gladiator in the pits.”

Sam was fairly confident that if he tried to fight Megatron, he’d be nothing more than a greasy smear, but he supposed the compliment was nice. 

“Have you enjoyed your tour of the Ark?” asked Optimus. 

“It’s very big . I think I could run a marathon going through all the hallways.” Not a great sign for potentially escaping. 

“The Ark is one of our largest ships ever built, and even I find myself at times getting lost.”

Megatron snorted, a blast of air whooshing from his vents, “Lost in the Archives.” 

“Sparkling Sam did express interest in reading one or two of the data pads stored there,” said Prowl. 

Optimus’s eyes shone bright. “I would be honored to send you some of my favorites.” 

Sam squirmed in Prowl’s grip. What did one say when an alien king? Overlord? Savior? offered you his favorite books? He settled on, “Thanks. That’d be nice.” 

When four sets of glowing eyes continued to watch him, Sam struggled for something else to say. “The Ark is really nice. But I’d also be interested in seeing the outside of it,” said Sam leadingly. 

Optimus’s face plates twitched in a smile. “You’ll have to ask your interim guardian about that.”

“My who?” 

“Jazz is your assigned interim guardian,” explained Prowl. “He volunteered to take the role shortly after your arrival.” 

Interim meant temporary, though. Did that mean Jazz would one day leave? Sam’s chest clenched as he imagined a strange new bot entering and taking over. Jazz was easy to work with, and he’d been better lately. Sam could predict what he would do. With Sam’s luck, the new guardian would be someone like Barricade or Ratchet. 

“Are you okay, little one?” asked Elita-1. 

“How much longer will Jazz… when will he leave? It’s not soon?”

Megatron, Elita-1, and Optimus exchanged looks.

“Jazz has responsibilities that have been placed on hold to look after you. He will have to leave for short missions,” said Megatron.

“Which Jazz and I have already discussed, and I will be serving in his absence,” said Prowl. 

“Do not worry, Sam,” Optimus reassured. “Jazz will be present for a good deal longer.”

Sam’s heart didn’t warm in relief. It didn’t. 

Addressing Prowl, Optimus said, “I believe Jazz is in his office. You should be expected.”

“Of course, sir. With your permission, we’ll take our leave.” Prowl inclined his head respectfully, then, ensuring Sam was secure, headed towards a closed door tucked to the side of the operations center. 

Prowl forced himself to only move 15% faster than he normally did. The Lord High Commander held Prowl’s respect, but his spark twisted at the close attention Megatron paid to Sam. It was no secret that he wanted the sparkling converted. 

Prowl’s grip tightened, earning a surprised squeak from Sam. 

Ex-venting, Prowl composed himself and entered Jazz’s office. 

Jazz stood with his servos on his desk, face plates set in a frown and armor tight. Frustration frizzled from his field, similarly mirrored by Mirage, who stood by his side. The two special operations bots gestured at a data pad, speaking in hushed voices. 

Prowl cleared his vocaliser. 

Jazz’s helm snapped up, taking in Prowl and then Sam. 

The corners of Jazz’s intake curved upward. His frame loosened against his protoform, shifting open invitingly. Fondness filled his EM field. 

“Hello, sweet spark.”

He lifted his servos, carefully gathering Sam before raising him up to optic level. The sparking’s legs dangled, but he showed no panic, only mild exasperation. 

“Have you been a good bitlet for Prowler?”

“I was fine without needing to be strapped into his seat like a toddler,” the sparkling grumbled. 

Prowl’s door wings flared a half inch before realizing the sparkling was not demonstrating true anger, merely annoyance. 

“We wantcha to be—”

“Safe, I know .”

Jazz chuckled, “Ya sound like Prowler when he gets anotha’ report that Jackie blew somethin’ up.”  

Prowl cringed. There had been 6 in the past decacycle. One of which spread to an unused living quarter and required Inferno to put out. Prowl had to manage the resulting fallout, which included a stressed-out Red Alert. 

“He said you were wearing off on me.”

“Oh?” said Jazz, cocking an optic ridge at Prowl.   

“Persistently stubborn when facing impossible odds. Utterly illogical.”

Mirage’s engine hummed in amusement. “That does sound like Jazz.”

Jazz reared back as if he had been shot. “I’d like you to know tha’ I beat those odds most th’ time.” Shaking his helm, he pleaded to Sam, “Gotta save me, bitty bot. Prowly and my own mech teamin’ up against me. Not fair.” 

“We could make our escape outside,” ventured Sam. (93.5% he was attempting to escape).

“Mmmm, we could, we could. Not a bad idea—” the sparkling’s heart rate increased, a noticeable bump in the monitor statistics, “—buuuut I alreadeh promised ta take you on a tour, and I can’t break a promise.” 

“That’s okay!” Sam said quickly, wiggling in excitement.

“Nah, a promise is a promise.”

The sparkling protested and outlined his arguments for going off base, while Jazz smiled and listened, occasionally offering a comment. His optics didn’t waver from the newspark, even as he sent a comm to Prowl. 

::Everythin’ went good though?::

It was a relief to report in the affirmative. ::Yes, although he became slightly distressed while visiting the engine room when Nautica, Brainstorm, and Chromedome expressed their desire to hold him. However, he calmed down quickly and asked questions about the origins of sparklings.::

Jazz’s presence in the comm tensed, ::Ya didn’t tell him ‘bout conversion?::

::No. Merely the AllSpark, its purpose, and how it was lost.:: 

::Didn’t scare ‘im?::

::No, he appeared intrigued. While visiting the archive, he even requested a datapad.::

::Tha’ so. Got us a lil’ scholar mech.::

Jazz pressed a kiss against the sparkling’s helm, abruptly cutting off his sentence. Sam let out a strangled noise. 

“How ‘bout we go to the race track? Think ya’d like that. We can go outside anotha’ day.::

Waving farewell to Prowl and Mirage, he carried the protesting sparkling out of his office.

Mirage’s kibble flared in amusement. “He’s got him wrapped around his servo.” 

“Jazz is only the interim guardian,” Prowl reminded, straightening a stack of data pads on Jazz’s desk. “We’ve created a queue for Autobots who wish to meet him and determine potential guardian connections. Bumblebee met him first, but proceeding forward, he should meet a new bot every cycle.”

Mirage shook his helm. “He can meet as many bots as he wants, doesn’t change the fact that Jazz is attached.”

Grabbing an open cube of energon off the side table, he said, “Lock the door when you’re done?”

“Of course,” said Prowl.

He needed to return to the Operations Center. His assistance would be crucial, and he’d already been absent for much of the shift. 

However, Prowl lingered in Jazz’s office, watching through the cameras as Jazz carried Sam through the Ark, looking over the racetrack. Jazz pointed at the various turns, his face animated as he talked. Occasionally, he laughed. Always, though, his attention remained centered on Sam. 

Without prompting, Prowl’s tac-net ran the analysis, reviewing the lineup of Autobots wishing to meet Sam, and cross-referencing with previous data. His processor heated as it crunched information, but when the result flashed across his HUD, Prowl wasn’t surprised.  

Jazz was best suited to be Sam’s guardian (87.5%).

Optimus Prime would select Jazz as Sam’s guardian (81.9%).

Processor settling with the new information, Prowl reorganized his task list. Allowing Sam to meet other Autobots was crucial in proving Jazz was the correct choice. Comparing interactions would highlight Jazz’s connection. And if it helped Sam acclimate to his new home, even better. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Sam’s vocal chords were shredded. Tomorrow morning, he’d wake up and only be able to whisper. But no other response felt appropriate when Jazz’s speedometer needle remained buried in the red. 

He couldn’t complain about the stupid seat belt when it was the only thing preventing him from being like a fly and smashing his face into the windows. 

Jazz’s engine roared with power, careening down the racetrack at truly unsafe speeds. If his mother could see him, she’d have a heart attack. His father, however, would be delighted. 

As the shot passed the finish line with a loud vrooom , Jazz finally began to slow, until he crawled along at a measly 15 miles an hour. 

Sam panted, clutching both the stuffed animal and seat belts. He hadn’t done anything but sit, so why was his heart pounding against his ribs? 

“Kay there?”

“Peachy,” Sam gasped. He pressed his head against the soft seat, the cushion adjusting to cradle him. “I think I might have wet myself a bit.” 

“Ehh leakin’s normal fer a first time racer. Somethin’ ‘bout the speed gets the oil pumpin’ and all cylinders spinnin’. ‘S the best.” 

Jazz continued to cruise while Sam got his breathing under control. After several minutes, he shifted on his axles. “Sooo, whatcha think?” 

“It’s cool, I guess,” Sam said. 

The seat underneath him vibrated with chuckles. “That's the best I get? When ya we’re beggin’ me ta go faster?” 

Sam’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at being called out. “It’s a race track, you’re supposed to go fast.”

With a clunk shishiss , Jazz’s car form broke apart, reforming itself around Sam. The seat belts slithered back into his depths, metal cradled him close, and before Sam could wiggle free, he sat in Jazz’s cupped hands. 

Jazz tilted his helm, grinning wildly, “I like yer style, baby bot. Race tracks are meant to be fast.” 

He handed Sam back his blanket and stuffed animal. “I don’t need these,” Sam tried to protest. 

“Jus’ wantcha to be comfy is all. ‘Sides, you were squeezin’ your stuffie like your spark depended on it durin’ some o’ the turns.” 

“I was not!” 

“Hmmm, I’ll concede on tha point, if you admit the race track was more than ‘I guess cool’.” 

Sam leaned back against Jazz’s armor, “Fine. It was awesome. Probably one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.” 

“That’s bettah. Gotta give the Jazz his credit.” He rubbed a digit against Sam’s side. “Ya did good though, bitty bot. Handled the speed like a pro.” 

Sam’s chest warmed at the praise. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Where are we going now?” 

“Shootin’ range.” 

“Shooting range!? You have one of those, on top of the race track.”

“Hey, bot’s gotta race and a bot’s gotta shoot. There’s also a hot oil tub.” 

Sam wrinkled his nose. “I’ll pass on that one.” 

Jazz nudged him, “Eh, we’ll getcha in one eventually.” 

With that, he started walking towards the large open doorway leading back into the hallways. Sam’s head swiveled to watch it as they left, a pang in his heart. For a brief window, Sam had forgotten his situation—forgot everything except the revving engine, pull of acceleration, and thrill of racing. 

That had happened with Bumblebee, too. He got so caught up in the play race that he forgot the truth. That Sam was a prisoner. The Autobots had kidnapped him and drugged him multiple times. They’d slapped a monitor on his arm and poked him with needles. Sam should hate them. 

So why had he stopped flinching at everything Jazz said? 

He’d bargained for a tour so that he could search out escape routes. A logical strategy. So where did he get off having fun? 

Yes, he wanted the Autobots to lower the guard, and playing along with them would help, but Sam wasn’t supposed to get sucked in either. 

“Hello, Jazz to bitlet. Come in, bitlet. You there?”

Sam blinked, then tilted his head way back to look up at Jazz. 

“Ahhh, there he is. Started spacin’ out. Suppose the tour has been goin’ on for awhile. You ready ta go back?”

“No!” Sam jolted, then pressed pleading against Jazz’s armor. “Not yet. Please.” 

“Alrigh’, wanted ta check. You weren’t payin’ much attention as we were walkin’ over, but we’re here now, the shootin’ range.” 

The room followed the Ark’s color scheme: bright white with an orange stripe around the border. At the far end stood an assortment of targets. Most were larger, the silhouette eerily similar to the Quentisson that Prowl had shown him. Their tentacles undulated creepily, and Sam suppressed a shudder. A couple of the targets were Autobot-shaped in varying sizes, but Sam spotted three that appeared uncomfortably similar to humans. Additional drones flew between the targets, bright blue circles on their bodies and propellers indicating where to shoot. 

“Lotsa bots come here to train or even to blow off steam.”

Jazz stepped up to a clear platform, the orange line indicating where to stand. At his movement, two of the Quintisson targets shuddered to life, slowly moving to create more difficulty in shooting. 

Jazz cleanly transferred Sam to one hand, then held out an arm. In less than a blink, his hand reformed into a short-barreled blaster, the end glowing blue. 

With almost careless ease, Jazz aimed and fired. Four of his five targets hit spot on, leaving a smouldering blue char. One clipped the edge of a flying drone, causing Jazz to click in annoyance. Otherwise, his aim was deadly accurate. 

If Sam hadn’t wet himself during the racing, he had now. 

Smoke curled from the tip of the blaster. Waving it away, Jazz smoothly transformed his blaster back into a hand. 

He grinned, his smile dangerously sharp, “Could use practice, but not too bad, huh?”

For once, Sam was grateful the Autobots viewed him as a sparkling. 

He wouldn’t have a prayer of surviving if they saw him as an enemy. 

Somewhere in the range, other blasters fired; one a deep and teeth-shaking BOOM, the other a smaller, high-pitched pew. 

The horns on Jazz’s head adjusted, “I know those blasters…” he squished Sam encouragingly. “C’mon, got someone I wantcha to meet.” Swiftly, he started walking towards the blaster fire, a slight hop in his step. 

“Yes, walk towards the guns that sound capable of leveling buildings,” Sam muttered sarcastically. 

Farther down the range, an Autobot, bigger than Prowl, smaller than Megatron, stood aiming on a platform. Blasters (like Jazz’s but much bigger) sat mounted on his arms. With time-honed ease, he fired at the targets, each hitting with a combustive boom and sizzle. 

“That’s more like it,” he growled in appreciation when one of his blasts knocked a drone from the air. 

“Heya, ‘Hide,” Jazz called. 

The grizzled bot powered down his blasters, but didn’t transform them away. This close, the nicks and dents on his armor stood out, which he wore like military medals. “Jazz. Come ta train?” he said a gruff voice.

“Nah, but I got someone I wanna letcha meet.” 

Sam shrank down, not sure he wanted the walking tank to look at him. However, upon noticing Sam, the bot's gruff demeanor softened, feeling less militant.

"Sam, this is old rust bucket is Ironhide ," said Jazz with a faint smirk.

“Hello, Sam," said Ironhide. " Wasn ’ expecting ta meet you so soon. Has this tin can been draggin’ ya around? Ahm not sure how ya put up wit’ him.” 

“I am a delight.” 

“If yer delight involves pains in the aft.” 

Before Jazz could retort, an inquisitive honk sounded below. 

“Ahm, sorry. Jazz’s got his sparkling here,” Ironhide explained to the floor. 

Another honk. 

“Don’ see why not.”

Without warning, Jazz lowered Sam to the ground, tilting his hands at the end to let Sam slide off. His bare feet slapped the cold floor, but before he could question what Jazz was thinking, there was a beep. 

This time, much much closer. 

A sparkling stood several steps away from Sam, a blaster transforming back into a hand. 

He was bigger than Charlie with broad supports on his legs and arms, and several strange racks welded onto his arms. Sam supposed they were supports for weapons, like his guardian. 

Sized up, he would make a terrifying opponent, and yet at his current size, he reminded Sam of a large puppy. It was the oversized hands and even bigger feet that he carefully lifted and set down with each step. 

His light blue eyes expanded, delicate circles swirling within. Tilting his helm, he warble chirped at Sam. 

“Uhh, hello,” Sam said, waving awkwardly. 

“This here is Will.”

Did he say Will or Wheel? Knockout had mentioned a Wheel in the Med Bay, but had Sam simply misheard? Will was a significantly better name than Wheel as far as Sam was concerned, but would using the wrong one be offensive? 

Wheel? Will? Click beeped at Ironhide. 

“Will wants to say hello and ask what your designation is.”

Okay, it was Will then. Much better. 

“My designation is Sam.”

A whirring noise. 

“He says it’s nice ta meet you.” 

Chapter Text

Introducing new sparklings was wire-tightening stressful. Jazz’s processor knew that Will was a kind sparkling, and would likely want to be friends, but the guardian protocols nagged at him to pick Sam up and snuggle him safe. 

It was with annoying effort that he shoved the coding dormant. Sparklings thrived in cohorts, and according to Ratchet, the other sparklings on base were already beginning to form one. It would be cruel to keep Sam separate. Only if his sparkling started displaying scared behaviors would Jazz whisk him away.

::Don’ worry. Will’s a good one. Takes a caretaker role wit’ the other sparklings. S’ good for him too.:: Ironhide sent to Jazz’s comm. 

:Am I that obvious?::

::Nah, you Spec Ops know how ta keep things hidden. Ahm talkin’ from experience. Easy to get nervous ‘bout them. They’re so small and fragile. But keepin’ close and never lettin’ them explore or try things ain’t helpful either.::

Sam, who had been lingering by Jazz’s pede, took a hesitant couple of steps towards Will, who responded by whirling, "It's nice to meet you. I haven't met you before."

Will’s vocalizer was still in its first form and unable to pronounce English, requiring him to use the chirps, whirls, and honks of sparkling Neocybex to greet Sam. Because of it, Sam wouldn't understand a single glyph until his conversion, but despite the language barrier, Sam wasn’t hiding away. Will's armor puffed up in pleasure, and he ventured closer.

::See? They’ll figure it out.::

CLANG!

Jazz spun around, automatically reaching for his plasma daggers in his subspace. Battle protocols surged as his optics scanned for threats. No one would hurt the newsparks with him here. 

A black and white Autobot stood by the entrance, servo curled into a fist and pressed against the wall. His red chevron emphasized the severe scowl on his face plates. 

Two bots on base had that color scheme, and Prowl was working in the operations center.

“Barricade,” Ironhide rumbled. His plasma cannons powered down with a whine.  “There was no need to make that loud of an entrance.” 

Barricade ignored the comment, choosing to pace forward, door wings flared. “I wasn’t aware we were allowing sparklings free roam after the last incident.”

His optics fixed on the two sparklings standing next to each other. Will had positioned himself in front of Sam, arms raised and revealing tiny plasma blasters. They’d only singe the paint on a bot like Barricade, but the gumption was impressive. 

Will honked in annoyance. “We’re allowed to be out and about.”

Ironhide’s plating bristled. “Will’s right, and you know it. Ya heard, Prime. They need someone wit’ them. He didn’t say they had ta be kept locked up.” 

“Yes, but that little one,” Barricade pointed a clawed digit at Sam, “has a tendency to run. And in that tiny fleshbag form, all it takes is one misplaced pede for him to go squish.” 

Sam’s field pulsed with fear as his face paled. Tremors rippled over his limbs, and Jazz swore he could hear the bitlet’s heart thumping in panic. 

Jazz’s field sharpened in warning, “He’s fine, 'cause I’m with ‘im.” 

“He shouldn’t be,” Barricade scoffed. He shoved forward, his clawed servo outstretched to snatch Sam up. The sparkling cried out in terrified alarm and bolted before Jazz could do anything. Sprinting away faster than anything that small should be able to. 

Jazz moved in a blur, seizing Barricade’s wrist in a crushing grip and unsheathing a plasma blade. The former enforcer was several weight classes above Jazz, but that didn’t matter when there was a plasma blade pressing against a central energon line. 

The blade hummed dangerously, its blue glow bathing the underside of Barricade’s helm. “Back off.”

“The sparkling is going to offline one of these cycles because your spark is too weak to do what needs to be done.” 

Barricade wrestled to free his wrist from Jazz’s crushing hold. Extending his claws, Jazz dug them between Barricade’s plating, scraping against sensitive wires. A trickle of energon bled from it, plopping onto the floor. 

“I’d worry more ‘bout yer own spark. ‘Cause my blade c’n always slip if you don’ move yer aft away.”

Barricade ex-vented heavily, his optics glowing with anger. But Jazz matched his gaze, baring a hint of his denta. For several clicks, neither bot moved, then with a scoff, Barricade stepped back, yanking his servo away. Jazz’s claws skittered across it, leaving fine scratches in a final warning. 

Ironhide rumbled, “Ya heard ‘im. Get goin’, Barricade, or else Ah’ll have ta report this to Prime.”

Barricade shook his helm, “This isn’t over. Do your duty, guardian ,” he sneered. With a final glower, he stomped back the way he came, cradling his injured servo. 

“Ya were harsher than ya needed ta be,” said Ironhide, but without heat. 

“Not as harsh as I wanted to be.” Subspacing the plasma blade, Jazz turned around to find both sparklings gone.

Crouched in the shadow of one of the target’s feet, his back pressed against the metal, Sam hid. Wrapping his arms tight around himself, Sam fought to calm the tremors wracking his body. 

There had been no thought when Barricade reached for him, only fear and the animalistic prey instinct to run. 

Bare feet slapping against cold metal, Sam ran until his lungs scraped painfully, and then collapsed behind one of the range’s targets. 

He didn’t know how far he’d run. But he couldn’t hear Jazz or Barricade anymore. Nothing except the ringing in his ears. 

Sam dug his nails into the scar on his arm, scraping off layers of skin. Those hands pinning him, injecting him, all while they ignored his panicked yells to ‘stop!’ Barricade had been the hunter, luring Sam into the trap. 

Why was Sam okay with Jazz now, but not Barricade? Jazz hadn’t been any better; drugging Sam, locking him in the car. But when he looked at Jazz, Sam could see the friendly smile and kind gestures. Whereas with Barricade, all Sam saw were those otherworldly blue eyes and restraining holds. 

“Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Sam tried to reassure himself. “Don’t be scared. See it as a chance. They don’t know where you are. You can explore. Maybe even escape. And this time, if they catch you, you can blame it on Barr—” his lips stumbled over the name. “Blame it on him. 

He slammed his head against the metal, “So calm down already. You’re being stupid. Just. Calm. Down.” 

Bracing himself against the target, Sam forced himself to his feet. 

He needed to move. To escape. 

But he couldn't wrestle his breathing back under control. It remained fast and shallow, an inch away from hyperventilating.  

Beep?

Sam flinched, arms raising to protect his face. 

Another beep. Too quiet and soft to be Barricade or Jazz. 

Light blue eyes and a tiny frame—sparkling small. 

Will. 

Sam watched warily as Will approached while making concerned chirps and whirls as if he was asking, 'Are you okay?' Will’s arms were open, and he broadcast every movement like Sam was a hissing kitten he was trying not to scare. 

He should run. He should try to escape. 

Yet Sam didn’t move as Will carefully stepped closer, lifting a hand towards Sam. He braced himself, but Will gently wrapped Sam up in a hug.  

By all rights, it shouldn’t be comfortable. Metal plates and poky welds weren’t popular materials in snuggle departments—no one wanted a metal teddy bear (although Sam wouldn’t put it past Bumblebee in trying to make one). 

But Will’s armor was softer and almost squishy, giving slightly under pressure, and molding around Sam instead of crushing him. His torso hummed with warmth, vibrating soothingly through Sam. Where his arms wrapped around Sam’s back, his fingers pressed little taps of varying lengths, like a reminder that he was there. 

Deep in Sam’s chest, warmth flared, kindled by the proximity to Will. Unthinking, he buried closer, tucking his face against Will’s neck and closing his eyes. 

Will felt safe. 

Would Charlie have felt that way if she had hugged him? Somehow, Sam knew the answer was yes. 

The ground shook as loud footsteps stomped towards them. 

“Sammy!”

“Will!” 

Two goliaths fell to their knees and would have sent Sam flying if he weren’t pressed against Will. It was almost humorous seeing massive war machines curling anxiously over them. Jazz’s hand hovered close, wanting to pick Sam up but resisting the urge. 

Jazz’s visor shone with worry, “Baby bot, are you alright?”

“Is he gone?” Sam asked, prompting a tight squeeze from Will. 

“Yes, sweet spark. He’s gone. Won’ let ‘im mess with you.” 

Sam released a shuddery breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thanks”

Reluctantly, Sam stepped out of the hug, prompting Will to do the same. The comforting warmth was instantly missed, similar to climbing out of a toasty bed on a frigid winter day. All Sam wanted was to snuggle back under the covers. 

“Gonna pick ya up,” Jazz murmured. His fingers curled around Sam, plucking him off the floor and tucking him against his chest plates. The warm thrum was an acceptable substitute for Will's hug, so Sam didn’t complain when Jazz cuddled him closer the rest of the tour. 

Sam had mistakenly hoped that his guided tour of the Ark would convince the Autobots that he could be trusted and allow him more time outside his room. He’d “behaved” and hadn’t really tried to escape. 

However, the encounter with Barricade must have spooked Jazz more than he let on because he gently dismissed any suggestions of exiting the room. Sam wasn’t happy about seeing Barricade either (several of Sam’s recent nightmares featured the bot’s hands clawing after him), but he wanted out of the room! It wasn’t fair that Barricade was essentially keeping him trapped. 

While Sam remained stuck in his room, the same could not be true for the other bots. The floodgates had opened, and the Autobots came eagerly pouring in. Every day for the past two weeks, Sam had been visited by at least one (often two) Autobots. 

“We wantcha to start meetin’ other bots,” Jazz had explained after Sam demanded an explanation. “Ya didn’t like Bulkhead?” 

“He was fine. Didn’t try to pick me up at least.” 

The same could not be said for other bots like Bluestreak or Lugnut. Thankfully, Jazz or Prowl were usually there to play referee and stop them before it got out of hand. 

The worst was the baby talk. When they’d coo and poke at him, commenting on how “perfectly precious he is! An adorable little spark.” 

Sam had even thrown a pillow at Moonracer when she wouldn’t shut up. 

They weren’t all bad, though. Elita-1 had visited with Chromia, and while their visit initially started with cooing hugs, it devolved into a crash course in Cybertronian self-defense. Standing on a raised platform, Sam mimicked Chromia’s movements while Elita-1 nudged his limbs into the correct position. 

“Will is quite talented already,” Chromia had remarked, “but you have the potential to be as good.” 

Wheeljack brought so-called “harmless” sparkling appropriate experiments, and showed Sam how to combine mixtures that would create a glittering, pink explosion. Prowl remained tense the entire visit, but Sam had had fun. Getting to “accidentally” smear glitter over Prowl’s shiny white paint had been even better. 

Bumblebee also visited again, this time with a racing video game. Sam had actually felt sad when the bright yellow bot left, cheerily waving goodbye. 

Easily the most intimidating visit, though, was Optimus Prime. The colossal alien leader had sat cross-legged on the floor, content to converse with Sam about his lessons, which classes he was enjoying, and what his favorite “human” books were. Optimus was intelligent but patient, never growing cross when Sam stumbled over his words or didn’t have an answer. Instead, he hummed thoughtfully at Sam’s comments or offered counterpoints. 

Near the end, he’d presented Sam with three miniature data pads cupped in one of his servos. 

“A couple of my favorites,” he’d said as Sam took them. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts.” 

Sam felt more anxious about that eventual conversation than he had about most of his school exams. 

Needless to say, Sam was grateful to have a break. After asking nicely, Teletraan had molded the flooring into a comfy beanbag-like structure. When draped with a few blankets and pillows, it became the perfect gaming chair. 

Sam grunted as his avatar narrowly dodged a missile and transformed into a vehicle, racing away before he could be hit. When Jazz had presented the video game reward, Sam hadn’t expected much, but Prowl and Wheeljack had created an entertaining game. 

Racing, fighting, exploring—all with an extensive character modifying system. Sam had gone through several designs before landing on the character build he liked the best. Decent armor but built for speed, it handled the sharp turns of the racetracks with ease. 

The door to the room hissed open, but Sam didn’t bother to look up from his game. “Hey, bitty bot. Finished with your lessons already?” 

“Yup,” said Sam, his body tensing as his character cleared a difficult jump. “All done. Prowl looked it over earlier.”

Jazz likely knew it too. Sam’s game wouldn’t unlock unless all his classes were done.

“Well, good, cause you’ve got company in jus’ a bit.” 

Sam paused his game, “What?” he asked. “You’re joking, Jazz. Please be joking.”

Jazz shook his head, “‘M not. They’ve been pesterin’ me fer a while now. Figured this cycle was time.” 

“Can’t you be the one to hang out with me?” Sam asked. “You could play your electro-bass or work if you had to.” 

Jazz knelt down and extended his hand towards Sam. When Sam didn’t pull away, Jazz brushed a finger over Sam’s hair. “Ya know I’d love ta, but I’ve gotta ‘nother meetin’ I’ve got to go to.” 

“Again?” Sam asked with a hint of whine. He flushed when he realized how young he sounded. “Whatever, it’s fine. Go to your meeting.”

“Mmmm, I don’t like the sound of that.” 

Jazz’s hands curled around Sam, giving him time to squirm free if needed. When Sam didn’t, he picked him up, blanket and all, and cuddled Sam against his chest. Jazz felt like a heating pad; warmth radiated out and through Sam. 

“I wo’ be gone long,” said Jazz, petting Sam’s hair. “And we can do somethin’ fun when I get back. Music, game, whatevah you like.”

“Go outside?” asked Sam, widening his eyes pleadingly. 

Jazz smirked and poked Sam’s chest, “Maybe ‘nother time, Bitlet.”

Sam huffed. Figures. 

Jazz hummed, “Now that I think about it, it’s been a bit since yer last dose, hasn’t it?”

“What, no,” said Sam, struggling to sit up. His legs kicked out, but Jazz readjusted his hold to keep Sam cradled on his back. 

“Yeah, ‘m right. It has. And you know what Ratch ordered,” said Jazz, pulling a familiar blue vial from his subspace. The substance inside sloshed as he handed it to Sam. “It’s good for you.”

The so-called “medicine” bathed Sam’s fingers in its glowing light. His mouth tingled in eager anticipation of what was to come. Sam had taken his medicine multiple times now, and while nothing dangerous had happened, his worry never entirely vanished. 

How did he know it wouldn’t hurt him? He hadn’t noticed any side effects like nausea, weight loss, or breathing issues. It left him feeling floaty and relaxed for a short period, and afterwards energetic. Nothing harmful. 

And while Sam liked the taste and the sensations from it, he hadn’t felt that deep, gnawing craving for more. Most likely, the medicine wasn’t addictive. Considering Sam’s past track record, it was likely one of the least harmful things he’d taken. 

“C’mon, Sam, you know you need to,” Jazz chided. 

“I really don’t. I was doing perfectly fine before I started taking it,” said Sam, but when Jazz tilted his head in a chiding manner, Sam sighed and uncorked the vial. 

He paused with the glass pressed against his mouth, the faint tingle buzzing against his lips. Then, closing his eyes, he tossed it back. 

A consistency of half-formed jello, thickening but still runny, filled his mouth. Sweet like melted sugar with a strange spicy not-spice that buzzed his teeth and numbed his tongue. A tingling series of jolts, not unlike Pop Rocks candy, propelled him into swallowing. 

Jazz collected the vial as Sam swiped his tongue over his teeth, cleaning away the remaining sensation. 

“All good?” asked Jazz. 

“Mmmm, good,” said Sam. Already, he could feel the medicine taking hold. It was like drinking hot tea on a frigid day, the way it sank in your stomach and warmed you from the inside out, except it was a feeling in his chest. Warm, glowing, spinning in time with Sam’s heart. 

Distantly, he felt the lapping of Jazz’s EM field brushing over him. Happiness, amusement, relief, and care each swept over Sam. His own worries, anxieties, and boredom were a fragile sandcastle against Jazz’s emotions, easily swept away. 

Sam sighed, melting into Jazz’s cradled hold. Metal shouldn’t feel comfortable, but tucked against Jazz’s chest plates, the sensations were at their strongest. Nothing mattered but the all-encompassing peaceful calm. 

A blanket settled over his body, carefully tucked around his torso and under his legs. 

“Gettin’ ya comfy, sweet spark.” His engine purred soothingly like a full-body massage chair. 

Sam hummed in response. His head lolled, eyes glazed over, and he let the medicine take him. 

He must have fallen asleep because his eyes shot open with a snort, drool drying on the side of his face. 

“Ahmmup,” Sam slurred, using a closed fist to wipe at his mouth. “Mmm, wake.”

A low chuckle vibrated through him. “Sure ‘bout that?” 

Sam weakly glared and tried to lift his head, but gave up halfway and rested it back on Jazz. 

A weak, watered-down feeling of amusement teased him. Already, the sensitivity to EM fields was fading, leaving Sam strangely hollow in their absence. 

“Did you have a nice recharge?” asked Jazz, rubbing at a bit of dried drool Sam had missed. He smirked when Sam half-heartedly batted at his finger. 

“Swas good,” Sam admitted. One second, he’d been drifting into sleep, the next jolting awake. No nightmares. Probably one of the first nightmare-free sleeps he’d had in a while. 

His mouth cracked open in a wide yawn, the sort his mom would scold as bad manners. Jazz bopped him on the head. “Thought ya were gonna eat me there for a click.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. 

Chapter Text

If Sam had known who his babysitters were beforehand, he would have begged Jazz to stay. Instead, he was confronted with an annoyingly familiar red bot and a palette-swapped version.

"You," cried Sam in annoyed despair. 

Sideswipe bent over at the waist, grinning madly at Sam, "Hi, small stuff, did you miss me?" 

"Like I miss an oozing rash." On his unmentionables. With ingrown hairs. 

"Aww, don't be like that."

Sam eyed the bright yellow Autobot standing next to Sideswipe. "Who are you?"

Sideswipe wrapped an arm around the bot, "This here is my split spark brother, Sunny." 

"Sunstreaker," the bot snapped, shoving the arm off. Somehow, he managed to make Prowl look open and friendly in comparison. 

Sideswipe appeared unfazed, though. "You're going to have so much fun with us!"

"I'd rather spend time with Prowl," said Sam, folding his arms. 

"Prowl? Prowl?! You poor sweet, squishy sparkling," lamented Sideswipe, shaking his head. "You need us to teach you how to have fun."

"Because I had so much fun last time," said Sam. It had been a big game of hot potato, except Sam was the potato, and they kept hugging him. Sideswipe hadn't been the worst offender from the recc room, but he certainly wasn't a bot Sam cared to see again. 

And Sam was stuck with both of them. 

Prowl was busy with a meeting, and Jazz had left for a work matter. There was no one to play interference should the two become clingy. 

Sunstreaker scowled as he tapped on a data pad. With a violent, final jab, he subspaced it. "There, Teletraan should have the specs now."

"For wha–"