Chapter Text

I walked the short distance to my office in the medical complex on Diego Garcia. There were signs of fresh construction – or rather reconstruction – after the battle here months ago, but I'd only read about that in the classified files General Morshower had approved for me.

As the new NEST psychiatrist, I knew more than probably any civilian human alive about the aliens stationed here – the Autobots, as they called themselves. I needed that clearance so that the men and women who came to me for help could tell their whole stories without reservation. It had made for some gripping reading, though, and I had to admit that I was more than a little intrigued. When I wasn't scared stiff, that is.

My predecessor had died in the same battle that had taken out those buildings. By all accounts it had been brutal with significant losses on both the aliens' side and on the humans' and so I'd been expecting a heavy caseload on arrival two weeks ago. So far, the only patients to darken my door had been referrals from the small medical center on base.

I unlocked my office door and turned on my computer to check my emails and to see if there'd been new patients booked overnight. When I pulled up the schedule, though, I nearly fell out of my chair. Optimus Prime would be my first appointment of the day, in about ten minutes. His file had indicated that one of his extended family members had also been a casualty of the recent battle. Was that why he had made the appointment?

What on Earth was I supposed to do with him? I wondered. Was he expecting me to go outside and speak with his base form, or would he visit me in his holoform? Did he think I could prescribe him medication? Could you even medicate an Autobot? And I was a human psychiatrist with some unique skills and training, but no way in hell was I qualified to give grief counseling to a giant alien robot!

I allowed myself a few minutes to emotionally deal with the shock, and then I started to pull myself together with a mindful-minute meditation. Once I'd calmed down a bit, I turned this problem over in my mind. This must be a misunderstanding. I would have to listen well to what he had to say and then clearly communicate that I was here to treat humans and humans only. It would be foolhardy if not dangerous to think that I could offer anything of value psychologically to the aliens.

There was a knock at my door, and my heart leaped to my throat again. I swallowed it down. Straightening my blouse, I crossed to the door and opened it. Optimus Prime's holoform stood in the hallway, and he tipped his cowboy hat.

I stepped aside, gesturing that he should enter. Finding my voice, I said, "Hi, I'm Dr. Ellen Sarkisian. And I take it you're...Mr. Prime?"

He chuckled as he removed his hat. "It would be culturally appropriate to call me Optimus."

"Please," I said, gesturing toward the leather recliner my patients typically sat in. "Have a seat."

"Thank you."

He sat down, and I sat in the office chair behind my desk again. Normally I'd sit on the couch, but he'd thrown me for a loop. Too late now. He looked at me expectantly, and I cleared my throat. "I...You caught me by surprise this morning. I didn't think I had anyone scheduled until the afternoon."

"My apologies. I saw the slot was open and assumed you would have received a notification."

"It's fine," I assured him. "It's just...I'm normally not this discombobulated."

He smiled. "I assume that the nature of your patient doesn't help."

I sighed, trying to pick my words carefully. "It's not so much the nature of the patient as it is the nature of my training. I've only ever worked with humans. I'm afraid the differences between our species would make it inadvisable for me to provide counseling or treatment for you. All of my practice is built around certain assumptions that probably don't transfer to you, and I could exacerbate things by..."

"I'm not here for your counseling services," he assured me.

But that only left me more confused. "Then...why are you here?"

"To lead by example."

A slow smile spread across my face as that sank in. "Thank you, Optimus."

He nodded regally. "Of course. You humans are remarkably resilient, and it pains me to see my soldiers suffering unnecessarily. If this is what it takes to inspire confidence in you, then I will happily spare the half hour."

I had to admit I was rather impressed. But then I remembered the other part of his comment. "It might be helpful for me to better understand why the NEST soldiers don't have confidence in me."

"It is less a matter of them not being confident and more a matter of trying to be tough."

Ah, yes. I'd encountered that one the world over, literally.

"My thought," he continued, "was that no one will be able to say a person is weak for visiting you if I've apparently availed myself of your services."

"So this is just for appearances, then?" I asked to be clear.

"Well, as you pointed out, there are some significant differences between our species."

"True," I allowed, relieved that this was more of a social call than a therapy session. But since I had his ear for the next twenty minutes or so, I said, "I admit I'm curious. Is leading by example a concept native to your culture or is it one you picked up from Earth?"

"It is native, and one of the many surprising intersections between human culture and our own," he said.

"I would welcome your insights," I said, intrigued yet again.

We occupied the rest of the half hour analyzing his observations about the rather uncanny ways humans and Cybertronians were alike. The concepts of family ties, freedom and agency, friendship, nobility, sportsmanship, gift registries (of all things!), and even religion were significant overlaps. By the time he had to leave, I felt like I had a much better understanding of why they had so successfully integrated with the human part of NEST.

"You know," I said, as we shook hands at the door, "if you are ever able to manage it, I would appreciate a follow up visit where we discuss the differences you've observed." His living perspective was so much more helpful than words on a page.

He nodded in agreement. "I'll schedule one in the next week or so. Scientist to scientist."

And that was an appointment I would most definitely be looking forward to.

…

That evening, dinner was interrupted by a knock on the front door. My son, Baze, jumped up to answer it, probably thinking it was a friend from school, but it was the recently-promoted Lt. Colonel Lennox on the doorstep.

My husband Alex gave me a concerned glance, but I shrugged and, rising to my feet, stepped outside with Lennox. Our house here on the island was small, a cottage really, and our conversation would be more private outside.

"Is it true that you saw Optimus Prime today?" he demanded.

Well this was unexpected! While he wasn't technically a patient, Optimus was very thoughtfully and kindly pretending to be one, and it would defeat his purpose if I didn't play along. "I'm afraid I can't confirm or deny that. Patient confidentiality."

Lennox practically loomed over me. "Look, Sarkisian, I'm responsible for that ten-ton leader of the walking weapons. He lost more than we humans can possibly understand in that last battle. If he's unstable, I need to know!"

"If I ever thought in my professional opinion that he – or any of my patients – were a threat to himself or others, I would notify the proper authorities."

"That 'proper authority' would be me, got it? At least with Optimus, that's the case. Not Prowl. Not the JCS. Me."

I blinked in surprise. "May I ask why, sir?"

His eyes hardened. "Because the kid and Ratchet can help him get his head screwed on straight again if need be, but outsiders wouldn't understand. And Prowl would record it in something official because he's more than a little OCD about rules."

"So this is about protecting the reputation of the unit?"

"Protecting the integrity of the unit," Lennox corrected. "Optimus isn't a threat to anyone but Decepticons. Even on his worst day, he's a pillar of strength that we all rely on – 'bots and humans. We need him, and I don't want outsiders sticking their noses in, making judgments, and looking for an opportunity to shut us down."

And I was an outsider still. "I see." I almost told him the truth. Almost. But if Optimus had wanted to include Colonel Lennox in this conspiracy, he would have. Perhaps Colonel Lennox was one of the men Optimus hoped would come to trust me. All the more reason to play along.

Since the Autobot wasn't actually a patient and he wanted our visits to be known, I didn't feel bad saying, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but Optimus and I will be having another meeting in the coming week. If I ever have any concerns about him – and so far I have none whatsoever – I would bring them to you first. Is that satisfactory?"

His expression softened from surprise to relief and he answered, "Yes. Sorry about interrupting your dinner."

"It's fine. You were worried about a friend."

He tilted his head, smiling just a little. "Yes. You're good."

I grinned in answer. "Thank you. That means all the more considering your educational background."

"You read up on all of us?" he asked, knowing I was referring to his degree in psychology.

"Just the major players. And the Autobots, because who wouldn't when handed a file like that?"

His smile became more genuine. "The last psychiatrist said they were above his pay grade and got after us for projecting our humanity onto them. And he was probably right about the projecting part, at least a little bit, but..." He trailed off, more thoughtful now.

"But they are more like us than one would reasonably expect."

"That's a good way of putting it. Well, like I said, I'll let you get back to your dinner." Nodding once, he turned and walked off.

When I went back inside, Alex gave me a concerned look, but I smiled reassuringly. "Just Colonel Lennox welcoming me to the base."

His expression said he didn't believe me, but he let it slide.

…

"Before we begin," I said to Optimus' holoform, "I owe you my thanks. My schedule is twice as full now compared to what it was a week ago."

He shifted in the recliner, making himself comfortable. "I noticed that when I booked today's appointment."

"You should also know that Colonel Lennox is something of a papa bear when it comes to you."

His expression went blank for a moment, and then he smiled. "He was defensive of me."

"He interrupted dinner to make sure that, if I thought you needed an intervention, I'd go to him instead of the JCS with that recommendation."

Optimus chuckled softly, but he seemed pleased by that.

"You've earned the loyalty and friendship of a man from a different species who was born on a different world from you," I pointed out. "That's a rather impressive chasm to bridge. We humans could learn a thing or two from you."

He tilted his head, considering. "It's a pattern that has repeated often among the NEST soldiers and even their families, and I'm not certain we Autobots deserve the credit. They were the first to make space for us in their social spheres. I suppose I've begun to take it for granted." Then humor glimmered in his eyes. "But that's not why you invited me back."

"True. But I'm happy to talk about whatever you'd like. This is your appointment, after all."

"I'm content to expand on our previous conversation," he said. "You asked about differences. I assume you mean more than just the differences in physiology."

"Actually, that's not a bad place to start. Among humans, when we struggle with emotional or mental disorders, we have a host of tools at our disposal. I can't even begin to imagine what your equivalent of pharmacology might look like, though."

"We don't have anything truly analogous," he answered. "Humans tend to adapt their external circumstances to overcome challenges, while we adapt ourselves. As you've no doubt observed, we are natural mimics. We assume whatever form will best help us survive and thrive."

I considered that. We humans used houses and clothing to adapt to our environment, built machines that helped us adapt to the sky and ocean, and added medications to our diet to treat disorders. Yes, the generalization was a good one on our end. And what he was saying about his own species made sense from the cheap seats, too. "But surely, in so many years of war, you have acquired traumas that require treatment of some kind."

"Yes. We call them scars of the spark. But prior to this war, the treatment was primarily to turn to kin."

"You were resilient due to strong social networks."

"Extreme social networks, from a human perspective," he corrected. "Bonds define relationships among us. And through our bonds, our mates, creators, and siblings all could bear some of the pain. And they could share their own hope and kindness and affection with the one struggling."

"That's right," I remembered, "bonds are a mental and emotional connection shared between related family members."

"Correct. But you've got it backwards. Family ties were defined by the bond, by the nature and strength of it."

"I'm afraid I don't understand the distinction you're making."

He sighed heavily. "As an example, Chromia had several sisters, one of whom is Arcee and one of whom was named Elita One. Elita was my mate. My spouse."

My eyebrows rose in surprise. Optimus Prime had a spouse? Had? "Is she…?"

"She was extinguished several years ago," he evenly, solemnly said. "By human standards, Chromia is my sister-in-law, but the bond that connected us was through Elita. With her death, I lost my kin-bond with both Chromia and with Arcee. And since Chromia and Ironhide are mates, I had a kin-bond with him and have now lost it as well. The bond defines the relationship."

My heart suddenly ached for him. "My condolences, Optimus."

He nodded, accepting my words. "As a race, we were once widely interconnected. Dozens of mechs and femmes would bear up the grieving spark, and if the grief wore on the sparks of the kin who were supporting the bereaved, then their kin would bear them up."

I blinked as I tried to envision a society so interwoven. I could see why they wouldn't need much in the way of formal psychology – their griefs and struggles would be intimately understood, accepted, and addressed. "But what did you do about...processing errors? I mean, among humans, we have genetic or neurological defects that can create disordered thinking and emotions. Did you have anything similar? And if so, what did you do about it?"

"Occasionally a 'bot would exhibit what you might call abnormal psychology," Optimus said. "And as I said, we adapt ourselves. If a processor is glitching, we install a new processor. If software becomes corrupted, we reinstall it or upload a patch. Even our battle protocols are an example of such patches. Great skill is needed to make deeper adaptations to code, of course, and those physicians were probably our best analog to human psychiatrists."

"So processing disorders were highly treatable among your people?"

"Yes. For example, before the war, Prowl's glitch could have been repaired. Only our most-skilled experts would have attempted a modification that deep in the code, but it would have been treatable. Megatron was a notable exception, however. When he became corrupted, he knew that remedial action would be taken, and so he hid it by blocking his bonds. When that became untenable, he either murdered his kin in secret or voluntarily severed his bonds with them. He was one of our few successful psychopaths."

That actually explained quite a bit about their war – assuming it wasn't propaganda. "And now?"

His reaction surprised me. He sighed deeply with a pained expression, his gaze dropped to the floor, and his shoulders hunched down. "Now the clans are shattered. So many have been extinguished in the War that we are almost all isolated. Even a single bond is a precious, enviable gift." In a softer voice, he added, "We were never sparked to be so alone."

And suddenly I saw him through the eyes of a therapist instead of a fellow scientist. Such profound isolation for a species as highly socialized as his must be devastating. And even those who still had bonds didn't have proper clans to assist them in smoothing over the bumps of life. Even without the added traumas of war – of having to kill your own kind or see your friends slaughtered – just the isolation alone would be traumatic. "Every minute of every day, you're all carrying untreated trauma."

"Untreatable trauma," he corrected a little stiffly, lifting his gaze.

"Yes, of course. I didn't mean to imply blame." I paused and he nodded his head in acceptance. "How many clans are left, Optimus?"

"Unknown. It's entirely possible that the biggest one left among the Autobots is Chromia's – she has two bonds."

I sat back against the couch, stunned. I didn't know the first thing about fixing alien robot processing errors, but I was sure of one thing from my head to my toes just then: the Autobots needed therapy. Not for combat readiness reasons but because they were sentient, feeling beings who were hurting. Every single one of them.

But our half-hour was almost up, and I had a hunch that the mech I needed to talk to was not the one sitting in front of me.

"I apologize," Optimus said, "I did not intend to impose our struggles on you like this. It is not our way."

I half-smiled, "You're hardly imposing, Optimus. If anything, I'm the one bringing up painful subjects and then poking them. I let my professional curiosity run away with me and forgot that this isn't theoretical for you. I owe you an apology."

"Not at all. It has been…pleasant to speak with someone who isn't focused on my tactical uses."

I huffed a laugh. "If that's all we see in you and your kind, then we are tossing away a jewel. I'm very grateful you've taken the time to share your insights with me. In fact, if you're willing and time allows, I'd welcome an opportunity to meet again. I'm learning so much from you."

A slow smile spread across his face. "I'll see what can be arranged."

…

Lennox didn't bother showing up in person the next time he interrupted dinner. I saw his name on the caller ID of my cell phone and stepped outside to answer it. "Sarkisian here."

"What in the name of the Unmaker is this?"

"I assume you're referring to the request I emailed to you this afternoon."

"I thought we weren't going to be projecting our humanity onto them."

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Not yet," he barked. "I know you're the one with the medical license, but even I know it's dangerous to counsel someone when you're not trained. And the training to counsel them doesn't exist."

"Yet."

"What?"

"Yet, sir. The training I would need to counsel them doesn't exist yet. That is the point behind my request, sir. To find out if my observations are accurate. To find out from someone who does have medical expertise on the Autobots if what I'm thinking is plausible or even possible."

He sighed heavily, and I seized the opening. "I wasn't going to put it in writing, but you have to understand what I saw last week, sir. I was careful to not project our humanity onto him – I wasn't using human terms for their physiology or psychology – but he did. He applied our terms to his species. What's more, they are natural mimics. This seems to extend beyond just their appearance – they take on the characteristics of others, including other species. Talk therapy, for example, might not have been helpful for a Cybertronian who never left their planet, but here, interacting with humans, I suspect they have naturally adapted to become more like us. They have evolved the ability to make use of talk therapy because they naturally mimic us and we humans make use of talk therapy. At least, that's my theory, and I'd like to run it past Ratchet to see if it has any merit."

For another several seconds, there was silence on the other end, and then Lennox asked, "You really think all this is necessary, Sarkisian?"

I bit back my initial response of shouting, "Yes!" and instead opted for, "It's why the military brought me here, Colonel."

"To support and counsel humans."

"To support and counsel anyone who needs it. And you and I both know they need it, probably every single one of them. The therapeutic tools they used don't really exist anymore. They've all been destroyed in the War. They have virtually no options left."

"Just...remember, do no harm."

"Of course. My conversations with Optimus have been remarkable, sir, and...permission to speak freely?"

Sounding resigned, he said, "Sure – I can't seem to stop you anyway."

Over the phone, he missed my halfhearted smile. I really should be better about following military protocol. "We spoke about clans last time, sir, and about how shattered they are. His body language conveyed his grief and pain as clearly as if he'd been human. I suspect he doesn't even have to consciously think about it anymore, or at least, he doesn't have to use the Autobot equivalent of conscious thought to convey his emotions in his holoform. This isn't me going off half-cocked. He's hurting, and I honestly want to help him."

"Why?"

I paused, trying to figure out how to say it without giving away Optimus' ulterior motives. "Because I admire him. He's been honest with me, and the person inside is admirable. I see why he's quickly won your friendship and respect. He has won mine as well."

"So this isn't about his...stability?"

"I still have no concerns whatsoever in that regard," I assured him. "However, I'd like to develop some therapeutic tools before we start having concerns about anyone. It's so much easier to treat trauma early than it is to help a patient unlearn unhealthy adaptations. That's why I'm requesting interaction privileges with Ratchet."

"Alright, I'll give this a more thorough look-through and get back to you."

"Thank you, sir. And one last thing?"

"Yes?"

"Who or what is the Unmaker?"

"What?" Then he started laughing. "The Autobots aren't the only ones who adapt. Ask Optimus the next time you meet."

Chapter Text

When Lennox did get back to me, it was with a rather cryptic text. /My house, next Tuesday at noon. If anyone asks, you're having lunch with my wife Sarah. Ratchet will be there./

Between Optimus' subterfuge and this, my psychology practice was beginning to feel surprisingly cloak and dagger.

When I arrived, there was a Search and Rescue vehicle in the driveway, and to my relief (since the text had been unclear on that point), a woman greeted me at the door. "Dr. Sarkisian, welcome!"

"Thank you."

"I'm Sarah Lennox," she said as she led the way through her house to the back deck. A lunch of finger sandwiches and salad was spread on a small table in the shade. At it, a human-looking male was waiting, arms crossed. If I was reading him right, body language and expression were both radiating defiance.

Well, this was going to be an interesting lunch. Ratchet was making it very clear that if I couldn't win him over this afternoon, we would not be speaking again. Today would be my one and only chance.

Mrs. Lennox gestured toward an open seat and said, "Make yourself at home. I'll be inside if you need anything." Then she left me without introducing the stranger I could only assume was Ratchet.

I extended my hand in greeting. "I'm Dr. Ellen Sarkisian."

He didn't move to shake it. "I've heard."

Since this was the Lennox house and they apparently wanted me to feel welcome even if Ratchet clearly didn't, I took my seat and poured myself some lemonade from the pitcher on the table. That, and it had been a warm walk over here.

"Your human mental healthcare will not benefit a Cybertronian," he bluntly said.

Disappointment hit me hard. I wasn't sure whether he was making assumptions or if he had a basis for his statement, but either way, this wasn't the collaborative sort of conversation I'd enjoyed with Optimus. I'd hoped that we'd be able to at least discuss the possibilities as fellow medical professionals.

"It was foolish of you to give Will the impression it would."

"That was never my intent." I'd been careful to avoid overselling the idea.

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. "He's convinced you're successfully treating Optimus."

"Okay, that one is Optimus' fault, not mine," I defensively said.

He froze for a second and then studied me more closely. "What do you mean?"

Uh-oh. I'd assumed Optimus had only meant to hide his true intent from the human part of NEST. "He didn't…?"

"No."

"I'm not sure I should say."

"Listen, Sarkisian, don't give me some flimsy doctor-patient privilege excuse. Whatever half-baked plan that rust-for-processors is cooking up, you'd better spill it. Especially if you've been arrogant enough to try to counsel a Prime."

I took a deep breath. Hopefully I could talk Ratchet into at least going along with Optimus' plan, even if he nixed mine. "I have not been trying to provide professional treatment for him in any way. He made his initial appointment as a way to lead by example, hoping to encourage the human NEST soldiers to avail themselves of my services."

Ratchet's holoform snorted and half-smiled. "That sounds like our Prime."

"We enjoyed the conversation so much that he returned a second time at my request. He has a wealth of knowledge, and what little he has shared has given me much greater insight into NEST as a unit."

"And into us aliens?"

"And into you aliens, I won't deny it. That's why I requested interaction privileges with you, actually. I know that I'm not qualified to treat any of you Autobots, but as one healer to another, I was hoping to...collaborate is probably too strong a word, but at least have a conversation or two. I don't understand your species, but I do recognize when a human is in psychological pain. If Optimus doesn't bear some hidden traumas, he did an excellent job the other day acting like a human who does. I'm trying to make sense of what I've observed."

Ratchet sat back in his chair, and his expression had softened a bit. Reaching for one of the sandwiches, he said, "Start eating. I can hear your stomach rumbling. If we're going to have this conversation or two, I don't want you fainting from low blood sugar or something."

I smiled and reached for the salad tongs.

Over lunch, I detailed what Optimus had shared with me about the shattering of the clans and my own observations about his pain. "But that's just what I'm seeing from the cheap seats."

"He's right that most of our therapeutic options have been destroyed, and those that we still have are little more than stop-gap measures."

"But you do have some therapies you could try for him?"

Ratchet shook his head. "We've already exhausted those. As I said, they are stop-gap measures that we've developed over the course of the War. They weren't up to the task to begin with, and now we've added millennia-worth of scars of the spark for each and every one of us."

I sighed and nodded my head. "I don't know how deeply your mimic instincts run or if they even could provide therapeutic advantages. Could you become enough like humans through your interactions with us to benefit from something like talk therapy? I honestly have no idea. You're the medical expert on the Autobots, and that's why I requested an opportunity to speak with you."

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "Before arriving on Earth, I would have said it's impossible, that we're too different. But humanity has proved itself to be surprisingly...similar to us. The overlap is striking, if not astounding sometimes. A Cybertronian spark and processor have more in common with a human heart and mind than either species is probably comfortable with. The question here is whether there's enough overlap of the right kind."

I nodded, following his line of reasoning.

"And you make a good point about our mimic instinct, as you put it. It is much more than armor-deep. We adapt to those we interact with. That's one of the problems of the War – in some ways the Decepticons and Autobots have become entirely separate cultures because we haven't really associated with each other in more than ten-thousand years. Finding home and family among you humans has only accelerated the differentiation."

Uh-oh. "Would putting those adaptations to therapeutic use only make matters worse, then?"

He tilted his head and a flicker of a smile made it through before he sobered again. "Possibly. Officially, we still hope for reconciliation, but at this point, survival is the most important consideration." He paused again, taking another bite of his sandwich and thoughtfully chewing it. "Maybe this is what's necessary for reconciliation to be possible again. You're right that every single one of us is walking around with multiple scars of the spark, Autobots and Decepticons alike. Maybe we need to find healing for the Autobots first. It's hard to share something we don't have."

I sipped at my lemonade, a little blown away. I'd been driven primarily by a desire to help Optimus. I had never even considered the larger ramifications. The thought of our work having a hand in helping their entire species was more than a bit overwhelming. No wonder Ratchet had thought me arrogant. It was arrogant. What in the world was I thinking?

"Which human therapies did you have in mind?" he asked

I drew a deep breath. As overwhelming as all this was, if I could help, I wanted to.

We kicked ideas around for the next couple of hours, until Sarah Lennox poked her head out the back door. "I need to go pick my daughter up from school. You're both welcome to stay, but I thought you should know that Annabelle doesn't have security clearance, Dr. Sarkisian."

"I think we've imposed on your hospitality long enough," Ratchet said, rising to his feet. "But thank you for being willing to host us."

"Anytime," she cheerfully answered and went back inside.

Ratchet started collecting dishes, and I helped clear my own place, too.

Mrs. Lennox realized what we were doing and came out to finish up. "Would you mind if Dr. Sarkisian and I had lunch here again next week?" Ratchet asked her. "Fewer eavesdroppers at your house."

"I'd be happy to host. Any preferences on the meal?"

"I can provide it next time," Ratchet said.

She waved away the offer. "You'd bring it from the mess hall, and really, no thanks."

"What we had today was delicious," I said. "If it wasn't too much trouble to make."

She grinned. "Not at all!" Turning that grin on Ratchet, she said, "It's a date."

...

"I've been thinking," Ratchet began without preamble during our second power lunch, "and I expect your first instinct is right. Talk therapy would probably be our best starting point."

This was a complete 180 from his attitude last time, but I wasn't about to complain. "Oh?"

"Yes. One of the first things any of us does upon arrival here is learn the human languages. And while verbal language doesn't shape our perceptions of reality as much as it does for humans, it is a shared reality. It's one of the first places in which our species begin to intersect and overlap cognitively, for want of a better term."

"So talk-based therapies will likely have the best chance for success," I summarized, making sure I was following him.

"Well, it's our best candidate in general. Jazz or Blaster would probably have responded well to music therapy, but since they're both dead and gone, there's no sense in investing too much energy there."

The casual way he mentioned both mechs' deaths set off professional red flags in my mind, but for the sake of the collaboration, I didn't comment on it. Instead I considered other forms of talk-based therapy. "Group therapy?" I ventured.

He snorted. "Only if it's the right group."

"That goes without saying," I said with a half-smile. Even I knew that a twins-only therapy session would likely result in homicide.

"Maybe a trial-run with me, Arcee, and Jolt. Among us, we have enough scars of the spark to be worth the effort, and since we've all got a medical background, we'll be tuned in to ways the therapy could help and we will be able to offer knowledgeable feedback."

Surprised, I asked, "You'd include yourself?"

"If we're going to trial-run a therapy that involves poking spark-wounds, I'm not going to ask anyone to try it if I'm not there side-by-side with them."

His willingness to walk beside the test subjects as I potentially put them through hell was rather impressive, but he'd misunderstood. "No, I meant, you'd trust me to take the lead in a research capacity?"

He shrugged. "This is your hare-brained idea. May as well."

I nodded in agreement, overwhelmed again but for different reasons. It had been a decade and a half since my last formal research project.

"Guided meditation is more of a long-shot," he continued, "but it's a talk-based therapy that has a degree of overlap, from what I can tell. We can't completely clear our minds outside of stasis, but we can reduce the focus to a single thread of thought."

He took a deep breath and then sighed, again in a remarkably-human imitation. "But before we do any of this, we'd better make Optimus aware, partly because he'll likely be interested in it on a scientific level and partly because there's another person, a human, who should be roped into this, too. Optimus and the boy could provide better insight into the overlap between human and Cybertronian psyches than anyone else alive."

I remembered Lennox's comment that Ratchet and 'the kid' could help Optimus if he ever needed it, and I wondered if they had both been referring to the same person. "Okay?"

"It's his secret to share, not mine," Ratchet added. "Just...loop Optimus in."

…

I wasn't sure why I was nervous enough to pace my office. Optimus had shown himself to be a kind, thoughtful soul...spark, and I was reasonably sure that, even if he shot my wild ideas down, he wouldn't be rude to me.

Maybe it was because I wanted my theory to be true – I wanted to help them – far more than was probably wise.

He knocked on my office door a couple of minutes after his appointment was due to start, and I let him in.

"Dr. Sarkisian," he greeted.

"Optimus Prime," I formally answered, gesturing toward the recliner.

"You requested to meet with me?" he asked as he sat down.

"Yes. I…" I deliberately chose the couch instead of hiding behind my desk again. "I have a bit of a confession to make."

His eyebrows rose in the perfect mimic of a surprised human.

"I've been talking with Ratchet. We...I believe it's possible some treatment techniques from human psychology might be helpful for your race. Ratchet thinks it's an intriguing idea and wants to loop you in on my theories."

Surprised, he asked, "Ratchet thinks it's possible you could help us?"

"It's premature to go that far, but he would like to explore that possibility. He also hinted that there's another person, a human, I should speak with who could potentially give me some insight. He referred to that human as 'the boy' but wouldn't tell me anything more."

Optimus made an unhappy sound and said, "He already told you too much." I cringed, but his expression and tone softened. "But Ratchet wouldn't have made the suggestion unless he thought that your ideas have merit and that you could be trusted." He sighed deeply and then said, "I share a brother-bond with a human."

I almost tipped over. "You what?"

"All Primes are brothers," he said, jutting out his chin slightly, "and the human in question is a Prime. The bond defines the relationship."

"How did that even happen?" I stammered.

"It is a long story. Suffice it to say, Ratchet is correct. After years of sharing that bond, we have a rather unique insight into the ways human and Cybertronian minds are both similar and very different."

My breath whooshed out, and I remembered a little detail from the classified NEST files. "Samuel James Witwicky, AKA Samuel Prime."

"Yes. He is my brother."

"In the Cybertronian meaning of the word?" I repeated, still trying to wrap my head around it.

"Yes. I do try to treat him the way a human brother would, as well."

"Because you adapt. You mimic the human role."

"We mutually adapt to each other," he diplomatically allowed. "We are brothers. Equals. We influence each other."

And like Ratchet had said, that was also a trait of Cybertronian kinship relationships.

"How would I go about requesting interaction privileges with him?"

Optimus tentatively smiled. "Let me see what his schedule is like."

...

It was the most mysterious place on the island – the Autobot hangar. I knew where it was and who was housed there, but even with interaction privileges, I hadn't been permitted to see them in their base forms or interact with them unless they sought me out, invariably in their holoforms.

Until today.

Optimus had invited me here, and so I was finally allowed into the inner sanctum. There was a garage door big enough for the Autobots to enter with a human-sized door beside it. As promised, a female holoform was waiting to greet me.

She looked up from her phone at my approach, and I was again struck by how effortlessly the Autobots were able to mimic our mannerisms. "Dr. Sarkisian?" she asked.

"Yes. River Christiansen, I presume?"

She smiled and nodded. "This way." And she opened the door for me.

I stepped in to see two robot forms twice my height, and they were wrestling and lobbing insults at each other. Before I could ask, River shouted, "Hey! Knock it off, you two!"

The wrestling robots disengaged and stepped back a pace, but they were still trash talking.

River added, "Don't make me transform!"

I almost laughed, especially when it worked and the two robots turned to walk off in different directions, still grumbling under their breath.

Tilting her head toward a communication station up on some scaffolding, she said to me, "Come on." She led the way up the stairs to where Lennox was talking with some fellow soldiers. I climbed more slowly behind her. He returned her salute and nodded to me in acknowledgement. Then he pulled a phone out of his pocket, handed it to me, and muttered "show off" before rolling his eyes and turning to look at a vehicle below.

Before I could ask him what he meant, the vehicle began to transform. The platform we were on, while quite sturdy, was high enough to make me a little clingy when it came to the railing. This being of metal stretched even taller, so that I was looking squarely at where his Adam's apple would be, were he human. I audibly gulped, and River chuckled.

"Welcome," Optimus Prime said, his voice unmistakable.

"Thank you," I shakily managed.

"There's only one form of communication more secure than that cell phone," River said, then playfully added, "and you don't have the hardware for it. This'll have to do for now."

"I'm sure it will suffice," I said.

"Let's go someplace a bit more private for this conversation," Optimus suggested, extending his hand with his palm flat and up.

Was I supposed to climb into it?

I gulped again, looking at this alien face – all sharp angles and metallic. We were twenty feet up! Could I trust him to not drop me?

I was asking him to trust me with his biggest secret.

I looked back at that hand and then climbed aboard, catching a glimpse of River's smirk of approval before the holoform popped out of existence.

"So," I said as cheerfully as I could manage. "Where shall we go?"

Lowering me to the ground, he answered, "Boomtown," and transformed, opening the passenger-side door for me. I climbed in and he said through the radio, "Go ahead and call Sam on the way."

Blowing out a breath, I looked him up in the contacts and hit "Send."

He picked up immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Dr. Ellen Sarkesian. Is this Samuel Witwicky?"

"Yes. Optimus briefed me. Can you really help them?"

I heard in his voice a powerful echo of my own desire to help heal their hurts. If anything, his desire was probably stronger. "That remains to be seen, but it is our goal."

"Okay, then, I'm in. What do you need from me?"

I hadn't expected the conversation to progress this quickly, so I was a little breathless when I asked, "What's it like – a Cybertronian processor, that is – from a human perspective?"

He huffed a laugh. "Organized. Like…like a library. Everything neat and orderly. A place for every memory and every memory in its place. They regularly run defrag processes to tidy everything up."

Mindful that Optimus was overhearing all this, I said, "What about…traumas?"

"Well now you're talking about the spark instead of the processor," he blithely said. "It's kind of like conscious thought and the subconscious. Their sparks aren't like our souls, though, because they have a physical form as well as a metaphysical aspect."

"I'm sorry," I interrupted. "A physical form?"

"Didn't they go over this? Oh, I guess not," he said, answering his own question. "Um, Optimus, maybe you'd better explain this one. I don't want to say too much or the wrong thing."

"Our sparks are created by the All Spark," he said through the radio. "A creator prepares an empty shell and then brings it to the All Spark in the hopes that life will be granted. If it is, then the All Spark creates the energy-being that is our sparks along with an insulation casing that allows our sparks to interact with the spark chamber and the rest of the shell. There is code embedded in the casing which comes from the All Spark, in addition to the code pre-loaded into the empty shell prior to creation."

"Wait," I said, "let me make sure I'm following here. At the creation of a new spark – a new Cybertronian – there's code that's contributed by the Cybertronian…parent, I guess, and then there's also code contributed by the All Spark itself?"

"Yes," Optimus solemnly replied. "That is correct. And classified."

Along with everything else about them. "Got it. So…a spark is the spark itself, meaning the part of you that's energy, plus the casing, the code that comes from your parents, and the frame or shell. Did I get that all right?"

"Almost," Sam corrected. "Energy being plus casing with code plus spark chamber plus frame with processor that also has code. Think of it like a Russian doll set. The part you can see – the armor and alt-form – is the outside layer. Inside of that is the spark chamber. It's really sturdy because it's basically got a small star inside of it. Inside of the spark chamber is the casing, which was created by the All Spark. The previous two layers were made by the bot's creator or creators. So anyway, you've got the casing and then within that is the actual energy being. But if the spark chamber gets damaged, then that alone could cause death, even if the casing and spark itself are intact. And if the casing gets damaged or is breached, that can cause death, even if the spark chamber is intact."

I blinked, trying to process what he was saying. "I think I follow you now."

"When the 'bots talk about 'scars of the spark,' they aren't speaking metaphorically," Sam continued. "If a sibling or close kin dies, that mars the spark-casing. Cracks it."

"A literally-broken heart," I said as the pieces clicked.

"Yes. So these traumas caused by the severing of bonds aren't just emotional. They're physical, too. Ratchet has treated the physical parts as best he can, but…"

"They're not equipped to deal with damage this extensive," I realized. "It's a false dichotomy to separate physical and emotional injury."

"When it comes to matters of the spark, yes," Sam said. "Without clans to help them heal, they remain…vulnerable. What, it's true!"

Optimus said, "I can count on one hand the number of humans who are aware of this vulnerability, Dr. Sarkisian. I expect you to hold this information in the closest of confidences."

"Not even Colonel Lennox will know," I promised him.

"He's one of the few who does. Assume he and Sam are the only two who do."

I nodded. "So…talk therapy, if successful, could potentially help these…fractures heal?"

"That's what I would consider a successful treatment, yes," Optimus said.

I frowned thoughtfully as I tried to wrap my brain around that. "We'll probably end up disappointing you, then. I'm not sure it's possible to talk a fracture through healing."

"Ratchet's got that part covered," Sam said. "But the other side of it – the emotional part – well, let's just say even I know Ratchet's not the most skilled mech for that part."

"He carries too many scars himself," Optimus added.

"So the two go hand-in-hand, the physical and emotional healing?" I asked.

"Correct," Optimus answered. "All the physical remedies in the world would be insufficient to heal a broken bond. And all the sympathy and kindness and connection is useless if the impact to the spark is too much."

"I know this is messy," Sam added, "but I'd really appreciate it if you'd try at least, Dr. Sarkisian. We both would. Even if it ends up being an abject failure, we'll at least have tried. I have an inkling of what they're all going through, and even a little bit of relief would mean a lot."

I was glad he wasn't setting the bar too high, but it was far from guaranteed that human treatments could provide any relief. "A major part of my theory relies on the assumption that the Autobots have adapted themselves and are mimicking humans enough that human interventions would help. You understand the differences betweena human and a Cybertronian mind more than anyone, Mr. Witwicky. Do you think it would help?"

"I don't know. It's not so much that we're similar as it is that we're…not incompatible, if you know what I mean. There are still some really major differences. But for all that, they're still people. I wouldn't get so hung up on mechanics and biological differences. Just treat them like people."

I wasn't sure if it would help to point out that people were their biology, in all its complexity. Anything more than that was delving into the metaphysical, and that was an area far beyond my expertise. But I remembered again seeing Optimus' holoform hunching over in grief. Straightening in my seat, I said, "As long as we're clear that this is all as experimental as it gets… I'd like to try."

Optimus' simply said, "I'll notify Ratchet."

Chapter Text

I'd thought the Autobot hangar was intimidating, but it had nothing on Ratchet's med bay.

The main hangar was obviously designed for humans and made allowances of height and spacing for Autobots. Ratchet's med bay was clearly designed for Cybertronians, and any allowances made for humans were afterthoughts, and knowing him, they were probably pretty grudging.

The two human helpers who were on duty had been given time off for the duration of our attempted therapy session. That meant I was the sole organic in a room full of substances, parts, and power sources all liable to kill me.

And then there were my – our – test subjects, three robots in their root modes standing in a semi-circle around the repair berth Ratchet had deposited me on. Somewhere in the assemblage of plates and struts, optics and sensors, they probably had facial expressions, but I couldn't really see them. The metal kept getting in the way.

"Ready to start?" Ratchet asked.

I glanced again at my clipboard before setting it aside. (Ratchet had provided a box of some kind for me to use as a table). "Yes. I've received the digital versions of your signed consent forms, and I understand Ratchet has taken the necessary physical measurements. Before we begin, though, I'd like to reiterate what we are trying to accomplish today, how we're going to go about it, and hopefully answer any questions you might have. Is that okay with everyone?"

The 'bots across from me nodded.

I nodded in answer. "I have a theory that your ability to so effectively mimic humans has opened up therapeutic options for you."

"I second that theory," Ratchet said, "especially in light of the human Prime."

I gratefully smiled his way in appreciation. "Since language is one of the first places where Cybertonian and human minds intersect, we're going to try a form of talk therapy. Specifically, we'll be exploring group therapy today. This is all experimental, of course, and so your participation is greatly appreciated. Any questions?"

Arcee shifted her weight uneasily, but no one responded, so I continued, "What we're looking for is anything that can reduce the length, depth, or width of a casing fracture or its scar material."

"That's not possible," Arcee burst out. "Broken bonds never really heal."

"When the clans were intact, scars of the spark healed better than they do now," Ratchet quietly contradicted. "The impact on the casing's code was much smaller."

"You're trying to replace clans?" Jolt demanded.

"No," I hastily said. "I know that clans are irreplaceable. What we're looking for is an alternative means of therapy. Of healing."

"We just need to rebuild the clans," Arcee said, sounding confused and frustrated that we were even having this conversation.

"That's the ideal treatment," Ratchet placatingly said. "Until that's possible, though, we are all suffering. The Primes have requested that we pursue this as an…interim treatment."

She exchanged a look with Ratchet before focusing on me again. "Are they giving up hope on the clans?"

"No," Ratchet flatly said.

I assured her, "Discussions about long-term plans for the clans didn't come up at all. The concerns are more immediate. How can we help you right now?"

Arcee nodded slowly. "Okay."

I had to glance at my clipboard again to get myself back on track. "To that end, we're going to engage in several group therapy sessions over the course of the next month. Starting today. Any other questions before we begin?"

Again, they exchanged looks I couldn't quite read, and Jolt said, "I'm in."

"Me, too," Ratchet added.

Arcee shook her head but said aloud, "Alright, count me in, too."

"Thank you," I said, knowing that this was truly alien for all of them. "While we all know each other's names, I thought something of an icebreaker would be appropriate. Let's go around the circle, introduce ourselves, and say one thing you don't think the rest of us know about you. So I'll begin. I'm Dr. Ellen Sarkisian, and I am terrified of swans."

"Swans?" Ratchet incredulously repeated.

"There's a story behind it," I assured him. Since he stood to my left, I added, "Why don't you go next?"

"I want to hear your story first," he stubbornly said.

Relenting, I replied, "When I was about five, I was visiting a duck pond in the late autumn. It was a cold day, and I had a down-filled coat on. Apparently a swan could smell the down and pulled me into the pond. I just thought the bird was trying to drown me. They've terrified me ever since."

The medic harrumphed and said, "I'm Ratchet, and…I'm sending O'Donnell stateside next week."

Both Jolt and Arcee made sounds of dismay, and he said, "I know, I hate to lose him, too, but he might never recover from that traumatic brain injury. He'll do better if he takes a leave of absence, and that means returning to the States to be with family."

Arcee stood beside Ratchet, so she said, "I guess I'm next. I'm Arcee, and…" After a few seconds, she said, "I don't know. Ratchet's severed kin, so anything he doesn't already know about me is probably something that'd get me court-martialed."

Jolt snorted in what seemed like amusement, and Ratchet said, "No, she's serious."

Jolt shook his helm and said, "I'm Jolt and…I once had a pet rock."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. That was an unexpected cultural convergence!

"This was before the War, and she wasn't sentient," he said, the tone of voice sounding like he was trying to reassure me. "Her metal seams were too thin for that. She just liked to explore my quarters and make snacks out of any pebbles I tracked in."

I picked my jaw up off the floor and swallowed. Well now. "Her?"

He shrugged. "All dolomites are female."

"Naturally," I said. Struggling to get back on track, I pushed aside those mental images. "Now that we all know a little more about each other, the first question I'd like to pose to the group is actually two fold, but we'll discuss them one at a time: what are the difficulties involved with interacting with humans and what are the rewards?"

"You sure you're up for this, sister?" Arcee said, crossing her arms.

"I've had men twice my mass experience traumatic flashbacks in my office," I coolly said. "I think I can handle comments about body odor or primitive fleshlings. In fact, I'll go first. I find most humans to be pretty illogical. We jump to conclusions and sometimes our whole lives revolve around things that make no sense." Turning to the mech to my left, I said, "Ratchet?"

"Your short lifespans," he answered brusquely. "Yes, we've suffered a lot of losses in the War, but you humans are just too fragging breakable even without us getting involved. Sometimes I wonder why we bother to learn your names at all."

"A valid perspective," I assured him.

"Sometimes you're too much like us," Arcee said. "Spitfire and I get talking and I can almost forget that she's not a Cybertronian femme using a holoform. She gets me until all of a sudden she doesn't. I'll say something and she gives me this blank look or busts out laughing, and then I'm an alien again, adrift in a world that will never truly be home."

"I can see how that would be disconcerting," I said, validating her, too.

Jolt took his turn, saying, "You and the planet you come from are just fragging weird. I'd felt it, but I didn't really get it until Beachcomber started talking about it. There's something…unnatural about Earth. Like he said, it's like your planet's trying too hard. It makes me wonder what's really going on."

I wasn't quite sure what to do with that one. "I'm not sure I follow. Could you elaborate some more, please?"

"Well…let's go back to the pet rock. I suppose you'd call their species something like trolls – they come from a very rocky planet. The ones with higher metal concentrations have higher cognitive functioning, while the ones with lower concentrations are considered lower lifeforms. It all makes a certain kind of sense."

"I can see that," I said, encouraging him.

"You're a type of primate, but you don't have the highest brain-to-mass ratio. Not even other primates can claim that. No, it's dolphins who do. They should be the ones ruling the planet, not you. But they're considered lower lifeforms and aren't even the apex animal in the oceans. There are animals and plants in just about every available ecological niche, not just the ones that make sense. Trees grow out of cliff faces. Blind fish glow in the depths of the ocean. Ants and bees exhibit problem solving, communication, and intelligence that they can't possibly have biologically. Your whole world is a kind of disconcertingly vibrant chaos. And somehow, you humans are a perfect reflection of that contradiction: kind and cruel, generous and greedy, intelligent and exceptionally stupid."

I half-smiled. "I'd say you've got humanity pretty well pegged."

"I just never know what I'm dealing with when it comes to humans," Jolt added with a shrug.

"I agree – we can be very unpredictable. These are all valid observations. I'd like to look at the second part, now. What are the rewards?"

"Life," Arcee immediately said. "You humans practically glow with it."

"And there's the energon," Ratchet added, "which we didn't have until Earth. We owe our own lives to this planet and to the human Prime."

I looked expectantly at Jolt, and he handed me pure gold. "It's like being in a clan again," he softly said. "We don't have bonds, of course, but I belong with Bobby and Tessa like I used to belong with my brothers. That feeling of belonging…I haven't felt it anywhere else but among my own kind."

"Same with Sarah," Arcee agreed. "That's why it's so…weird when I remember we're aliens to each other."

I looked at Ratchet. "What about you? Have you experienced that sense of belonging among us humans?"

He stood unmoving for several long seconds, and I again dearly wished I could read his facial expressions. Eventually he said, "Jolt and Arcee have both been adopted, so to speak, by a human family. Most of the rest of us have not. Including me."

"You have your human repair team," I pointed out.

"That's not the same," he snapped. "Not even close. It's a professional relationship, not a personal one, and I'm responsible for them, for their safety. They've never had…they've never had one of their human family members die on them."

Drat! I suddenly realized my mistake. I'd forgotten that Ratchet had lost two repair team members in the recent battle – one to death and the other to injury.

"You human brutes are too short-lived and hare-brained to bother forming any kind of bond with," he growled, "even if it's just a fake one that's more a trauma response than anything resembling an actual bond. And I'm done here." With that he stomped out of his own med bay.

"Well frag," Jolt muttered.

"I'd better go after him," Arcee said, hurrying out the door, too.

I exchanged a glance with Jolt – it was just the two of us left. "Thanks for trying," he said. "It was probably always doomed, though. We're all just a bunch of walking malfunctions anymore." Then he left, too.

For a long moment I sat there, feeling awful that I hadn't realized how deeply Ratchet's wounds went, nor how strongly he of all mechs might react. Then I gathered up my clipboard and climbed down the ladder installed on the side of the medical berth. Thankfully, I'd worn loafers today instead of heels.

…

A couple of days passed, and I hadn't heard from Ratchet or the others again. I wasn't sure if my interaction privileges had been revoked or not, and anyway, those days were booked with human patients (my real patients, if I was being honest). Still, a nagging sense of failure wouldn't leave me alone.

The third day after our disastrous group therapy session, my office phone rang, surprising me. It never rang – people just booked through the online scheduler, and I wasn't sure why I even had the thing on my desk. But I picked up the receiver all the same.

"Dr. Sarkisian?"

"Yes?"

"I heard what happened."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Oh. Yeah, this is Sam Witwicky."

"Oh! Mr. Witwicky, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. How can I help?" As I said the words, I keenly felt what a farce they were.

"Optimus told me it didn't go so well with the others."

Wincing, I admitted, "Unfortunately, yes."

"What happened, exactly?"

I slowly sighed. "I poked spark wounds. I forgot about Ratchet's human helper recently dying and…he stormed out as a result of my thoughtlessness."

"Ouch."

"Yes. I'm afraid I overstepped. I should have known better and left something like this to an actual researcher. I'm so sorry."

"Dr. Sarkisian," he said, his voice taking on a steel I hadn't heard before, "there is no one else. The things Optimus has trusted you with aren't things we can share with just anyone. It's you or nobody, at least for right now. And they need help right now. I didn't want to say it in front of Optimus, but the pain they feel from these spark wounds is worse than anything else I can imagine. And more than once I've been tossed around by a Decepticon bigger than Optimus, among other things. Hell, just between us – I even died."

Uncertain what to do with that, I backed up to something else he'd said. "Wait, have you actually experienced their spark-pain firsthand?"

"Through the bond, and only a portion of it, but…yes. They need healing, especially after what they've just been through with losing the Iron Will. You need to try again."

I'd known they needed healing ever since my second interview with Optimus. Still, I was forced to admit, "I'm not sure that's wise."

"Look, I know this whole project threw you right into the deep end with them, but please keep going," Sam earnestly said. "As one who has a ring-side seat for what they're enduring, I promise you that doing nothing will hurt them more than anything you could do."

"I just don't understand them," I burst out. "I can't read their facial expressions when they're in their root mode, and even if I could, I don't know what makes them tick. What makes them afraid? Sad? Angry? Happy? I just don't know."

"They weren't using their holoforms?"

"No."

"Well there's your problem," he said. "They weren't in mimic mode!"

I blinked as I processed that. "I thought their holoform library code was always active."

"Maybe, but only for reading humans' reactions. It's their own reactions you're trying to guide or whatever. They really should be in their holoforms. When they have to act human, they become more human in their programming. That's where the most-extensive adaptations have happened. And then I bet you'll find that the same things that make us tick make them tick."

"Freud might beg to differ."

"Freud was a nutjob," Sam quipped. "Just try again with them in their holoforms. Please. I'm begging you."

I sighed. "There's no need for that. I'll try again. But it will be just an attempt. Remember that. I can't make any promises here, and if Arcee or Jolt ever react like Ratchet did, I'm pulling the plug on this permanently. I'm very concerned about his reaction."

"I can live with that," he said, "and thanks."

…

I started with Jolt, texting him and asking him to meet me in my office. He agreed with a simple, "Sure." Later that afternoon, he was sitting in the same recliner Optimus had used during our initial conversations.

"So," he said, "what do you need?"

"Your perspective and maybe some advice," I answered from the couch. "Of the three of you, you were the most…comfortable with the group therapy session. Do you have any insight into why that might be?"

He tilted his head, considering, and it was so much easier to read his expressions! Samuel Prime had been right on this score.

"Probably because I've never even had a mate, much less lost one," he said. "Ratchet's mate Moonracer was extinguished about 14,000 years ago."

"And the bond between mates is particularly strong, correct?"

"Yes. Arcee and I have only ever had sibling bonds, and she's still got both Chromia and Ironhide, too."

And that just might be why they were so much more comfortable. They began from a place of less hurt. That could mean therapy contraindications for both Ratchet and Optimus, but at least others could still benefit. Focusing on Jolt again, I asked, "And what about your kin?"

He winced and looked down. "Both of my creator-brothers are extinguished. I have a younger brother who is MIA, but my spark tells me he's gone, too."

Again, the body language and facial expressions were as plain as they would be on a human, much to my relief. Getting back to the moment, I said, "I am so sorry."

He half-smiled as he looked up again. "Thank you. I meant what I said about humanity being good for us. Ratchet's right that you're all a bunch of short-lived squishies and you're as chaotic as your planet, but there's…something between me and the Epps family."

"Would you consider it a bond of sorts? Though not a bond like Optimus has with Samuel, of course," I said.

He straightened in surprise. "They told you about that?"

"Yes, Samuel and Optimus have both acknowledged their bond to me." Taking a gamble, I added, "In fact, Samuel is quite invested in this project. To be perfectly honest, I was ready to give up after last time, but he personally called me and asked me to try again. As your Prime, he is concerned about the spark-wounds you all carry and feels it's urgent we find healing for you."

His brows furrowed thoughtfully. "The Primes want us to continue?"

"Samuel does, at least."

He slowly nodded. "Okay, then. I'm game."

…

Arcee replied to my text by saying that she was busy during work hours, but I could come talk with her for a few minutes after 19:00 hours at the Lennox house if it was urgent. I got the distinct feeling she was trying to avoid me, but this was important for all of them.

Mrs. Lennox opened the door for me and invited me in. Colonel Lennox was casually dressed and seated at the table, still eating dessert.

"Sarkisian," he said with a nod.

"Colonel," I answered. "I'm here to talk with Arcee."

"R.C and Annabelle are down at the beach," Mrs. Lennox said. "I can call them up if you'd like."

"I'd rather not disrupt them too much. Maybe we could walk down there together and you could distract Annabelle for a few minutes for me? This won't be a long conversation."

"We'll all go," Colonel Lennox said, rising to his feet.

So he could keep an eye on me, no doubt. No pressure, I told myself as I fell in step behind them.

It was a short walk to the shoreline, and Annabelle ran to leap into her father's arms, wet swimsuit and all. It was a powerfully humanizing mental image to see him hug her back and blow a raspberry on her cheek.

R.C. eyed me warily as she waded back to shore, but after wrapping a towel around her shoulders, she joined me readily enough. "Why are you here?"

"Because we're attempting therapy again, but I'd like to try having you use holoforms this time. Jolt has already agreed, but we'd double – or more – the data gained if you'd be willing to join us."

She slowly sighed and looked over at the Lennox family, who were now calf-deep in the water and splashing each other. "Ratchet's out. What that did to him…"

"If he doesn't want to participate, that's fine. But it makes your participation all the more critical."

Turning a piercing gaze on me, she asked, "Why?"

"Because our sample size is even smaller."

"But why is it critical that we try again?" she demanded. "If we're just going to rebuild the clans – which is the only real way for us to find meaningful healing – why are you insisting on putting us through hell now?"

"A valid question," I answered. "It's not me who's insisting. It's Samuel Prime. And Ratchet said at the outset that finding healing for you all first might be a necessary step to ending the War – to helping the Decepticons find the healing they'll need, too."

She looked at the Lennoxes again and blinked a few times, mulling it over. "A different kind of battlefield, huh?" Meeting my gaze again, she said, "I've rushed to my own death on a battlefield for Samuel Prime. I can do this for him, too."

"We'll still be carefully monitoring your vitals," I assured her. "If there's any sign of you having adverse reactions, we'll stop immediately. If it's a battlefield, it'll be a much kinder one than you're used to."

R.C. slowly nodded. "For my Primes, I'm in."

…

Ratchet refused to respond to my texts. Eventually, I texted Colonel Lennox and asked if I could visit the mech in the med bay. He approved the visit, and gave me the pointer that the human repair team took their lunch at 11:30 hours.

So I managed to catch Ratchet alone in his med bay. It would have been so much easier if we could have this conversation with him in his holoform, but I had to work with the hand I'd been dealt.

"Sarkisian," he grunted. "What are you doing here?"

Steeling myself, I said, "Ratchet, we're going to try again."

He vented a slow sigh. "No, we're not. I shouldn't have listened to you. Shouldn't have let you get my hopes up."

"We've learned one way to not conduct therapy for Autobots. That doesn't mean a different way won't work."

Wheeling to loom over me, he boomed, "You're poking at spark wounds!"

And suddenly I recalled a different patient flashing back in my office, reacting to unimaginable pain, and Samuel's words echoed in my head. Treat them like people. "Yes, we are, and it's frightening. It involves breaking down walls that have protected you from hurt, but those walls are also keeping out a lot of good things, too."

"We're not talking metaphorically here! One of the impact fractures on my spark is two microns longer now!"

I froze, stunned by that revelation. Only the very worst outcomes in psychiatry resulted in physical harm.

Sounding more defeated than angry, Ratchet continued, "Intense emotional responses strain the spark-casing. What we're attempting is reckless. It's dangerous. I can't let it continue."

"What about Jolt and Arcee?" I asked, worried for their physical safety now, too. "Have they experienced any adverse effects?"

Ratchet moved his shoulders in a way I couldn't read. "No."

But something about his tone of voice made me ask, "Have they seen any improvements?"

This time he didn't answer, just went back to organizing something on his workbench.

His silence was an implied yes, and that comforted me somewhat. Trying again, I stepped closer. "It's hard to share healing we don't have yet. You said that, and you were right. Withdraw as a test subject. This is experimental, and there's no shame in stopping early when it's unsafe for you. I'd appreciate you remaining on the team as medical support, though, so you can monitor any changes to Jolt's and Arcee's sparks. Because my first and most important obligation is to do no harm, and I deeply regret that you were hurt. When we have found healing we can share with you, you can try again."

His hand paused and he tilted his helm down. "I can't ask them to take risks I wouldn't take myself."

"You don't have any evidence that they're at risk. They're improving. By how much, anyway?"

He vented another long sigh. "They aren't improving enough that I could actually measure it, but you're right that they aren't being hurt by all this."

"If you don't want to take the risk, then don't. Not one person would blame you. But you're a healer, Ratchet. Help me heal them."

"I'll think about it," he grunted. "Now get out of my med bay."

…

Arcee texted me that Friday. /You've got guts, femme. Ratchet's on board as medical support, so when do we do this thing?/

I wasn't sure how exactly I should take that, but I answered her, /Next week, same time and day as our last session?/

Only seconds later, she sent, /Ratchet and Jolt are both free then. Put us on your schedule. We'll join you in your office./

It was a tighter fit than usual, but we managed to make it work. Jolt took the recliner, while Arcee and Ratchet sat on the couch. Something about their body language made me think she chose to sit next to him so she could be supportive if necessary. I took my office chair and rolled it around to the front of my desk.

"Thank you so much for your willingness to try again," I began. "We're going to be even more mindful of your sparks this time to ensure that – first and foremost – we're not doing any harm to you."

"We appreciate that," R.C. evenly said.

"So let's start with something a little more lighthearted. Where do you see yourself in a year and in five years?"

"Even five years is a pretty short time for us," R.C. pointed out.

"True," I allowed, "but your War introduces a high degree of uncertainty for all of us, myself included," I added, thinking again of my predecessor. "Looking even a year into the future might be difficult, so I want to keep it manageable. Let's keep the focus on things we actually have control over."

"That might require talking about some things that are classified," Jolt pointed out.

"Go ahead and check my security clearance," I said. "I even know about the bond shared between the Primes.

"Oh. Yeah, that's right," Jolt said. "Well, in the short term, I learned just a few days ago that Bobby and Tessa are expecting, so I'm really excited about being a guardian for the baby."

"I hadn't heard that!" Ratchet exclaimed.

"Congrats to them and to you!" Arcee added.

"They wanted to keep it a secret until after she completes the first trimester, something about a family superstition," he admitted, then he turned to me, "so this stays confidential, right?"

"Of course," I assured him.

"As for longer-term…"

…

That session went much better. It went so well, in fact, that everyone easily agreed to another session the following week, assuming Ratchet's scans of Jolt's and Arcee's sparks didn't show any red flags.

In that third group therapy session, we discussed what insights about humanity had helped them better integrate with NEST. Again, we managed to avoid anything explosive, and all three holoforms agreed to a fourth session.

The next morning, I got a text from Ratchet requesting that I join him at 11:30 hours in the med bay.

With no small trepidation, I showed up as requested. "Ratchet," I greeted.

"Dr. Sarkisian," he answered with a bob of his helm. Like Optimus, he extended his hand, and this time I didn't hesitate as I climbed aboard. He lifted me to the repair berth so we were closer to eye level. "I wanted to give it another session to be sure, but I'm pleased to report that the scar material on Arcee's longest fracture is a full micron narrower now. That's above and beyond the healing she's already achieved due to her clan bonds with Chromia and Ironhide. Jolt's smallest impact fracture is all but invisible. The code on the casing is marred still, but the scar material is gone. Of course, that was only about a micron and a half to begin with."

That wasn't at all what I'd been expecting! "This is excellent news!" It was still difficult to read his metallic face, so I more cautiously added, "We'll find a way to make this work for you, too, someday."

His lip-plates shifted into what might have been a small smile. "Well that's the interesting thing," he added, and while I still couldn't read his expression very well, his tone of voice hinted that he was teasing me just a little. "I've been monitoring my own impact fracture that had grown and… it's stabilized. It's even a quarter of a micron smaller."

Stunned, I stammered, "Really? How?"

"Well, I have a theory that's probably best discussed in depth over lunch at Spitfire's house tomorrow, but in a nutshell, my primary function is healing others. One of my scars of the spark is that I've so often failed in that function – with devastating consequences."

"That's not your fault," I reflexively said.

He slowly nodded his helm in agreement. "I know, but we're talking about primary function – what you might term our instincts or even subconscious. My patients were still extinguished, and even for those who survived, there were wounds I couldn't heal."

A smile slowly spread across my face as I understood. "And now you can."

"And now I can," he confirmed. "Apparently doing so has been healing. That's my theory, anyway. As the foremost human expert on Autobot psychology, I'd like your opinion."

I snorted in amusement at that. "That's a pretty small pool of expertise, Ratchet, and I think I'm only a step or two above Jolt's pet rock, but thank you. Of course I'd be happy to discuss this more over lunch tomorrow."

Chapter Text

After a couple of months of weekly group therapy sessions, Jolt's and Arcee's sparks had shown significant healing. It wasn't as much as they would have experienced if they'd been able to properly mourn with a clan, but Ratchet informed me it was pretty close to 80% of that. (For context, he explained, both Jolt and Arcee started somewhere around 60% of full healing.) His spark was slower to heal, but even when Jolt's and Arcee's spark-mending plateaued around the end of the third month, Ratchet's continued.

It was encouraging enough that, over our next power lunch, Ratchet and I discussed the possibility of starting up another therapy group for the 'bots.

We still weren't sure if talk therapy of any kind was something we dared use on a 'bot with a broken mate-bond, though. Ratchet's healing was due to his primary function as a doctor, so his case was rather unique.

Samuel Prime was disappointed when I informed him of this when he next called me.

"Between you and me," he said, "I'm not sure Optimus is recovering enough from losing Ultra Magnus. He's trying to give me space and not emotionally burden me because Mikaela and I have the baby now, but I know he's struggling more than he lets on."

"He's trying to be tough," I said with a wry smile, remembering my very first conversation with Optimus. "As are you, from the sound of it. Being a first-time father – or any new father, for that matter – is going to run you down. Don't forget your own self-care."

"I am – as Optimus' brother, his spark-wounds wear on me, too. And I don't think he's trying to be tough. I think it's more that he feels like he's out of other options," Sam gravely said.

…

The text from Ratchet was terse. /Report to Ops in the Autobot Hangar at 11:00 hours./

I glanced at my clock. That was in less than five minutes. My schedule was clear until 14:00 hours, so I blocked off the time between now and then on my scheduling calendar and texted back, /HUA/

Then I hurried over to the hangar. I could hear Prime's booming voice from fifty feet away. Scanning my ID at the human door, I entered the building and climbed up to the top of the Ops scaffolding. Lennox gave me a puzzled look, but I shrugged and showed him the text from Ratchet. The colonel grimaced slightly and looked back at the drama playing out in front of us.

Optimus Prime was furious about something and berating Prowl. "I haven't been this angry with you in four-thousand years!"

Prowl was stoically looking straight ahead, his doorwings dipped low in submission.

"Of all the cracked-processor stunts to pull, you were the last mech I expected this from!"

Ratchet strode in from the med bay, Arcee and Jolt at his side. Making eye contact with me, he said, "Good, you made it." To Lennox, he said, "This is a medical matter now."

Optimus growled in frustration, but Ratchet continued, "I need the hangar cleared of humans. You and Sarkisian can remain." In a lower voice he added, "It'll be an education."

Optimus' hand transformed into a glowing sword, and he wheeled on the medic. "You wouldn't dare!"

Several humans exclaimed in surprise and scrambled back.

"Optimus, stand down," Lennox ordered, while Ratchet said, "Drop your battle protocols, Prime."

I put a warning hand on Colonel Lennox's arm. Optimus was clearly not acting like himself, and the mention of battle protocols made me worried. Was this a code corruption we were dealing with?

Optimus straightened to his terrifyingly-full height. "I was disciplining – "

"I'm pulling medical rank," Ratchet interrupted, perfectly matter of fact.

"Evacuate the hangar," Lennox ordered but made no move himself to leave. We would both be staying, then.

Optimus raised his sword, and several things happened at once. My fellow humans bolted from the room, most of the Autobots retreated too, Jolt shook loose and electrified his whips, and Ratchet lunged forward. I heard a drawn-out zap that reminded me of a Taser, but I couldn't clearly see what exactly Ratchet had done. In a blink, though, Optimus was flat on his back, stunned. Ratchet stepped over to Optimus' side and, with a grunt, flipped the Prime over onto his face. Arcee hurried in with handcuffs and restrained the mech, while Prowl stood aside, as unreadable as ever.

"You see, Sarkisian," Ratchet said almost casually, stepping back a couple of paces, "those battle protocols that are so helpful at blocking the spark-pain of loss during a fight were never intended to be used outside of active combat. In fact, they're programmed to raise and drop in a highly automated way based on perceived levels of threat. But sometimes, the pain is too much. Sometimes, we manually override the controls and raise those battle protocols even when we're not in a fight. We've all done it – blocked the pain when we couldn't handle it anymore. But that can create its own problems."

Optimus groaned, already coming around from being Tased or its equivalent.

"Once the Decepticons stole the code for battle protocols, they weaponized them. They keep those protocols up as a matter of course because it creates heightened aggression, emotional instability, and recklessness. For them, they see it as a tactical advantage, but we Autobots are different. We value peace, but Optimus here…" Ratchet said, shaking his head, "well, you saw it with your own eyes months ago. He's suffering."

"If you're looking for ideas from me," I said, "I don't have any. This is beyond anything we've explored so far."

"I know. There's one adaptation we've used with occasional success during the War. Bonds can't be restored, but connection with severed kin can sometimes help. We call it aligning – placing our contained sparks in close enough physical proximity that they can sense each other. Arcee," he nodded at the femme, "is the sister of Optimus' extinguished mate. Though their bond has been severed, she still claims him as kin through sister privilege, roughly the social equivalent of adoption. She's willing to align with him, if he is, to help him through this rough patch. But first, we have to deal with this oversized can-opener of a Prime. Jolt is our resident hacker, and with the right kind of charge, he can force a mech to drop his battle protocols. Usually it's more useful in interrogation, but we're using it medically today."

"You're using electric shock therapy on him?" Colonel Lennox interrupted, a bit incredulous.

"Slagger," Optimus muttered, the word sounding shockingly slurred.

Ratchet's faceplates shifted into something that looked suspiciously like a little smirk. "Oddly enough, ECT is one of the few natural therapeutic overlaps between our species. As I was saying, this doesn't provide long-term healing – I'm still hopeful your modified human techniques can help fill that gap – but it can be an effective intervention in an emergency."

"As long as you have a medic with the combat skills necessary to take down a rampaging Prime," Arcee said, more amused than I expected.

"There's a reason he's always assigned to Optimus' squad," Prowl agreed.

"And here I thought it was because of my sunny disposition," Ratchet grumbled. Then he gestured toward Optimus, who was shifting like he was trying to sit up. "Jolt?"

The smell of ozone filled the air as his crackling whips expertly flicked forward and grabbed Prime's frame. Ratchet's takedown of his patient had been violent, but Optimus' reaction to the whips was surprisingly anticlimactic. With a moan that sounded sorrowing rather than pained, he relaxed back onto the concrete of the hangar floor. He lay there for a long moment, the hum of Jolt's whips still vibrating low and echoing through the hangar, and then he curled in on himself.

"That's enough, Jolt," Ratchet said. "Thank you."

He disengaged his whips and put them away. Ratchet came forward to unlock and remove the cuffs, and then he knelt beside Optimus, who was still curled up on his side.

"I'm sorry," the Prime ground out, and Ratchet rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't move just yet." Ratchet glanced up at me once and then focused on Optimus again. "I know you feel badly, and so does Prowl. Your kin still stand by you, both for Elita's sake and your own. You don't have to carry all this pain alone."

He curled in on himself even more tightly, and I had to fight the urge to run down to his side.

"Sam…" he croaked.

"I know," Ratchet soothed. "He's going to be fine."

"There's something wrong with the kid?" Lennox asked in a hushed tone.

Arcee softly answered, "He was rushed to the hospital about two hours ago for an emergency appendectomy. Bumblebee got him to the hospital in time, but he's still under anesthesia, so Optimus can't really feel him…"

Ah. Yes, compound that crisis with all the others and it became the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

"When you feel steady enough," Ratchet said to Prime, "let's get you into the med bay."

Optimus gingerly rolled to all fours and, after taking a moment there, climbed to his feet. But he kept a hand on Ratchet's shoulder.

To Prowl, Optimus said, "My apologies, old friend."

Prowl jutted out his chin. "I refuse to accept any apology from you because none is needed. You bear patiently with my glitch. I can bear yours with the same amity."

Optimus bowed his helm in acknowledgment then, looking at the soldier beside me, he said, "I'm sorry you had to see that, Colonel Lennox."

"I'm not," he said, perfectly serious. "I hope in my worst moments that I have friends and family as good as yours."

The Prime nodded in agreement. "You do, Iron Will."

I smiled both at the sentiment and to hear Colonel Lennox referred to by his "Autobot name."

Optimus was a bit more guarded with me, though. "I expect this will be a useful case study."

"Only for Ratchet's purposes. I would never breathe a word of what I've seen here today."

"I appreciate your discretion." Then gingerly holding one hand over the center of his chest, he limped beside Ratchet toward the med bay.

"Give the all-clear," Prowl said to Jolt while Arcee followed Ratchet and Optimus.

Colonel Lennox stepped over to the intercom, sending the same message to the human part of NEST.

As he did, I suddenly realized he'd seen this coming. Optimus' stability had been his concern all along. "How did you know this would happen?"

He glanced toward the med bay. "I didn't, not for sure. But for all that they're alien robots, they're an awful lot like us in some ways."

…

Three days later, I got an alert saying Optimus Prime had scheduled another appointment with me. I stared at that notification for a good, long time, weighing my options.

…

When he showed up, it was as a holoform with a familiar cowboy hat and a very unfamiliar sheepish expression.

"Welcome," I said, gesturing him inside.

"Thank you." He took his seat, I took mine, and I waited patiently. After a moment, he said, "I wanted to meet with you again to apologize. Ratchet wanted me to meet with you because he thought I might benefit from the conversation."

The therapist in me wanted to ask why he didn't think he'd benefit, but there was something I needed to say first. "If I may, Optimus, I've thought a lot about what happened when we last saw each other and what impact that might have on today. Three things have become clear to me. First, we humans all have limits, and we almost all hit them eventually. The incident illustrated that Cybertronians and humans are alike in that way as well."

A wry smile tugged at a corner of his lips, but he didn't say anything.

I continued, "Second, among humans, the only way we can lift each others' trauma burdens really is to talk about them, but not unlike Cybertronians, we typically only share those burdens with people with whom we share a bond of trust. Regardless, though, for a professional psychiatrist like me, talking about your struggles isn't an imposition; it's what I'm here for. And we already know that there are some tangible benefits Cybertronians can get from therapy. Just like you wanted your human soldiers to seek healing in this office, that healing is here for you, too."

He tilted his head, mulling that over. "I appreciate that, Dr. Sarkisian, particularly the idea of a bond of trust."

But I'd come to my most important point. "Third, you are doing all you can to preserve your people and their culture – even at great personal cost. The therapy I can offer will alter you through that mimic instinct, and that might put the goal of preserving your people's culture at risk. So if I were to try to strong-arm you into receiving human-style therapy, that would be an imposition on you. If you'd rather talk about cultural random convergence or whatever, I'd happily spend the next hour with you talking about that. The only thing worse than projecting my humanity onto you would be to impose it on you."

He sighed and looked down. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "This is only the second time Ratchet has had to go to such extremes with me over battle protocols. The first time was relatively early in the war, after the First Battle of Iacon. It raged for two months." Looking up to meet my gaze, he said, "Not a campaign, but a battle. We went two months without any recharge or scheduled refuellings. Two months in which we lost almost four thousand Autobot warriors. Two months without pause or rest." He dropped his gaze, hiding from me again. "As you put it, we hit our limits. When Megatron finally withdrew, vigilance and violence had become a habit. I still felt under threat and my battle protocols stayed up. It affected Elita and the rest of my kin, too, and our clan wasn't the only one to go through such struggles. Jazz was the one who assisted Ratchet in hacking through to forcibly take down my battle protocols. We sent out a software patch after that to include a manual override."

When he lifted his gaze to mine again, he straightened his shoulders decisively. "This wasn't supposed to happen again. The overrides were to ensure that no one was again compelled to violence, to ensure we all had a choice, and I chose foolishly. Selfishly."

He hadn't been selfish, he'd been setting the only kind of boundary he could against staggering hurt. He would never let me tell him it had actually been a healthy instinct, though, even if the method wasn't the best. Instead, I asked, "What if it had been Sam?"

"Pardon?"

"What if it had been Samuel who had recently lost his wife, who lost Bumblebee, and who was facing the very real prospect of losing you? Would you blame him for raising his battle protocols outside of an actual firefight?"

"He is human..."

"He's a sentient."

I'd stumped him with that, and I gave myself a mental pat on my primitive, fleshling back.

"As a military leader, I hold myself to a higher standard. I must."

"I understand. That's why I chose your fellow Prime as an example."

He sighed, having no answer for that.

"You came to apologize," I said. "It's unnecessary, but for what it's worth you have my complete forgiveness. Especially after this conversation, I know it won't happen again. And if I could ever hope to offer you advice, it would be to prioritize self-care – partly because you are a sentient who therefore deserves that care, but also because you are the Autobots' most important surviving military asset, cultural icon, and religious treasure all rolled into one. And while I'm always happy to talk with you on either a personal or professional level, you are one of the lucky ones, Prime. You have a brother bond. Use it."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Yep," I cheerfully answered, "with some doctor-mandated leave to go visit your brother and permission to tell Ratchet where to shove it. And with an open invitation to darken my door whenever you might need or want to."

"Both the permission and the invitation are appreciated, and I'll be taking you up on both, once my casing fractures stabilize a little more."

That made me actually smile.

He settled in more comfortably on his recliner. "My first experience with locked-in battle protocols had always seemed similar to human PTSD to me. Do you think that's an accurate observation, Dr. Sarkisian?"

This kind of conversation between us was comfortably familiar, and I settled into it myself. "From what you've said, they do seem pretty similar. I wonder about the mechanism, though. With humans, so much of it is chemical in nature…"

We whiled away our time, and at the door we shook hands again as friends.

As he put his hat back on, he said, "The circumstances were unfortunate, but I am glad you have joined NEST."

"So am I," I answered. More than I could say.