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.