Title: Cross My Heart
Author: Riariti no Iru-jon
Fandom: Transformers live action movie-verse; AU
Rating: T [for the time being]
Pairings: Sam/Michael, eventual Sam/Bee, Will/Ironhide, Trent/every other girl, possible Michael/OC
Warnings: Alternate universe; language [mostly Sam]; mild violence; some sexuality; crude humor; etc.
Synopsis: The Cube destroyed and Megatron defeated, Sam is only all too happy to get her normal life back, except normal seems to be impossible with an alien guardian, rogue Decepticons, interspecies relations, boyfriends, and high school. Throw in physical therapy, nightmares, and generally not understanding parents, and that pretty much comprises her so-called life. What's a girl to do but deal?
[Cross My Heart]
by [Riariti no Iru-jon]
Disclaimer: Pfft. Me? Would I be here if I owned it? No? Well, there you have it. I. Don't. Own. It. Capice? Good!
FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!
Her heart pounded in her chest, straining against her ribcage, as she wedged herself through a door that was just barely hanging on its hinges. A dilapidated entrance hall revealed itself to her, a heavy cloud of dust triggering a coughing fit. Geez, it was filthy! Why would they tell her to meet them there? Dust couldn't be good for their ventilation systems. Wouldn't it clog up? Maybe alien robots were immune. Lucky bastards, that lot, she thought wryly.
At her immediate right was a staircase that had seen better days; there was no way she was risking her life scaling that piece of shit. Fortunately, they were supposed to meet in the lounge, which was on ground level. Or, at least, she thought that was where they were supposed to meet. The memory was vague, fuzzy, and inherently suspicious, but Optimus had said it was an emergency, so her innate wariness had to take a back seat for the day.
Still, it was nasty. Surely they could've come up with a better base. A supposed haunted manor house just didn't cut it, despite the massive acreage and multiple garages and the basement that had once been used to hide runaway slaves back during the war. It was nasty. The sheets upon sheets of cobwebs were testament to that. And God if she didn't feel like she was walking right into a horror movie!
Dust, dust, dust, dust, dust… The hallway that supposedly led to the lounge was dark and the light switch didn't work, after an insane amount of groping and searching for the damn thing. Next time she saw Bee, she was giving that yellow bastard a piece of her mind. You didn't just send people into asbestos-rich partial ruins. You just didn't. Boy would he hear it! After she had a shower of course.
The hallway, she noticed, got decidedly darker the further along she got, which made sense because she was moving further into the bowels of the abandoned manor. The lounge was easy enough to locate, its interior lights ablaze, encompassing the outline of the door. Sam huffed in annoyance. So they could only afford to light a single room, huh? Well that sucked. They were alien robots, couldn't they come up with some alternative to power instead of unreliable electricity?
So she griped as she crossed the last few strides to the lounge door, the floor creaking ominously beneath her. Yeah, horror movie set up right there. If this was an Autobot take on human humor then they were fucking lousy at it. It made her want to stomp a foot down and whine. When she got her hands on them…
She came to a stop outside the door, which looked just like every other door in that godforsaken hallway that went on forever and ever. Joke indeed! She bet it was some wicked alien illusion with the nifty holomatter receptors those bastards had. Because, really, who said they had to be used for avatars or incarnations? Fucking funhouse. They could make a fortune on Halloween. Maybe she'd bring that up at some point, except she really didn't want to make it so easy for them. Not after this.
With a careless flick of her hand, she turned the doorknob and flung it open. Well, that was different, she mused. It was pitch black. Which didn't make any sense because the door had been all but glowing earlier. It made her pause for a moment. She liked to imagine she followed the philosophy of watching where you walk, but there was a difference between choosing not to look down and there being absolutely no light to discern the path ahead of oneself. Any other instance and she'd turn right back around and head for the proverbial hills, but they'd said this was important and surely they wouldn't put her in danger, right? Right?
She knew it was stupid, knew it well. And she almost did turn around, except something had grabbed her and was pulling with all its might, dragging her into the nothingness. She screamed; she kicked; it, whatever it was, kept pulling. She clung to the door, the knob, the frame, anything and everything she could get her hands on, but it seemed to not make one damn bit of difference. She watched, horrified, as gaping wounds reminiscent of the Mission City fiasco ate away at her hands, but she couldn't feel anything. It was just there, happening, right before her eyes. Flesh deteriorating, muscle shriveling, tendons and joints snapping, bones turning to dust — and then there was nothing to hold on to with, stubs where her hands once were, and she was propelled into the darkness and fell.
Fell, dropped, freefall, heart-in-throat, oh-my-god I'm going to die, type of descent. It wouldn't stop. But the faster she fell, the brighter her surroundings got, the deeper she was, the clearer the walls were. And she immediately wished it hadn't because they weren't walls at all, they were displays of bodies, human, Cybertronian, and God, but was that Milli? No, it couldn't be. She died in that stupid accident, with Trent and revving cars.
Something snagged and her drop stopped abruptly, shocking the breath out of her. A limb clung to her waist, pulling her to the Walls of Death, and really, Sam didn't care who it was, she'd rather be falling then stuck against bodies pressed into bodies, piled up and up, even when it was Michael, voice rasping, begging for her help, for her to save him. But what could she do? Nothing. Nothing! So she struggled, for once welcoming the heart-wrenching terror of the drop into the unknown. A snap, fleshy and wet. She fell. A limb tumbled past her, the distinctive shade of her boyfriend, the same watch, and small tattoo.
Faster; she was falling faster now. But that didn't keep her from seeing in terrifying accuracy the dead around her — some not completely dead yet, but close, and that just made it that much more worse. Non-fleshy parts. Chartreuse, too much like Ratchet for her liking. Sleek silver of Jazz's chest armor. An arm, painted blue and red, a deep voice begging she find and protect the Allspark.
And down below, finally, ground! But she didn't like what was on the ground either, because, as Megatron cackled heinously, the very familiar yellow form of her best friend was slowly being disassembled, blue optics gazing at her pitifully, knowing there was nothing she could do and condemning her for it. She was falling into a pile of scrap, a pile consisting of pieces of the Autobots, Michael's arm, Milli's head, her parents, and, dear God, Bee —
She jerked awake, off the Camaro's heated hood and out of Michael's embrace, her breath coming in painful gasps. Her face was wet, streaked with tears, but she was too shocked to do anything about it. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, body trembling like a dying leaf in the wind. Her stomach threatened to rebel and purge her earlier meal at noon, hours before, as the setting sun cast a warm glow on the horizon.
It took all her strength to stumble to the ground, away from the hot metal, and she threw herself onto the grass, shaking so bad she could barely hold herself up on her arms. After a moment's struggle, she gave up and flopped down, staring numbly at her hands, which were still attached. The deep wounds in her palms from Frenzy's torture were healing nicely, she absently noted, just as the doctor said. Minimal nerve damage, nothing that couldn't be remedied with some PT. Banachek had even gotten her to the top (or close to it, at least) of the donor recipient list. Everything was hunky dory, really.
Except those damn nightmares. Her every sleeping moment was filled with them and never before had she ever felt so sleep deprived. PTSD, perhaps? She didn't know, didn't really have it in her to care too much. Even a hovering and obviously worried Michael couldn't shake her from the depths of her self-constructed horror reality show. Bless him, he and Bee both, for being patient with her. She'd known recovery would be a long process, just not how long. All she really wanted to do was sleep and never wake up again.
Her new cell phone buzzed in her back pocket and for a time she considered letting it without answering. Except it was pressed uncomfortably into her hip, which still had some recovery to go itself. With a grunt, and ignoring her concerned friends, she fished the device out and peered at the screen suspiciously. The text Captain Lennox flashed up at her, triggering a curious tilt of a brow in response. It was true that while in the hospital they'd formed a kind of familial relationship, of the big brother little sister variety and it wasn't uncommon that he'd call. It's just that, if she recalled correctly, he was supposed to be taking the lovely Mrs. Lennox out for their anniversary ––
"'Lo, soldier," she cheekily answered the phone, mustering up all the energy she could to smother her remaining unease from her nightmare. Will was good at reading her and it was no different over the phone. Apparently she had a very expressive voice. Soldier golden boy was perceptive like that.
"Hey, kid," came the automatic response. Sam sat up; just as Will was perceptive to her moods, she was to his. He sounded much more weary than normal, downtrodden even, and sounding as if he could pull a Rip Van Winkle.
"You don't sound too good," she went ahead and pointed out the obvious. You didn't beat around the bushes with army men, especially one that had just fought big alien robots and had a baby girl at home. "Why aren't you out with Sarah? Don't tell me you couldn't find a babysitter—"
"Nothing like that," Will murmured, voice defeated. "The government is organizing a secret force to hunt down remaining Decepticons around the world and they want the Autobots' help. They just don't know how to ask and want you as a go-between."
Sam snorted in some kind of combination of amusement and disdain. Of course the government would say that. Apparently she was some kind of savior, protecting the Cube from Megatron and aiding in the preservation of the human race and therefore a sort of diplomat for both species. Bullshit. They just wanted to cover their ass. Let the kid take the fall if things went south. "Why aren't I surprised?"
Will ignored her. "Ironhide and myself are supposed to rendezvous with you outside Tranquility and escort you to the Pentagon, where negotiations with the Autobots will occur." There was a pause, tense and hesitant. The captain's voice faltered with emotion as he changed tracks.
"Sarah wants a divorce."
So this is what's to come. Just a little teaser. It'll be expanded once All About Us is finished. As I sad before, this is more for my own benefit than yours, but you can consider this collateral that the series will continue.