Chapter Text
Sam hummed softly under her breath as she shimmy-walked down the stairs, a little extra pep in her step despite the precarious tower of boxes stacked in her bare arms.
The cardboard was warm against her skin, her tank top doing little to keep the summer heat at bay. A flannel—her dad’s, stolen years ago and never returned—was knotted loosely around her waist, sleeves bouncing against her thighs with every step.
Her brown hair was thrown up in a messy bun, already coming undone. A few stubborn strands slipped loose and fell into her eyes, and she huffed sharply, blowing at them in annoyance without breaking stride.
She tilted her head to the right so she could see the steps beneath her feet.
They were the last boxes.
Sam had saved them for the end, piled them one on top of the other until they were taller than her, stubbornly refusing to make two trips.
She sidestepped a discarded shoe on the third step—barely glancing at it—and landed smoothly at the bottom like she’d planned it that way.
“Last boxes, sweetie?” her mum called from the kitchen.
Sam nodded, wordless, leaning sideways just long enough to press a quick kiss to her mum’s cheek. She caught the faint, familiar scent of her own perfume and laughed, bumping her hip playfully against her mum’s.
“Hey— I’m not gone yet,” she said. “At least wait until I’m out of your sight before stealing my perfume.”
Her mum snorted. “Everything you own, I bought. So it’s mine.”
Sam rolled her eyes fondly, lips twitching into a smile.
As she passed, she dipped her head low enough and snagged a strawberry straight from the bowl with her mouth, winking cheekily at her mom.
“Oh—don’t you dare,” her mum laughed, swatting at her with a dish towel.
Sam darted away, grinning, shoes thudding lightly against the floor as she pushed through the open back door and into the sunlight.
Summer hit her all at once—warm and bright and golden. She squinted up at the sky, letting the heat soak into her skin. Normally, Sam was a pessimist at heart. Snarky. Sharp-tongued. That was her default mode.
But today?
Today she was happy.
College loomed ahead of her, close enough she could almost touch it. Stanford. Engineering, physics, technology—the kind of questions she’d been chasing since she was a kid lying on the beach after swim practice, staring up at the stars and wondering how the universe fit together. A fresh start. Something that was hers.
The half-heart necklace at her throat shifted as she walked, cool against her skin. Mikaela wore the other half. They’d bought them after Mission City, after surviving something that should have broken them entirely.
Kojo came barreling toward her, nails skittering on the concrete, tail wagging furiously as he licked at her bare legs. Sam laughed and nudged him gently away with her foot.
“Hey—hey, gross,” she said scolded, fondly. “Shoo.”
She adjusted the boxes in her arms and headed for the garage, the thought flickering—unwanted—through her mind.
Metal always did that now.
Her eyes snagged on reflective surfaces without her meaning them to—chrome tools hung neatly along the wall, the dull gleam of a wrench catching the light, the smooth curve of a steel shelf support. Her chest tightened instinctively before her brain could catch up.
Too many questions. Too many memories.
She’d asked them all—Bumblebee, Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz—hundreds of times, circling the same fear from different angles. If a car could be an Autobot. If a plane. If a kettle. If a streetlight. If anything made of metal could wake up one day and decide it wanted her dead.
Jazz had laughed. Ratchet too, in that fondly exasperated way of his. Bee had reassured her every single time, radio crackling softly, patient as ever.
Still—
her gaze lingered on the metallic objects just a second too long before she forced herself to look away.
Megatron’s voice followed anyway.
Boiling. Furious. So loud it had shaken the ground beneath her feet, vibrated through her bones until fear felt welded into her skeleton. She remembered running through an unfamiliar city, lungs burning, clutching the AllSpark to her chest as if her arms alone could protect it.
Those red eyes locked onto her.
A metallic titan—faster than she should’ve been able to outrun, massive enough to crush her without slowing—bearing down on her with singular purpose. He wanted the cube. The AllSpark Optimus had trusted her with. The weight of that trust had felt heavier than the artifact itself.
She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped walking.
Not today.
Sam took a steadying breath, inhaling until her chest ached, then exhaled slowly. She rolled her shoulders, shook her head once—hard—until the memory loosened its grip. When she opened her eyes again, she kept moving.
The garage door was already open when she stepped inside, creaking softly as it began to slide shut behind her.
Bumblebee was there.
Fully transformed. Right in the middle of the garage.
Dancing.
He looked wildly out of place—towering metal limbs amid wooden shelves, her dad’s old workbench cluttered with half-finished projects, the dusty outline where a motorcycle used to sit before it had been sold years ago. Too big. Too bright. Too alive for a space that smelled like sawdust and oil.
Sam blinked.
Then laughed.
“Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” blared through his radio, brassy and joyful, the trumpet line loud and proud as Bee mimed playing along, metal fingers fluttering dramatically. He spun, just a little clumsy, but committed—hips swaying, foot tapping in time.
Sam laughed, breathless, as she finally set the boxes down.
When Bee noticed her, his optics lit up immediately—bright, expressive, unmistakably happy.
He crossed the space in two easy steps, bowed deeply with exaggerated flourish, and gently took her much smaller hand. He twirled her into the beat, careful but enthusiastic, and Sam laughed harder, stomping along as best she could while Bee guided her through it.
Then he noticed the boxes.
The music cut off abruptly.
Bee collapsed to the floor with theatrical despair, windshield wipers flicking furiously as sobbing sounds stitched themselves together through static-filled radio stations. His shoulders shook. Windshield fluid sprayed just enough to sell the bit—fake tears pooling dramatically beneath him.
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned fondly, rolling her eyes. “Bee. Relax. You can still visit me whenever you want.”
“It’s—not—the same—” his radio warbled mournfully.
Her chest softened immediately.
God. She was such a softie for him.
Sam stepped closer and rested her hand against his shoulder, fingers brushing warm metal, grounding herself in the familiar hum beneath her palm.
“I know,” she said quietly. Tender. Real. “But Optimus needs you more than I do.”
Bee shifted, optics dimming just slightly, about to answer—
when the sharp rev of a very familiar motorcycle engine sliced through the air.
Both of them perked up.
“No way,” Sam breathed, excitement rushing through her veins.
She was already moving, leaving the garage as the engine cut off. The rider swung off the bike and pulled off her helmet, her dark, wavy hair tumbling free over a leather jacket that seemed to belong there.
Sam beamed.
“Mikaela!” she laughed, jogging the last few steps before throwing her arms around her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were busy being the new manager—Miss Important.”
She leaned back and gave her an exaggerated shoulder shimmy.
Mikaela grinned, red lipstick flashing as she leaned back and returned the exaggerated shoulder shimmy. “Since I’m the manager now, I get to decide when I take time off.”
They hugged again, solid and familiar, before Mikaela let go and bumped her fist lightly against Sam’s shoulder. “I came to help you pack.”
Sam clutched her chest dramatically. “Ye of little faith. I finished. Brought down the last boxes myself.”
Mikaela slung an arm around her shoulders and tugged her toward the house. “Great. Now I wanna see which shirts of yours I can steal before you leave.”
“No way,” Sam said immediately, shoving her away with mock offence. “My style is so not your style.”
“Please,” Mikaela scoffed. “Everything looks better on me.”
Sam laughed, then paused. “Hold on—I gotta go into the garage quick. I promised Optimus I’d call him on Bee’s radio before I left.”
Mikaela smirked. “He’s such a dad.”
“He totally is,” Sam said, walking backward, smiling at her.
She turned.
Reached for the handle.
And pushed.
The garage door opened.
But instead of Bee and tools and warmth—
There was darkness.
Sam froze.
The air felt wrong. Too still. Too empty.
The warmth of summer vanished instantly, swallowed by something cold and hollow. Light from behind her barely reached inside before it was devoured by shadow.
Her heart stuttered.
Sam stepped forward.
It felt like the darkness was calling her—soft, insistent, a siren’s pull curling around her spine.
Logic barely flickered in her mind before it was drowned.
Sam Witwicky had never been good at the self-preservation response thing that everyone else had.
She’d always been the one to open the wrong door, touch the thing she shouldn’t, but on some occasions, her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and she would run at the first sign of danger.
This was not the occasion.
The darkness swallowed her.
One step—and she was gone from Mikaela’s sight.
“Sam—!” Mikaela didn’t hesitate.
She followed immediately, because Sam Witwicky was many things—brilliant, reckless, stubborn—but she was hers. And the moment Mikaela’s foot crossed the threshold—
BANG.
The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Both of them jumped, spinning—
But instead of the metallic garage door Sam had just opened, there was wood.
Old. Polished. Warm-toned.
A golden knob gleamed faintly in the dark.
Sam’s breath hitched. She pressed her palms against it.
The surface felt wrong.
Rough.
Uneven.
She froze.
“…Mikaela,” Sam whispered.
Mikaela stepped back, eyes wide, running her hands over the door like she could will it to disappear if she tried hard enough.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s… not great.”
She turned to the wooden door, gripping the golden handle and yanking hard.
“What the hell—” She twisted it again. No keyhole. No give. Bobby pins were officially useless.
Sam lunged forward, fingers scrabbling for the handle. She shoved her shoulder into the door.
Nothing.
“Open—open—open,” she muttered, panic climbing her spine as she hit it again.
Still nothing.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she turned back to face the place she was in.
The room was wrong.
Sam turned, her pulse loud in her ears.
The room was wrong.
Not empty—compressed. Like they were standing inside a pocket carved out of nothing.
The walls were black, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. There were no corners she could clearly see, no ceiling she could track. No sense of distance or scale.
Just endless shadow.
“This isn’t possible,” Sam said hoarsely. “We were just at my house. Seconds ago.”
Mikaela didn’t answer.
She was staring ahead, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.
“Sam,” she said quietly. “Look.”
Sam followed Mikaela’s pointed finger—red nail stark against the dark.
At the far end of the room, barely visible through the shadows, stood another door.
Smaller.
Smaller.
Identical.
Same wood. Same golden handle.
Sam glanced back.
The door behind them had changed too—perfectly matching its twin. But the outlines of both warped subtly, like they didn’t quite belong in the space they occupied.
The girls looked at each other.
Sam swallowed.
“May as well see if it’s an exit,” she said weakly. “Never know if we don’t try.”
Mikaela nodded instantly. She reached out and laced their fingers together—firm, grounding.
“Don’t let go.”
They started walking.
Halfway across the room—
The walls shifted.
Sam’s eyes widened as the darkness stirred, shadows curling and spiralling like smoke caught in a current. The space didn’t collapse.
It closed.
The distance between the walls shrank like a slow inhale, the room finally acknowledging them—intruders.
“Mikaela,” Sam warned, tugging on her hand.
“I see it,” Mikaela said sharply, tightening her grip. “Run.”
It was shrinking.
Sam yelped as the shadows to her left slid closer, the darkness folding in on itself like a lung desperately trying to pull in air. The floor shuddered beneath her feet, vibrations rattling up her bones as tendrils of shadow brushed at her ankles—hesitating, deciding whether to grab, whether to drag her down.
Fight-or-flight snapped into place.
Sam didn’t think.
She ran.
This time she surged ahead, dragging Mikaela with her as they sprinted for the door on the far side of the room, fingers locked together, arms burning.
They bolted.
And the room moved with them.
Not following—guiding. The walls didn’t chase; they herded, pressing in from every direction, shadows thickening, swallowing space, swallowing sound. The air felt dense, resistant, like running through water that wanted them to drown.
It felt alive.
Hungry.
The darkness surged again, cutting across their path, trying to box them in, to crush them whole.
“Don’t look,” Mikaela panted, matching Sam’s stride, grip tightening as she yanked Sam forward harder. “Don’t—look—”
Sam didn’t.
She fixed her eyes on the door ahead.
It loomed closer—warped, wrong—yet somehow not fast enough. Every step felt stolen.
Too slowly.
Too slowly—
THUD.
They slammed into it together, both of them hissing in pain as the impact jarred their shoulders.
Mikaela didn’t stop moving. She grabbed the knob, twisting left, right—
Click.
She wrenched the door open.
Blackness roared at their backs.
They threw themselves through the doorway and slammed it shut with everything they had, bodies colliding with the wood as the impact rattled their bones.
For one heartbeat, they stood there—panting, shaking—hands still pressed flat against the door.
Then the rumbling started.
Low.
Violent.
The door buckled beneath their palms.
“Sam—” Mikaela breathed.
They stumbled back just as the door collapsed inward, folding in on itself like paper caught in flame—
—and vanished.
Gone.
In its place was a seamless black wall.
No door.
No cracks.
No indication there had ever been an exit at all.
Sam’s knees nearly gave out.
She grabbed fistfuls of Mikaela’s jacket, fingers digging in as her chest heaved, lungs burning while the silence swallowed them whole. She sucked in air desperately, trying to convince her body it wasn’t still running, still being chased.
“…That was so not my garage,” she panted between breaths.
Their breathing finally slowed.
The burning in Sam’s chest eased, the violent trembling in her limbs fading as adrenaline loosened its grip—but it didn’t leave entirely. It lingered, coiled tight, because once the silence settled, Sam realised something was wrong.
She could hear voices.
Not echoes. Not imagined.
Voices.
Sam and Mikaela turned at the same time, heads snapping toward the sound.
The darkness peeled back.
The space around them unfolded like a curtain being drawn, shadows retreating to reveal something vast and impossible. Rows upon rows of seats curved downward in a wide arc, disappearing into shadow the further they went. Soft aisle lights glowed faintly, guiding paths through the space. At the far end loomed a massive screen—dark, blank, waiting.
A theatre.
Sam barely had time to process that before her attention was ripped elsewhere.
Transformers.
Autobots.
They were scattered throughout the lower rows, towering metallic forms stark against the human-sized seats. Optimus Prime stood near the centre aisle, tall and immovable, his presence anchoring the chaos around him. Ironhide hovered close, cannon-arm lowered but ready. Ratchet’s optics flicked rapidly as he scanned the room, posture tight. Jazz leaned forward slightly, restless, while Sideswipe paced in short, sharp movements.
Their armour was scratched.
Dented.
Marked with damage that hadn’t been there before—as if they’d been pulled straight from a battle and dropped here without warning. More than once, Sam caught them glancing toward Optimus, silent questions passing between them, waiting for direction that clearly hadn’t come yet.
And humans.
Soldiers and civilians alike filled the surrounding seats, some standing, some sitting, all of them talking over one another in rising panic. Lennox. Epps. The blonde woman from Mission City. An agent Sam vaguely recognised from later operations. Faces she knew—and faces she didn’t. People she had never met were here too: a brunette woman sitting stiffly near the aisle, a man with rough hands and tired eyes holding himself like a mechanic, a younger guy with nervous energy pacing a few rows down.
None of them made sense.
But Sam barely registered any of it.
Her eyes locked onto Bumblebee.
He stood beside Optimus, unmistakable even among giants.
Relief crashed through her so hard her knees nearly buckled.
“Oh—” she breathed, tension draining from her body. “Bee. Thank Primus—you’re here.”
She took a step toward him.
Every Autobot in the room turned.
The sound was sharp and unified—metal shifting, servos locking, optics snapping toward her in perfect, synchronized motion.
Sam froze.
Her smile faltered.
Bumblebee didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
He just stared at her.
Not confused. Not startled.
Intense.
Unblinking.
Like she was something impossible standing in front of him.
Sam’s stomach twisted.
“…Bee?” she tried softly, taking another step. He’d never scared her before. He didn’t scare her now, either, —not really—but something was wrong. “You okay?”
He moved then.
One step toward her, slow and instinctive, like her voice had reached something buried deep inside him.
Then another.
His optics flickered—bright, frantic—and the relief Sam had felt curdled into something cold and sharp.
“Bee…?” She lifted a hand in a small, uncertain wave.
His optics flared.
Bright.
Fractured.
And then he dropped.
Metal struck the floor with a bone-deep clang as Bumblebee fell to his knees, the impact echoing through the theatre. Light rippled across his frame, folding inward, compressing—
—and suddenly he was human.
His holoform.
The one Sam thought she knew.
A teenage boy—her age, once. Blond hair cut short now, military-close instead of shaggy. Skin pale, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. Dark circles sat heavy beneath familiar blue eyes that no longer held curiosity or warmth, only disbelief and pain.
The scar across his throat was still there.
But everything else looked… worn.
Like he’d lived years she hadn’t seen.
His chest rose too fast, breath hitching like he’d been drowning, his gaze sweeping over her face again and again as if terrified she’d vanish if he blinked.
“Sam,” he breathed.
She didn’t know if he mouthed it or whispered it aloud.
Her name broke out of him like a prayer.
But it was the look on his face that stopped her cold.
Awe—raw and blinding—twisted together with something far worse. Grief so deep it hollowed him out from the inside. It was an expression she had never seen on Bumblebee’s holoform before. Not once. Not in battle. Not in loss. Not even in the moments he’d been afraid.
And it was all she could see before she could blink.
Bee surged forward.
Running—like she might disappear, like the ground might open beneath her feet, like if he didn’t reach her now she’d be gone again.
“Bee—” Sam barely had time to start.
He scooped her up off the floor, spinning her around so fast she yelped, a startled laugh tearing out of her on instinct. It was familiar—something he’d done a hundred times before in this form, careless and joyful—
But before she could say anything, before she could tease him or ask what the hell was wrong—
He crushed her against him.
And it wasn’t like his hugs.
Normally, Bumblebee’s hugs were warm. Solid. Safe. Like being wrapped in a blanket that blocked out the world.
This—
This was different.
Too tight.
Too desperate.
His arms locked around her like vines, as if he loosened even a fraction, she might vanish. Like he was trying to mold her body into his, fuse her there, make her impossible to lose again. Her face pressed into his shoulder, his chin tucked into her hair, breath shuddering violently against her scalp.
Sam stiffened for half a second—
Then melted automatically, muscle memory taking over as she patted his back soothingly.
“Honeybee—”
He shuddered at the nickname.
His grip tightened.
Sam squeaked. “Okay—okay—hugging’s great, love it, but—Bee, you gotta let me breathe too,” she said, patting his back again, this time a little more panicked. “I like my ribs unbroken.”
She glanced over his shoulder.
Mikaela just stared back at her, wide-eyed and helpless, silently mouthing, I don’t know.
Bee finally pulled back—
Not really.
One arm stayed locked around Sam’s waist like a brand. His other hand came up, fingers trembling as he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her skin like he needed to feel her, like he needed proof she wasn’t a trick of light. His eyes searched her face with something dangerously close to reverence.
Sam swallowed. “…Bee?”
He sagged then.
His forehead dropped against her collarbone, weight heavy and shaking, like whatever had been holding him upright had finally given out. Sam wrapped her arms around him without thinking, cradling his head, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him the way she had when he was scared, when the world was too loud, when things hurt too much to explain.
Her heart was pounding now.
This wasn’t relief.
This was mourning.
She recognised the look.
She’d seen it once before—when her mum sent her to visit their neighbour, old Gram-Gram Cathy after the last of her siblings had died. Cathy had been the youngest of five, sharp-tongued, apple-scented, hands always stained with dirt from her garden. She’d never stopped judging people—but when Sam had walked into that house, the light had gone out of her eyes.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Devastation.
The kind that never really leaves. The kind that settles in and stays until the end.
Sam’s stomach twisted.
She lifted her head and looked around.
The humans she recognised were staring at her in shock, awe written plainly across their faces. The ones she didn’t know looked confused, rattled, silent—probably still trying to process the fact that a giant alien robot had just turned into a grieving teenage boy in front of them.
Then Sam shifted her gaze to the Autobots.
Optimus Prime stood rigid, towering and unmoving. His optics were dim—not cold, never cold—but aching. Jazz’s hands were clenched at his sides, posture tight like he was holding himself together by force alone. Ratchet’s gaze lingered on Sam like she was something impossible—something precious that hurt to look at for too long.
They loved her.
She knew that.
She’d always known.
And yet—
Every Autobot in the room was looking at her the same way.
With grief.
Sam’s throat went dry.
A cold dread crawled up her spine, sharp enough that she felt the urge to claw at her own arms just to make it stop.
“…What happened?” she whispered.
No one answered.
Sam’s heart thudded violently, each beat hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape the cage of her chest. She was not prepared for this. Nothing in her life—school, science, surviving alien robots—had readied her for what was happening right now.
Then—a voice.
It didn’t start soft. It didn’t build. It boomed, rolling through the theatre like a storm tearing across the sky:
“I have gathered you all here to prevent the fate of my champion. Watch the past, present, and future to understand what you must all do to prevent mistakes from happening again—and causing my champion’s death.”
Every head snapped toward the source of the sound. No one saw a speaker. No one saw a mouth. It didn’t matter. The authority in that voice was absolute, undeniable, inescapable.
Optimus stepped forward, optics narrowing. “What champion do you seek to avenge?”
The voice didn’t answer.
Before anyone could react, before Sam could even process the words, the floor shifted beneath them.
Seats rose from the ground, smooth and unyielding.
They were pressed into place, shoving everyone gently but firmly until standing was impossible.
Sam’s arms instinctively wrapped around Bee, gripping him as if he alone could anchor her to the world.
Mikaela’s hand found hers, squeezing tightly, wide-eyed as she stared at the surreal theatre, the Autobots, the humans—everything thrust together into something impossible.
Sam met her gaze and squeezed back, breath hitching, eyes wide, mind spinning with confusion and panic.
The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.
And then the voice spoke again. Softer this time—but no less undeniable:
“You must all watch the journey of my champion in order to understand what went wrong for the Autobots.”
Sam swallowed hard. The words hit her like ice water. Whoever this voice belonged to… they were furious. Furious that their champion had been lost.
The screen brightened, illuminating the room with a pale, unrelenting light.
A scene unfolded: the sun rising over the ocean, gilding the water in gold. A figure moved through the waves, cutting through the water with practiced strokes.
Sam leaned forward, eyebrows knitting, stomach twisting.
She knew that body. That style of swimming. The tilt of the head. The bracelet on that wrist.
“No way,” she murmured.
Horror and disbelief collided in her chest as the camera—or whatever it was—shifted closer.
The face came into focus. A slightly younger version of herself. Her own face.
Samantha Jane Witwicky.
Wet hair plastered to her forehead. A grin breaking across her features as she sliced through the lake under the early sun like she always did before school.
Lettering appeared in the corner of the screen.
South Lake Tahoe, Nevada, July 2007
This was before she met the Autobots, she realised.
Sam’s mouth dropped.
“What. The. Fuck.”