The air never tasted quite right. It smelled like metal and ozone and something vaguely sweet that made Sam's mouth water a little if he concentrated on trying to narrow down the scent. He still wasn't entirely sure what it was, but he was pretty sure it was from something he didn't want to put in his mouth.
Other than the relatively similar smell of the human-appropriate air, however, the Ark could not be more different from the Nemesis if it tried. The walls were smooth and unscored, connecting in gentle curves. They were colored in whites and light silvers, with interesting touches of orange to relieve the monotone. The Decepticon warship had been angular, with claw-raked surfaces, constructed of metallic blacks, hematites, and lit with dark purple or red that made it hard for Sam to see.
The light....
Sam tilted his face up toward it appreciatively. He could feel it soaking in like it was real sunlight. It was, the medic had told him, calibrated precisely to mimic the atmospherically diluted radiation of Sol that had once fallen on Earth's surface.
He didn't know how they had managed to save enough of Earth to make things liveable for the rescued, surviving humans. Didn't know how there was an entire deck, the most heavily shielded, with orange trees and corn and rabbits and chickens and soil and grass and running water... and none of it a hologram, the way he'd been convinced it was the first time Smokescreen had taken him there.
And Sam knew he was still fucked-up in the head, despite the Autobot psychologist's best efforts to blunt the edges. What did aliens know about standard baseline human psychology, anyway? They might've saved some things off the Internet so long ago, but they were from an completely different culture.
At least Smokescreen knew enough to acknowledge that, to gently tell Sam that he could only guide so far and that sooner or later the human would be balanced enough to be his own doctor.
They were keeping the other humans mostly away from him, Sam knew, both for their safety and his own. He'd met a few in passing, and felt... inadequate.
Raoul, strong and tall and friendly, with teeth so white they were nearly blinding. Chip, smart enough to keep up with the Autobots' engineers, who looked like he should be a movie heartthrob. If one ignored the hoverchair he was wired into so it could correct the spinal damage his Decepticon ex-owner had caused. And Carly, who was all confidence and intelligence and curves in all the right places and made a part of Sam that he'd thought burnt out give a painful lurch each time he saw her.
First Aid had eventually figured out the source of his depression and let Sam know that the three of them, and all the other humans remaining, had been specially bred and genetically altered by Decepticon entrepeneurs in the centuries since Earth's demise. Sockets might have been illegal among the Decepticons, but that just meant that there was a thriving black market. That the three of them were perfect was not a matter of chance or choice.
Sam was the only unaltered human left.
"Are you ready, Sam?" First Aid asked him.
"Yeah, I guess," he replied. He didn't know if he was looking forward to this or not. The socket at the base of his neck tingled and he rubbed at it. First Aid had tsked at it, calling it sloppy work, and offered to correctly install a proper socket module, if Sam ever chose. He hadn't yet, wanting to distance himself from that. Wanting to be more than just an organic orgasm source. Wanting to have a life again, a purpose and meaning beyond whoring his body to Cybertronians in order to survive.
First Aid and Smokescreen had respected that, only connecting to him for medical needs, to clear out the damage Megatron's nanites and presence had done him over so many years.
"Excellent." First Aid folded down into a vehicle mode that had never been seen on Earth and slid open a door, inviting. Sam hesitated a moment, then shook himself.
This was the first day of the rest of his life.
"I'm ready," he told the medic, told himself. If he kept repeating it, he might be able to make himself feel it. It was time to see what he could do for the Autobots.
no subject
Other than the relatively similar smell of the human-appropriate air, however, the Ark could not be more different from the Nemesis if it tried. The walls were smooth and unscored, connecting in gentle curves. They were colored in whites and light silvers, with interesting touches of orange to relieve the monotone. The Decepticon warship had been angular, with claw-raked surfaces, constructed of metallic blacks, hematites, and lit with dark purple or red that made it hard for Sam to see.
The light....
Sam tilted his face up toward it appreciatively. He could feel it soaking in like it was real sunlight. It was, the medic had told him, calibrated precisely to mimic the atmospherically diluted radiation of Sol that had once fallen on Earth's surface.
He didn't know how they had managed to save enough of Earth to make things liveable for the rescued, surviving humans. Didn't know how there was an entire deck, the most heavily shielded, with orange trees and corn and rabbits and chickens and soil and grass and running water... and none of it a hologram, the way he'd been convinced it was the first time Smokescreen had taken him there.
And Sam knew he was still fucked-up in the head, despite the Autobot psychologist's best efforts to blunt the edges. What did aliens know about standard baseline human psychology, anyway? They might've saved some things off the Internet so long ago, but they were from an completely different culture.
At least Smokescreen knew enough to acknowledge that, to gently tell Sam that he could only guide so far and that sooner or later the human would be balanced enough to be his own doctor.
They were keeping the other humans mostly away from him, Sam knew, both for their safety and his own. He'd met a few in passing, and felt... inadequate.
Raoul, strong and tall and friendly, with teeth so white they were nearly blinding. Chip, smart enough to keep up with the Autobots' engineers, who looked like he should be a movie heartthrob. If one ignored the hoverchair he was wired into so it could correct the spinal damage his Decepticon ex-owner had caused. And Carly, who was all confidence and intelligence and curves in all the right places and made a part of Sam that he'd thought burnt out give a painful lurch each time he saw her.
First Aid had eventually figured out the source of his depression and let Sam know that the three of them, and all the other humans remaining, had been specially bred and genetically altered by Decepticon entrepeneurs in the centuries since Earth's demise. Sockets might have been illegal among the Decepticons, but that just meant that there was a thriving black market. That the three of them were perfect was not a matter of chance or choice.
Sam was the only unaltered human left.
"Are you ready, Sam?" First Aid asked him.
"Yeah, I guess," he replied. He didn't know if he was looking forward to this or not. The socket at the base of his neck tingled and he rubbed at it. First Aid had tsked at it, calling it sloppy work, and offered to correctly install a proper socket module, if Sam ever chose. He hadn't yet, wanting to distance himself from that. Wanting to be more than just an organic orgasm source. Wanting to have a life again, a purpose and meaning beyond whoring his body to Cybertronians in order to survive.
First Aid and Smokescreen had respected that, only connecting to him for medical needs, to clear out the damage Megatron's nanites and presence had done him over so many years.
"Excellent." First Aid folded down into a vehicle mode that had never been seen on Earth and slid open a door, inviting. Sam hesitated a moment, then shook himself.
This was the first day of the rest of his life.
"I'm ready," he told the medic, told himself. If he kept repeating it, he might be able to make himself feel it. It was time to see what he could do for the Autobots.
"Rodimus Prime is waiting."