Author's Note: This was inspired by watching the new Transformers trailer, because I'd like to be able to actually *enjoy* the movie without constantly worrying about the rampant destruction of, oh, everything. Of course, as I read up on the new movie, it went in kind of an unexpected direction. (Cairo? Huh?) Mostly, there were a bunch of little things I wanted to see in between the movies, so that's what I wrote. Apologies for my complete lack of knowledge (and/or disregard) for Transformers canon.

[ETA: And then I saw the *second* preview, and I was all "Bwuh?" all over again. But it was kind of a good thing, because it made me want to write what I *wanted* to have happened.]

What Giant Robots?

Of course, the government covered it up. Tried to, at least, and they were more successful than Sam would've thought. Within a week, he heard that it was a movie filming accident, a military anti-terrorism drill, a hoax, and a CGI company publicity stunt gone wrong. Within a month, he wasn't hearing anything at all, except on the conspiracy boards. The information was still out there, if you knew where to look, but it wasn't getting fancy graphics and air time on the evening news any more.

Sam wasn't supposed to be looking -- it was part of the ongoing wheeling and dealing going on between his family and the military -- but he did anyway. He wasn't supposed to contact Maggie or Glen either, but he did that too. The military couldn't have a keystroke logger on every computer in the state, right?

A Train They Call The City of New Orleans

It was possible he was still a little upset about the whole thing.

"Are you saying you think the Autobots are a threat?" He'd learned that everything was a threat or an asset with the military; nothing was allowed to just be.

"No," Sam said, holding back the "obviously not" that was on the tip of his tongue. "What I'm saying is that parts of Mission City still don't have running water, let alone reliable electricity or phones. I'm saying hundreds of people died, and you still can't drive down streets because of rubble, and they weren't even trying! That was all by accident!"

The officer across the table from him sighed. "Look, Mr. Witwicky -- Sam. What do you want us to do?"

"I want you to protect people! Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing? Protecting us?"

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple!"

The officer pushed his chair back and stood up, both hands on the table. "Listen to me, and listen carefully. You're what, 17? 18? And you were there, and that sucks, and I respect that. But I'm not going to rehash every decision we made that day so you can feel better about yourself. So either make a suggestion, or keep your mouth shut."

Sam glared back at him. "You could at least tell people what's going on. They could have left; they could have gotten to safety."

He got a long stare, and silence. Finally, the man said, "Sam. We couldn't evacuate New Orleans, and we had a three day lead time on a known danger. You know what would have happened if we'd announced to Mission City that giant robots were about to light it up? Ever seen a panicked mob? No way were we going to add rioting civilians into that mix."

"I think you're underestimating civilians," Sam said. "We did all right."

"Yeah, well, I think you're underestimating how much you're not a civilian anymore."

SETI@home

Sam's weekly check-in reports were always on time, and they were always the same. "No change, nothing to report." They dropped to bi-weekly, then monthly, and then he could almost pretend the military wasn't watching him.

It was around that time that Sam started having second thoughts. "I have a question," he said.

Captain Lennox looked at him consideringly. They hadn't spoken since Sam's graduation (and hadn't that been interesting, having Special Forces show up at a high school graduation and pretend to be inconspicuous). "Okay."

"Hypothetically -- and this is completely hypothetical, of course, no relation to anything that may or may not have actually happened -- but hypothetically, if there was something I knew, that I thought you knew, but now realize you might not know, and that I never actually told anyone... What would be the best thing to do now?"

It took a minute for the Captain to work through the question. "Why don't you give me a hypothetical example," he said finally. It wouldn't really be enough to give either of them plausible deniability, if they ever needed it, but it was something.

"Okay, so -- just as an example -- what if there were more Autobots?"

"Are there?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"Right, don't answer that. If you're asking did I know that Optimus put out a call, then yes, I did. Not until after the fact, but yes. If it's something other than that, it depends. How serious are you about not getting recruited?"

"Pretty serious."

"Then the best thing is for you not to know anything. If there was ever something you thought you might know, that we needed to know... Get Optimus to tell the military. He's to big to intimidate. Got it?"

Sam nodded. His next check-in read the same as always: "No change, nothing to report."

Bird's Eye View

"I don't think Optimus likes me." Mikaela gestured with a fry.

Sam tried to swallow and shake his head at the same time. "It's not you; he's like that with everyone."

"I just figured he'd warm up after awhile, you know?"

"I think he likes all of us -- all humans -- in a general sort of way." Sam swirled a french fry in the ketchup, considering. "Kind of like how most people are with dolphins. They're nice enough, and you don't think they should be hunted down and killed, but you're not out in the ocean engaged in meaningful conversation with them every day."

Mikaela looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "Bumblebee doesn't feel that way."

"No." No, that much was abundantly clear. Bumblebee liked Sam, and Sam was as confident that the military didn't know that as he was sure that Optimus did.

"Did you know they get bigger as they age?" Sam asked. "I asked Bumblebee once, why the Decepticons were so much bigger. The Autobots are just kids; Optimus is the only one who's considered an adult."

Sam didn't really want to think about the implications of children being the only ones left to fight the war with the Decepticons, so he added, "It's relative, though; I mean, they're all ancient compared to us."

Mikaela looked intrigued. "So, Jazz," she started. "Like a son to Optimus?"

Sam shrugged. "Either that or he was robbing the cradle."

Holding Pattern

"You don't have to take the scholarship, you know."

"Yes you do!" his dad called from the kitchen.

"No he doesn't!" his mom yelled back. In a quieter voice, she said, "You really don't, Sam. I don't want you to feel pressured."

Which was great, except that he'd already had this conversation. Twice. Actually, with Mikaela it had been more like an argument. "I know, Mom," he said. "It's fine."

On paper, Bumblebee was part of NEST, and Sam was not. Period. In practice, Bumblebee was wherever Sam was. Whether he would leave Sam behind if Optimus called, or bring him along, or ignore the call completely, was something everyone pretended they didn't need to think about. The military, in particular, didn't like to acknowledge how little control they had over the Autobots. They really didn't like to admit that they had no idea what to do with Sam -- offering a full scholarship to the school of his choice was a decent way to keep an eye on him.

"I already wanted to go to college," he told his parents. "This way the military's paying for it, instead of you guys. Four years guaranteed, no hard sell recruiting."

His mom still looked worried. "But what about after that?"

Privately, Sam didn't think they'd need to worry about that. He was pretty sure the decision would be made for him before the four years was up. Without thinking, he tried to explain. "It's like this," he said. "The Autobots are ready for peace. They'd be happy just hanging out here, regrouping, maybe making some plans. But the Decepticons want to keep fighting. They'd turn this planet inside out just because Optimus likes us."

He stopped, because both of his parents were staring at him like he was speaking a foreign language. His dad said, "Sam, you realize when you get going like that, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I just wish there was something we could do to help," his mom added.

Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she meant "help" in the sense of "professional help," but he ignored it. "Actually," he said. "There is one thing."

Sundown, Lights Out

"Your family is moving where?"

"Come on, Miles. Lots of parents move when their kids go off to college. You know how my dad feels about taxes."

"Yeah, they move somewhere normal, like Florida, or New Mexico. Nobody's parents move out to the middle of nowhere to live in a bunker."

"It's not a bunker. It's just off the grid."

"Dude. Your parents are weird."

Breaker 1-9

Of all the things Sam might have predicted that giant, transforming, alien robots would like about Earth, ringtones wouldn't have been anywhere near the top of the list. And yet -- he'd tried to tell them that if they kept changing them all the time, it defeated the entire purpose of having individual ringtones. It hadn't worked. Now he had no idea what noise his phone might start making at any given moment, and he had no idea who was calling.

In fact, he usually couldn't tell if it was even his phone, so he'd become one of those people who patted down their pockets every time they heard a vaguely phone-like noise. Which is what he was doing now, hoping (in vain, it turned out) that the tinny version of "I'm Too Sexy" wasn't coming from anything he'd have to claim responsibility for.

"Yeah, it's Sam," he said, not even bothering to check the display. They kept changing that, too -- how, he had no idea.

It was Mikaela. "Hey," she said. "You okay?"

"Sure, yeah. I can never come to this store again, ever, but I'm good. You?"

"Our 'guests' are restless."

The Autobots took care of their own, but the three newest arrivals had latched on to Mikaela and refused to let go. He could hear the sounds of the garage in the background. Which meant she was at work, which was completely hot, and Sam had to stop thinking about it.

"Really?" he said, still distracted by the mental image of Mikaela in that shirt.

"Yeah. They're pissed they can't go out and have fun. They keep changing colors. Sam -- help."

Well, yeah. But they weren't big enough to transform into anything but a motorcycle, and a bike without a rider was a lot more obvious than a car without a driver. "Can't they team up, or something?" he asked. "They've got to be able to get enough mass between the three of them for a SmartCar, at least. You always say those things are held together with tape and string anyway."

"Can they even do that?"

"I've got no idea, but it might keep them distracted for a while. Maybe Bumblebee can take them off-roading tonight. We could go along, take a picnic dinner, romantic night under the stars?"

Mikaela laughed. "With four overeager chaperones?" But her voice was soft when she added, "Sure. It's a date."

It's Not the Heat, It's the Humidity

Diego Garcia was hot. And sunny. And an absolutely terrible place to be stuck inside playing cards with Bumblebee while the other Autobots had fun.

"Go fish," Sam said.

You couldn't play poker with an Autobot. Well, you could, but you'd lose. Any game where having a massively powerful computer for a brain would be an advantage was right out, which had so far limited them to crazy 8s and Go Fish.

Technically, Diego Garcia was a highly classified US military base in the Indian Ocean, where the largest remaining shard of the Allspark was being stored. Optimus (in a rare not-quite-a-lie) had insisted on visiting privileges. All the Autobots would head out to the island once a week or so, to meditate, or bond, or whatever the government thought they were doing. Mostly they played in the water, and met up with all the other Autobots, that the military didn't know about yet.

But one of them had to stay behind on base, just in case someone was checking up on them. There was also something about it being easier to show everyone's tracking signals coming from one place if one of them was actually in that place, but Sam never really followed when the Autobots got technical on him.

"Do you have any fives?" he asked. Bumblebee shook his head, and Sam sighed. At least this time he wouldn't have any sunburn to explain away.

What's Your Sign?

"Did you do that in high school too?"

"What?" Sam dodged a skateboard and fumbled his phone. He must be the only person in the world who could insert clumsy into a conversation from a thousand miles away.

"You did, didn't you?"

"What? Seriously, you lost me."

Mikaela mimicked the conversation he'd just had. "'What are you studying?' 'Oh, I don't really know yet. Astronomy, I guess.' Doesn't anyone ever say, 'Hey, that's not an actual major here'?"

"Not as many as you might think, actually," Sam told her. "It's orientation -- it's just some way of checking to make sure you're not a crazy imposter, or something. It's not like they really want to know."

"And it doesn't have anything at all to do with not wanting people to know you're actually smart?"

"Hey, you should talk, Miss 'I could rebuild your engine blindfolded, but I tell people I just like driving fast cars.'" He kept going before Mikaela could laugh at him. "And don't try telling me it's different, because it's so not."

She laughed anyway.

Don't Sit Too Close (Television Rots Your Brain)

"You're using the what software?"

Glen laughed, clearly mistaking Sam's genuine confusion for awed excitement. "I know, right? It's like using the Dark Side of the Force to help people adopt kittens or something. I love it!"

"It's not actually the same as the American Idol voting software," Maggie explained, "It's more like the reverse of it."

Sam had left the issue of "how to organize mass alerts and evacuations" in Maggie and Glen's hands, since the military seemed unwilling to take it on. He should have expected they'd come up with something completely insane. "So... your program is going to text message people? Is that fast enough?"

"On finale night I voted over 8000 times in four hours," Glen said. "And power texting only works on one of my phones. Believe me, it'll work."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "There's still a few kinks in the program. And obviously, it counts on the fact that the Decepticons haven't shown any preference for targeting our satellites and cell towers. But yes, we can now send a message to every cell phone in the country --"

"In the world, actually," Glen interrupted. He grinned at Maggie's startled expression. "Got it running last night."

"Every cell phone in the world, then. With any message, although the shorter the better -- long ones drop the speed considerably."

"So we could send a text to everyone in, say, San Francisco?" Sam asked.

Glen fidgeted in his chair. "Well, yes. Technically."

"But?"

"It's sort of an all or nothing thing at this point. If we text anyone, we text everyone."

Maggie shrugged. "We're still working on that part of it."

If Foresight was Hindsight, We'd All Go Blind

Mikaela thought he was selling out. His parents thought he was crazy. Optimus thought they were going to war. And Sam... Well, he didn't know what to think. He didn't necessarily disagree with any of them, he just wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about it.

But there were Autobots to babysit, and packing to do, and dating on top of that, and sometimes he just looked around and realized that his life was really, amazingly, good. And weird. And then he had to laugh, because really, two years ago, who would have predicted any of that?

No one, which he figured was probably his answer right there. No one could tell for sure what was going to happen. You just kept going, one day at a time.