This is what happens when you go on a useless trip with your A2 biology class to a university and attempt a DNA replicating practical that doesn't even work. You spend the rest of the day inspired to write a fanfiction, ladies and gentlemen.

Point one! : This has a very odd and mixed-up timeline; it's extremely AU, take it as you see it (whatever that nonsensical phrase means). It's definitely post-Transformers 2007, but Sam's still at school- not only that, but our favourite silver commander is at large- Megatron is already resurrected, and somebody else is up and about who shouldn't be. You'll find out. ;D

Point two! : This will only be a twoshot, at maximum a three. I do not see it being more than a twoshot, myself, but you never know.

Anyway, I don't own Transformers or anything fantastic like that.

Onwards.

Um, there are a lot of implied relations in this. If you don't like such things, run away now.

I mean it. I won't be able to save your sanity afterwards. Please don't hate me.

Well, that was one direction his life wasn't going to go in. Sam glanced down at his notepad, flicked through to his "Possible Careers" page, and drew a firm (if slightly wobbly) line through "forensic scientist".

That had to have been the worst biology lesson he had ever sat/slowly wasted away through.

Ever.

Not only had he not understood what was being discussed, he couldn't even flick notes to Miles, who had pleaded guilty to a mysterious and dubiously sudden stomach pain five minutes into the period. He had been abandoned in the cruel, clinical world of biology, and it hurt. It went against the brotherly code.

No matter, he thought, eyes focussed solidly above the curly head of the droning teacher who thought he was interesting. The man was one of those odious people who only used surnames to communicate, and barked them at you as if you were some kind of dog. That was a point; Mojo would want his dinner very shortly. Sam decided to work out how long it would be before he got home and could feed his loyal and trusty hound. The clock was two minutes and fifteen seconds fast. Thus, if his calculations were correct, the bell would ring in less than two minutes and fifty seconds. Let it not be said that the mind of Sam Witwicky was inert and lazy!

Forty-six.

Sam sighed heavily.

Forty-three.

Perhaps, Sam thought, he should spend the time wisely. This seemed like a fine idea, so he twirled his biro and began aimlessly doodling whilst staring at the dastardly clock.

'Witwicky-!'

He was jolted from his dreamy reverie with a horrified shock, hastily blinking and trying to appear a studious and passionate student. He coughed, attempting to get his voice to work. 'Sir?'

'Did you hear me?' Curly-head asked disapprovingly, his eye-jarring green suit violating Sam's eyes and causing possibly irreparable damage.

'Yes,' Sam answered immediately, then realised that that was probably the worst thing he could have said. No doubt Curly-head would make him answer whatever cruel question he had just created. 'Well, I heard you just then, and as you didn't specify on which occasion I had heard you, I feel totally justified in saying that I heard you.'

There was a snickering passing around the classroom.

Curly-head's class-controlling tactic was simply to make Sam look even more stupid. 'I asked you how I would determine if you were a criminal, Whetwecky. Never mind,' he added, and Sam caught a sadistic gleam in his eyes. This was ridiculous; the man knew what his surname was. He was deliberately changing it for his own amusement. This was why Miles and Sam refused to call Curly-head by his real name. If Curly-head couldn't remember Sam's name (it wasn't hard, just Wit-wicky) then why should Sam remember his? 'Naturally, it really doesn't matter if you're not listening to me as long as you gained something from my lesson. Hand me your pad, why don't we take a look at your detailed notes?'

Sam stared at the paper rigidly, suddenly realising what he had been drawing. Well, this sucked. 'It's- it's nothing.'

Curly-head swooped down upon his desk and snatched up the notepad before he could think of a plan to hide it.

'So very accurate,' the man nodded, wicked grin spreading across his skeletal features. 'I couldn't have done it better myself.'

Sam's face burned in shame.

'Class, see how Witwacky spends his lesson? The world would be such an intelligent place if we all spent our time in education doing this.'

The pad was held up, and slowly turned so that every single one of Sam's classmates (although 'mates' wasn't a particularly accurate term, as it implied friendship or camaraderie) could behold his drawing.

'Whutwonky would rather be drawing robots!' Curly-head announced to the cackling glee of the evil hoards.

How could he have been so stupid as to doodle Optimus Prime? Not that it mattered, he cautiously reminded himself. Nobody knew about the Autobots (somehow. Was everybody blind or stupid? They had to be, with Sam around. He just failed at keeping things a secret).

Sam dared to peek back at Mikaela, who was staring with some Sam you predictable idiot shock at the picture. Cringing, he returned his hopeful gaze to the clock. Humiliation always seemed to slow time down.

'Whutwucky,' the professor continued, 'Tell me what I should do with you.'

There wasn't any escape from detention, at the very least. What the hell, he wasn't planning on taking biology at college anyway.

'Well, I see that you think you will get admiration from the class if you degrade me further,' Sam pointed out with a shrug. 'You may as well give me a detention for tomorrow.'

'Tonight would be far better,' Curly-head disagreed.

Obviously he wouldn't be told what to do by a mere nerdy loser.

'But sir, my dog-!' Sam protested futilely. 'He needs feeding!'

Trent's hateful tones snaked through the air, immediately igniting a tense tightening in Sam's abdomen. 'He has a Chihuahua.'

'A Chihuahua isn't going to notice if it doesn't eat,' some other bright spark giggled. 'It's so small it barely even exists.'

Sam's hands clenched into fists, but he took the low blows.

Ah, Mikaela was sitting there quietly. She wasn't particularly finding the torment hilarious, but why should Sam expect her to save him? He had just gone back to being the boy with the weird last name, the one in all of her classes. Why should she stand up for him, risk her entire reputation for the sake of a strange kid? No, Sam didn't expect her to do anything at all- but that didn't stop him imagining it for just one moment, imagining the faces of everybody in the room as the hottest girl of the school took the loner under her brightly-feathered wings-

But they barely spoke. And if they did, Mikaela would ensure that nobody else was around. And if she did, it would only be to ask about the Autobots and what they were doing.

Sam wasn't actually allowed to answer her; he was 'legally bound to secrecy'. The time between their brief 'conversations' was violently increasing- clearly she had better things (or people- no, no, that was wrong) to be doing.

The bell rang.

'The bell tolls for me!' Sam cried, accidentally doing so aloud, relief flooding so quickly through him that he nearly imploded.

'No, Woltwookie: the bell is a signal for me to end the lesson,' Curly-head snapped, irritated.

Too late, it seemed; the class was already dissipating, thank God. It seemed that Sam's nerdy loser reputation had made the drawing unimpressionable for the class.

'You will stay behind now,' Curly-head announced, 'And you will complete the work done in the lesson. You will also perform the practical. I want to see evidence tomorrow.'

'But we haven't even done a practical!' Sam cried, horrified. 'How-'

Curly-head had already left the room. The teenager groaned hopelessly. Great. Well, it could have been worse- it was at least far better to struggle on his own than have the vulture breathing over his shoulder, ready for the kill.

Sam could hear the devil of a man humming to himself delightedly as he sashayed away down the corridor. Asshole.

It would be better to get this over with quickly. With a resigned sigh, he forced the chair backwards and stared at the board.

PCR.

Oh. (Oh, he didn't even know what that stood for.)

There was a slight gaiety swirling suddenly in his stomach as he contemplated the silent, empty classroom. He was completely alone, and sometimes, that was all he wanted. He might as well try and- he noticed a piece of paper on a desk near the back. Mikaela's desk.

He wandered over to it and, after a glance over his shoulder to check that he wasn't being watched, picked it up.

Her neat, round handwriting clearly dictated everything that he had missed in the lesson.

Well, he'd have to return it to her tomorrow (clearly she couldn't wait to get out of the classroom and away from the weirdo), but for now, this was brilliant; he could just copy it down.

Returning to his own desk (the room may have been empty, but his desk was his, and the idea of sitting anywhere else was unthinkable), he began to scrawl out a hasty copy.

'Polymerase chain reaction,' he announced aloud, scribbling it as he went. 'Forensic scientists can... use this technique... to determine whether a suspect is guilty of a crime or not. It-'

He paused, glancing up suddenly with a frown. He was sure he had heard something, like a- oh, it was nothing.

Just a helicopter.

'It requires a small... sample of DNA,' Sam muttered, wishing his hand could write faster. 'And several ingredients-'

He just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. His cell vibrated suddenly with a warning cry of 'It's over nine-thousaaaaaaand!'. He checked it: a text.

Sam, afraid I'm running late. Decepticons have been disturbingly active, and Prime needs a fast Autobot. Make your way home, but be careful. Bumblemeister.

Sam couldn't help but feel a smug pride. Yes, his Autobot was damned fast and brilliant.

'"Be careful"?' he repeated, snorting slightly. 'Until that moment, 'bee, I was going to be reckless and seek out the Decepticons myself.'

Still, the obvious concern behind the words was reciprocated. Hurriedly, he texted back.

Bee, you're worrying over nothing. Go show 'em how it's done! Stay safe- I don't have enough money for a new car.

Sam did not like writing in shorthanded textspeak. Well, he just couldn't read it anyway, but in addition, you couldn't shorthandedly text to an Autobot; you'd look like a retard. Optimus Prime would probably think he either was hallucinating, or it was some sort of human code.

Resting the cell on his desk, he returned to his studying, trying to push aside the doomly feeling (would he ever escape?). Where was he? 'Where am I?' he frowned, scanning the paper with a scowl. 'Ah... several ingredients, to help generate further identical copies.'

This didn't seem too hard. Not that he knew what the heck he was writing, but it didn't seem ridiculously hard.

He tried to make it interesting by varying his voice tone. 'The scientist can then uuuuuuse the replicated DNA TOOOOO match a-'

Suddenly, he realised what had been bothering him. The helicopter from earlier.

It hadn't passed by the school.

His head snapped up, and he listened intently.

There it was, in the background; a distant thwopthwopping- and what could possibly be the rumbling of an engine. A powerful engine, at that.

Bee, he hastily texted, are the cons near here?

The reply was alarmingly fast. Stay exactly where you are. I'll find you.

If Prime had just ordered Bumblebee to get to Sam when he had originally wanted him to pursue the Decepticons, that could only mean- Sam felt a chill spread through his body, and could barely get his fingers to respond. Still at school.

He was already hurriedly grabbing his bag, not bothering to stuff his pens in (he could always pick them up tomorrow), and was about to race to the door when-

The roar was too close, far, far too close.

Sam threw himself over a desk and skidded under another, hoping beyond hope that it didn't know he was here-

And the roof exploded.

No poetic way to put it, really; it just sort of crashed down.

Sam huddled under his desk, breathing heavily and clutching onto his bag as if it would save him.

His shelter was suddenly ripped away, and a monstrous Transformer stared down at him with narrowed red optics.

He shuffled away desperately, but it simply bent down, black fingers curling around his slight body (oh God, he was going to be crushed if he was held without consideration), and straightened, Sam in hand.

Sam wasn't quite sure how it happened, but suddenly he was inside a rising helicopter, and being borne away-

And he could see a bright yellow streak racing in the opposite direction.

Heart and hope sinking into his stomach, he came to the realisation that he wouldn't be saved this time. The Autobots didn't know where he was (hell, he didn't know where he was going), and they probably couldn't afford to send anybody after him (they had more pressing Decepticon-ly concerns).

There was nothing to see up in the clouds. Just white, swirling around.

There wasn't any use in trying to communicate with a Decepticon, he knew. It would probably be better just to not reduce himself and not show fear (but damn, was he afraid). An impossible task, then, but one which would be his last (he had to try, didn't he?).

Eventually, Sam felt the helicopter begin to descend. He peered out of the window once they passed the clouds- a giant building? What was this? He had no idea where it was, certainly. It was surrounded by- well, nothing.

The door opened, and Sam gingerly climbed out, quite wary that he could be attacked from any angle.

As soon as he touched the ground, the helicopter rose and flew off- battered by the air and swirling dust, Sam cringed and raised an arm to defend himself, aware that he was very exposed.

He considered running quickly; perhaps nobody knew he was here-?

The dust settled, and he turned around, assessing which direction would be the best to flee in, and-

Oh, oh. There they were.

Two huge Decepticons: one he believed impossible to ever see again, and a skeletal-looking one he had certainly never seen before.

'Ah,' a certain silver giant noticed. 'Here is the boy.'

The ashen Decepticon stared at him unnervingly. 'Thennn we should beginnn.'

Sam scrabbled backwards with a wail. 'I don't know anything!'

Megatron (he could hardly be mistaken for anybody else) laughed. 'Wrong, boy. Very wrong.'

'What- what do you want?' he demanded, heart beating like a drum. Might as well get it over with.

'Well, we have a situation,' the Decepticon explained. 'A very personal situation.'

'Personal? Right, I don't need to hear it,' Sam hurriedly excused himself. 'So I'll just go, find the exit and leave-'

'And die,' Megatron finished cheerfully. 'Aid us somewhat, and you will live.'

'I don't believe you,' Sam stuttered bravely. 'I-'

'Then there is no harm in assisting us, then,' the silver Decepticon reasoned smoothly. 'If you believe that you will die either way, you might as well settle a- a dispute.'

'R-right. Is it going to hurt?' Sam imagined the dispute being that of who could tear him to pieces the quickest.

'Not at all. This is the Fallen,' Megatron suddenly introduced, looking rather furious.

'You humansss will allllll diiiiiiie,' the Fallen intoned darkly.

The commander rolled his optics discreetly whilst plucking Sam into the air and dropped him gently onto a huge platform. 'Here is the situation, boy.' From out of nowhere, he produced something small and inert and put it before Sam. 'This is a hatchling.'

Sam inspected the body, which was nearly as large as him. 'Being?'

Megatron seemed to find it difficult to say. 'A very young child.'

'Woahhh,' the human muttered.

'See,' Megatron declared stiffly, 'there aren't many ways a hatchling comes about.'

Sam's wide eyes stared at the awkward Decepticon, making the whole situation even more inappropriate.

The Fallen was simply smouldering in the background, but luckily Megatron clearly had taken it upon himself to explain everything. 'And-' he grimaced, then continued after bracing himself, 'and we are fairly certain about the manner in which this one- and its fellows- were created. However-' he paused again, requiring a deep ventilation. 'Starscream will not tell us.'

Sam blinked, then continued staring.

'Will you say something, boy?' the commander demanded. 'This is awkward enough without your silence!'

'Won't tell you what?' Sam enquired politely, yet nervously. 'I don't understand what he won't tell you.'

Megatron let out a startling deep wail.

Unexpectedly, the Fallen came to his rescue. 'Who the daddy issssss,' he hissed, some creepy face accessories wiggling.

'Who the-' Sam finally worked it out (or at least, he thought he had) and paled. 'I think you've lost me.'

'No,' Megatron disagreed, 'We haven't.'

'But- but if I'm thinking what you're thinking- which I hope I'm not- then it's really embarrassing and wrong and-' Sam froze. 'I have images.'

He spent the next five minutes clawing at his head, trying to numb his hysterical mind. Whenever he thought he had recovered (seven times), and had looked back up to the Decepticons, the images came back.

Worse than before.

'This is a dream,' Sam suddenly announced. 'Because this just isn't happening! This is my sick mind, and I'm never reading Busty Beauties again-'

Megatron raised an optic ridge (incredulously? In confusion? Suggestively? Approvingly? He didn't know anymore).

'Fine, I believe you!' Sam mumbled unhappily. 'But what exactly am I supposed to do?'

'You will perform the practical,' Megatron informed, then saw Sam's eyes bulge. '...Not that practical. You will be able to extract our DNA and prove who the father is.'

'Oh but- what if you don't like the answer?' Sam wavered.

Megatron and the Fallen exchanged heavy, murderous looks.

'Of course I will like the answer,' Megatron answered firmly. 'There is no other possibility.'

'Trusssst me,' the Fallen sneered, 'there isssss.'

'One last problem,' Sam miserably announced. 'I don't know how. I wasn't paying attention in class-!'

The Fallen sighed.

Megatron sighed at exactly the same time, but snapped his claws a moment later. 'This will be sad, boy.'

Sam didn't quite follow.

'Luckily for you,' the Decepticon announced, pacing away to a wall, 'we have our own scientist.'

It wasn't a wall at all, Sam quickly realised. It was a door, which opened to a livid shriek.

Megatron disappeared momentarily into the room, then reappeared with a squirming Starscream held by the scruff. The larger mech hissed something into the other's audio receptor, and Starscream stopped struggling, albeit with a panicked air.

The commander dragged his subordinate over to Sam's platform. 'Boy, do you remember Starscream?'

'Y-yeah?' Sam offered.

'Well,' Megatron continued after a pause to find the right words (hopefully without terrorising the boy further), 'he's been rather unfaithful.'

'I hate you both!' the Seeker screeched, with a solitary attempt to tug away from Megatron.

The Fallen had a rather sinister smile spreading across his features.

'I hate you more!' Starscream howled, mad optics fixed on the lean Decepticon.

'Oooh,' the Fallen teased, 'how that hurtsss.'

Starscream lunged to attack him, but he was held fast.

'Do you see the problem, boy?' Megatron asked hopelessly. 'The hatchlings are clearly mine.'

'But- just because someone hates somebody more,' Sam offered very tentatively (maybe they had no idea about how these things happened), 'doesn't mean that the hated party aren't the father. It wouldn't have any impact on-'

Megatron snarled, and even Sam felt it unwise to continue.

'The boooy knowsss they are minnnne!' the Fallen cried gleefully.

'He does not,' Megatron snapped.

'He doessss.'

A surly Starscream was hissing to himself.

This reminded Sam of something. 'So- so right now, what's he doing?'

'Apparently, everybody.'

Sam choked.

Starscream screeched in rage and attempted to attack Megatron for the second time. 'Do you think I-'

Megatron brutally wrenched the other Decepticon's arm behind his back, practically forcing him to bend double. 'If you want to retain your arm, I suggest you behave.'

Cringing, the Seeker managed to nod eagerly.

The Fallen scowled. 'Apparently, the Ssssssseeker has a processssssor.'

'He does,' Megatron confirmed witheringly. 'He just forgets about it sometimes. Boy, Starscream is- was-' he frowned, then came to a decision- '...is a scientist. He will help you.'

Sam saw the flaw in this genius of a plan. 'But Starscream doesn't want you to know who- who the daddy is.' That felt so wrong to say. So wrong.

'Yeaasss.'

'So why would he help now?'

The two large Decepticons shared a look.

'Oh, he willllll,' the Fallen affirmed.

'Well,' Megatron beamed, 'All the equipment you need is behind you. You should get started, boy. The sooner this is completed, the sooner you will be returned to your Autobots, unharmed.' He released a quietly snarling Starscream with a thrust of his arm and an order. 'Aid the boy.'

Sam gulped.

There really was nothing else he could do but comply.

This is for all you lot who wondered where the heck those sparklings had come from in ROTF. I mean, whut. You can't just do that, Bay. Explanations are required or fanfiction will be written. That's like, a law. You left these poor characters to our mercy.

Well, just who is the father? Do leave me your trusty opinion- and a justification, if you have one (however feeble. xD)! ;D