Author's Note:

1) No, I am not taking down the original Instability and replacing it with this. Calm down.

2) Instability WILL STILL BE UPDATED WITH NEW CHAPTERS! THIS iS NOT A RESTART!

2) These are the revised chapters I worked on last semester for my keystone project. For those of you who remember, it's the same project I finally got approved after much sweat and toil.

3) Some things in these chapters will be radically different, and some will be unchanged. For that reason, I wanted to post them as a separate story rather than go and swap them for the original chapters, just in case anyone likes reading the original chapters.

4) At the risk of sounding rude, I don't particularly care if you hate the changes and want me to go back to the way it was before. I prefer the chapters this way, and in my own opinion that's the only thing that really matters. So keep your 'WTF?' flak to yourself. If, however, you have CONSTRUCTIVE comments and criticism, feel free to post them—I want to get a feel for what else I may need to go back and revise. And, hey, if you like these new chapters, by all means tell me so. Positive feedback fuels my inner writer. ;)

5) All nastiness aside, please enjoy!

…..

Bumblebee.

A tiny yellow insect.

A talented alien Scout sent to earth to hunt down the Allspark, the small metal cube that was the source of life for his (its?) entire race.

Even two years after first contact, Sam still didn't know what to make of the humanoid robotic entity he called his 'best friend'. Sure, they may have hung out together every day for hours on end—a feat that was ridiculously easy to accomplish when Bumblebee was impersonating a smokin' hot yellow Camaro—but for all the stories they had swapped and pranks they had pulled, Sam couldn't say he really knew Bumblebee.

Rather, as he had slowly come to realize over the months the alien spent pretending to be his car, Sam knew 'Bee'. The mask.

It took him awhile to figure out the difference—as much as he was ashamed to admit it, some part of him had refused to think of any ROBOT being complex enough to wear a mask. Or to even need one.

The night his newly bought car drove off on its own was the night his universe flipped on its head. There was just something about watching your car stand up and transform into something that could not exist in this world that induced mental paralysis.

After recovering from the shock of watching his dumpy old car split apart and reform into a towering robot, after coming down off the adrenaline high of witnessing said car-turned-robot slug it out with another alien masquerading as a police car, Sam had actually found the alien known as Bumblebee to be friendly. Almost harmless. He played snippets of songs over his radio, did an endearing little dance and clapped expressively. It had almost been like interacting with a child- a happy, bouncy, curious little child.

Boy, had his first impression ever been wrong.

The Autobots— and, by extension, Cybertronians in general— were adept mimics. Chameleons. Coming off of four years skimming the periphery of human society while searching for the Allspark, Bumblebee had adopted the ideal persona to set skittish humans at ease. Play pop songs at full volume. Blow raspberry sound bytes. Bounce on his tires and twiddle the steering wheel playfully. Squirt water to imitate tears. At first Sam had laughed and played along, thinking he had found the coolest co-conspirator ever in the form of an alien robot. After all, what teenage boy didn't dream of befriending an alien and using the super-awesome powers of said alien to prank his friends and take revenge on his enemies? There was also the awe inspiring (maniacal giggle inspiring) factor of even knowing an alien to begin with.

But then reality had come crashing down around their ears. Megatron— leader of the Decepticons and towering harbinger of death— had awoken from cryofreeze beneath the Hoover Dam, leading the Decepticons on a rampage through Mission City to get the Allspark back. And Sam had watched, nerveless with awe (metal shifting and spinning like thrown knives, a yellow form skating across the asphalt in a shower of sparks—how could something so large move so fast?) while the goofy, harmless Camaro flipped from best friend to ruthless warrior as sharply as the tiny snik of the battle mask coming down. Innocent, open features vanished beneath hard, cruel lines of protective metal, and the playful Bee changed into a deadly Hornet. The same hand that patted his back and mussed up his hair burst apart, clicked, whirled, became a cannon that, with a searing blast of turquoise light, blew molten holes in the sides of buildings and other robots.

Not that Sam wasn't worshipfully grateful for the alien's fire power. Quite the opposite, in fact. Floundering and outnumbered in the metal-and-glass firestorm of Mission city, their ragtag assortment of humans and Autobots had almost given way under the pounding assault (a machine gun barking out beside his ear, worthlessly spewing a staccato hail of bullets that went clinkclinkclinclink against the concrete as they bounced from metal armor without leaving a scratch), the line that separated the Decepticons from the Allspark nestled in Sam's arms stretching and fraying. And Bee—wonderful, bright, happy Bee—had suffered the brunt of Starscream's wrath. When Sam had first seen the twisted ruin of the Scout's lower legs (metal struts poking out like exposed bone) his throat had closed up, heart squeezing like there was an elephant standing on his chest. Oh God, his legs are gone.

Later on, after the fires had been put out and the survivors wrapped in shock blankets, Sam had wondered how simple crushed metal could turn the pit of his gut into a hard vacuum. He'd crumpled soda cans and bent paper clips his whole life—once, on a field trip, he'd even seen an old Impala go through a car compactor, the teenage beast inside him roaring with primal thrill at the sight of something being smashed all to hell. And besides, he had stacks of well-played gory videogames in his room, full of blood and guts and dismemberment. Before seeing the comet trails of falling aliens streaking towards the earth, Sam had been so sure that violence wouldn't faze him.

Bumblebee hadn't bled. No oozing stream of scarlet had come pouring out; no inner organs went splattering across the pavement. He hadn't even screamed.

Yet somehow, watching the robot haltingly drag himself towards Sam using only his arms, those glowing blue optics piercing and so aware (and, perhaps even more frighteningly, aware of him), Sam had felt something inside of him cracking apart in horror. It couldn't be real—Bee, his Bee, couldn't be so terribly maimed. The universe wouldn't allow it.

And then Bumblebee had carefully set the Allspark in his arms, metal digits lingering for just a moment against his skin. (I'll cover you)

Seeing the determined set of Bee's metal frame, watching as the Autobot scraped together the strength to keep going, keep fighting, Sam knew the alien would die to protect him. And for a split second, feeling as wretched and unworthy as a cockroach, he wondered how he could have ever laughed at the thought of crushing metal. There was nothing funny about it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Yet underneath his humbled awe, Sam had felt a growing sense of uneasiness.

The way Bumblebee had plunged back into battle with his lower half missing—firing off his cannon from the back of a tow truck to the sound of death metal—had probably distracted the Decepticons just enough to save Sam's life as he went running up to the rooftop to pass the Allspark to a waiting helicopter. But it was as if the buddy you hung out with at school had suddenly taken a hatchet to a group of muggers harassing you in the parking lot- terrifying, and very disturbing. The sheer intensity with which the Bouncing Baby Bumblebee had gazed at him after the battle, body horrendously scarred and wounded, blue optics gleaming with an almost feverish passion, and quietly, solemnly, requested to continue his mission of guardianship had frightened Sam. Where was the happy yellow Camaro he had tentatively begun to call friend?

After a while the unnerving Hornet had submerged again and the quirky, familiar Bee had taken its place. But Sam never forgot. And suddenly every song, every gesture, every word held a sour note of wrongness. He itched to peel back the thin top layer of skin on the Bee onion, but didn't quite dare.

Anyone who had spent several thousands of years as a foot soldier in a planet-wide war was bound to have a whole collection of skeletons in the closet.

And now—marooned aboard the metal labyrinth of an aircraft carrier after once more running for his life from the Decepticons—Sam found himself lying awake in the middle of the night, fighting the urge to run to that self-same skeleton-totting best friend.

Another turbulent dream had flung him violently from sleep, leaving him feeling exhausted, knotted up like an old piece of wire twisted one too many times. The past few nights had been just as brutal—so full of unremembered dreams that he scarcely seemed to sleep at all, leaving him groggy and anxious even after ten solid hours of unconsciousness.

Staring up at the darkened metal ceiling (metal hands reaching down), he darted another glance at his watch. It was still 4:13am. Had it really only been less than a minute since the itching crabs of panic had begun to crawl beneath his skin in the wake of the dream?

4:13. Too early to use breakfast in the galley as an excuse to venture out of his room, yet far too late to roll over and hope for a few more hours of darkness. The numbers glared back at him, alien red, staining his sheets and arms in a bloody glow. Stolid. Implacable. Accusing. ('He died for you')

The watch itself was a 'gift' from a worshipfully grateful government scrambling to cover its ass after maligning the Autobots (again), and then watching as they saved the world (again).

Sam didn't really think he had done much to help besides run like Forrest Gump, but apparently someone in Washington had labeled him a hero, because the Captain of the aircraft carrier had all but showered him with gifts after the med bay had given him the all-clear.

Like the watch, the clothes crumpled in piles on the floor were not his, but he would rather wear the starchy, impersonal garments than the rags he had worn when he was dragged from the desert. You never knew when a creepy alien artifact was going to tumble out the pockets and totally screw up your day. Becoming a vessel for mystical alien energy after touching the Allspark shard had not been his idea of a fun time, and who knew if a piece of the Matrix he had used to revive Optimus was still clinging to the remains of his tattered shirt. So military style button-up shirt and slacks it was.

Deciding he would rather risk a quick run to the main hanger to check up on the Autobots than another hour or so of staring at the ceiling, Sam rolled out of bed and shrugged on his day clothes. Brown slacks. Belt. Plain white t-shirt. A bomber style jacket, a throwback to the eighties when apparently looking like a dork had been fashionable.

He paused at the door, realized he had left his newly acquired ID card on the small desk rammed into one corner of the room, and turned to retrace his steps. Going back didn't take much effort, though; the distance from the hatch door to the metal desk was only one and a half strides. Sam could pace five steps from the door to the bed, which occupied the back wall, and three steps across the width. There was a tea cup metal sink and a mirror, but no toilet, and the bed could have passed for a slab of concrete.

The lack of a toilet and useable mattress he could deal with—but the cramped, echoing metal space that tended to shrink if he stared at the walls for too long. It was the lack of windows, that was the problem; a Decepticon ambush could happen at any moment and he would never see it coming. He hated the feeling of being blind, of not being able to see the dangers that might have been lurking around them, waiting to creep invisibly from the gloom like fanged sea monsters rising toward the surface. It made him feel like he was trapped in a metal box, slowly sinking...

(don't think about it don't think about it)

Shaking himself from head to toe like a dog, Sam scooped the ID badge off the desk, stuffed it down one pocket, and sprinted out the door.

The narrow corridor that connected to his room was just spacious enough to loosen the thorny knot in his chest. The random clanging of machinery and the unrelenting gurgling of white-washed pipes was somehow comforting—this metal was bulky and human and not alive. The Decepticons, despite their towering stature, never gave off even a whisper of sound unless screaming or blowing things up.

It also helped that his parents were just beyond the door facing him. The noise of them bumping around, reminding him that they were still alive (two figures tumbling out onto the scorching sand, bleeding and rumpled—gleaming metal looming overhead, shadows sharp as razors—daddy, why are you cowering?) often helped him to breathe again when the thorny knot of barbed wired wrapped around his heart squeezed too tightly. Even the violent sobs and screaming fits they had hurled his way in between bone-crushing hugs—and boy, did they verbally let loose with both guns when they realized he wouldn't vanish into a puff a air—brought some measure of relief. He would take the shouting and hair pulling and empty (and not-so-empty) threats any day over silence and flowers and newly carved headstones

Pulling himself from his 4am bleary-eyed thoughts, Sam turned away from his parents' door and set off down the corridor, heeding the siren call the Autobots always seemed to put out. The winding hike to the secondary hanger, so familiar that he frequently found himself traveling down it in his dreams, passed by in a blur of artificial light and the echo of footsteps from metal plating. When he looked up again, he found himself staring down the hallway leading to the enormous rolling door that closed off the hanger from the rest of the aircraft carrier

Two guards stood sentry outside the door. In another time, another life, the guns they held at the ready would have seemed impressive, and maybe more than a little intimidating. But now that he had been shot at with guns larger than their whole bodies, their G.I. Joe replicas just seemed silly in comparison.

Not in the mood for arguing with the pair of grunts, fearing that he might start screaming and never stop if he opened his mouth, he flashed his ID card and continued striding toward the door without pause. Just let them try to stop him. Just let them.

Luckily they seemed to have been forewarned that he might come to visit and let him pass without a fuss.

He didn't know what he expected to find on the other side. A bunch of robots lazying around, sitting on crates and gossiping in that dial-tone language of theirs? A giant alien robot orgy? (A slightly hysterical giggle).

Instead he discovered a scene reminiscent of the infamous Trashing Of The Backyard night, when all the newly-arrived Autobots had mistaken his backyard for a good place to hide- a veritable truck stop. The fighter jets that normally occupied the hanger had been pushed off to one side, clearing a gleaming metal field for the alien passengers. And huddled together in the

middle of the space sat an eclectic array of vehicles that would have put any car show to shame if they hadn't been covered with scratches and desert grit. A neon search-and-rescue Hummer. A hulking black Topkick pickup. A monstrous blue truck decorated with red flames. And closest to the door, as if knowing he would show up, sat a yellow Camaro with black racing stripes.

'Bumblebee.'

He hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he was interrupting their recharge cycle or something. Then, when he felt a stab of selfish disappointment at the thought of having to turn right back around and leave, he gave himself a vicious mental kick.

He shouldn't have been surprised that they weren't waiting for him. They had just emerged from the figurative pit of hell and deserved a few days to sleep it off without being bothered. They also had no way of knowing that he was coming at that exact moment to see them, to assure himself that they were, in fact, all in one piece. Just glimpsing the familiar, if a bit worn and dirty, shapes eased the coiling monster in his chest that had tried to choke him the entire trip down to the hanger.

He didn't want to leave. He wanted to continue to bask in their calm presence, even if they were not aware of him. It had been so close, so close. A miracle, really, that they weren't hauling at least one giant hunk of scrap metal. His eyes were drawn to the imposing presence of Optimus Prime who managed, even when in truck form, to radiate an aura of power and authority—underlaid, Sam glimpsed occasionally, with kindness…and sadness. He winced at the visible damage to the exoskeleton—at the numerous dents, gashes, and mangled components that reminded him hauntingly of Bumblebee and the car compactor—sending up another thankful prayer for the shining moment when the alien leader had coughed back to life on the desert floor, resurrecting hope and light with him.

Natural shyness had him withdrawing into the doorway. They were his friends, yes, but they were also nearly immortal aliens with unimaginable power and intelligence. They could smash through buildings like they were cardboard boxes and pull up hundred-year-old oak trees to use as clubs. Their day dreams could probably put Einstein to shame. Heck, even Bumblebee, the youngest of the group, made the pyramids seem like shiny new toys!

They certainly didn't need a twitchy, all-around-average human breathing down their necks.

He turned to go.

"Sam."

The familiar, gentle voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly to face the heavily scratched Camaro.

"Hey, Bee," he answered softly.