Sam Witwicky stared at his hands in thought. The brown haired teenager was in his human bedroom with his human parents. He should be... he was human. But what he had done... was not something humans did. He instead looked up at the glass he had dropped sitting mockingly on his desk perfectly intact. He glared at it, wishing it would just go away and stop mocking him. The glass flew off the desk into the wall. Sam placed his head into his hands and groaned loudly, ignoring how something else fell in his room at the movement.

He was human. Humans did not have telekinesis!

But the evidence was there. Things just... moved around him. When he was happy they floated. When he was angry they moved and when he was scared they were thrown at what was scaring him. It had been a trying week so far and his parents had finally realised something was up. This being confirmed during dinner when he'd sent his dinner into the wall during an argument.

Sam was at his wits end. He'd been avoiding leaving his house which meant the Autobots thought he was ill or depressed after the destruction of the Allspark. In all honesty he just hadn't had the time to feel guilty. The one time he'd been depressed about killing Megatron the books in the library had gone flying out of the shelves. Sam himself had been hit by a hardback thesaurus.

He couldn't figure out what was happening to him.

#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

It had all started during the final battle. It had been chaos. People were yelling or running or screaming… He tried not to think of the blood on the roads and under rubble where people had been squashed. It would have so easily been him, the piece of the building had been almost as big as he was and grey. It almost had hit him, it had been flying right at him. Instead it had missed by inches and Sam continued running, the small cube with its faint pulsing under his arm seeming to guide him to the drop point.

"If you give me the cube, you may live as my pet." Megatron had almost purred in delight at the idea. The human who had openly defied him at his mercy. Sam had almost said yes. He didn't want to die. Tears had fallen down his face and he was sweating. He was so scared and tired. He'd been chased, shot at, grabbed, thrown…. Sam was just so tired, part of him wanted to just lie down and give up. Giant robots. Giant, gun wielding, warring robots from outer space fighting for the cube under his arm. Sometimes life just wasn't worth it.

"No." Sam snarled before he could stop himself, the cube pulsing comfortingly. Yes. It seemed to whisper, offering him strength and hope. Sam had glared at Megatron and kept fighting. Even as he'd almost been killed (granted partially by his own stupidity. Insulting Megatron within arms reach was not his best idea.)

He had become a murderer for his trouble. Sure, the giant grey robot…. mech…. had been out to kill him as painfully as possible but Sam had shoved the spark into Megatron knowing it would kill him. Did that make the murder right? Probably but did that mean Sam didn't need to feel guilty? What did that mean about his own morality and importance if he didn't feel guilty?

The aftermath of the battle had been the worst. Sam and Mikaela had been led away by the soldiers and told not to look but Sam had seen. At one point he'd stepped on an arm and had looked down to see the detached arm and a puddle of blood. No one had judged him as he'd thrown up. To be honest they'd expected him to do it sooner. Later on they'd assumed the deaths to number in the thousands from buildings collapsing, the fight on the motorways killing people in their cars, and just the people on the streets who'd not run and had watched in curiosity or stunned horror. Sam could believe it but it didn't make the reality any less obvious. He, Sam Witwicky of the Witwicky family, had killed Megatron, leader of the Decepticon, murder of millions if the stories Optimus had told were true. Billions if Cybertron was as populated as Earth.

He had held the cube close to him in a tight hold (he almost called it a hug but it didn't hold him in comfort, just pulsed warmly in his arm like a heart. It was like sparks of electricity running up his arm) as he'd ran and now there was nothing. Mikaela had hugged him but even as he'd hugged her back he'd shook.

He had cried. He knew he'd cried. And the warm sparks continued to run through him just to make him feel worse. All of that. The battle. The deaths. Jazz. And in the end, he'd failed. The Allspark was destroyed, the Cybertronian's were going to die out without the Allspark to make new Cybertronian's and Jazz had died.

Everyone had understood when he'd gone home, curled up in bed and cried. When he didn't cry he'd slept. And then he'd just lied there due to an illness that caused nosebleeds and migraines.

Sam hated his life. But at least the worst was over.

Famous last words.

#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

The alarm blared through the migraine making his head pound. A copper taste was on his tongue, making him gag loudly before groaning and throwing his arm out from under his warm blanket cocoon to turn off that blaring noise and hit thin air. He patted the table and lifted his head blinking blearily. He finally, after a moment of leaning so he could touch the floor and found a layer of dust and sweet wrappers but no alarm clock poked his head into the cooler air of his room. He blinked at the silence around him and stood, not caring that he was in his boxers and not noticing the blood running down his face or the sweat on his body from his fever.

Instead he noticed his window was broken, glass all over his bedroom floor and his dad was yelling "SAMUAL JAMES WITWICKY!" from the garden. Sam weighed his option (Face his father…. Or return to his blood stained but incredible comfortable and inviting bed). He was still weighing his options when his mother walked in and screamed, throwing her arms (and subsequently the plate of cookies in her hands) into the air.

"MY BABY!" She wailed hugging Sam tightly while trying to wipe the blood away with her pristine white apron. Sam just let her baby him so he could return to his warm, quiet and inviting bed with its blankets that blocked out the evil sun and even more evil noise.

Her attempts at taking him to the doctor was met by him shoving her out the door and locking it. Nothing was worth leaving his room.

He should have left his room. His mom, in her attempts to help him, had ran to his dad screaming about Sam dying. He had tried to force Sam out of the room through bribery ("Are you sure you don't want that new PlayStation? I'll even give you any game you want.") To threatening ("I'll break the door Sam.") To plain begging ("Sam just… open the door. We just want to see you, I'm not going to punish you for throwing the alarm out the window…. Sam, Please….") Sam groaned loudly. His head hurt so much, the edges of his vision were blurred and he kept feeling like he was going to throw up at any moment. Sam rolled over and closed his eyes and listened to the chimes in his head that seemed to play a lullaby.

When he slept he dreamed of a cube with glowing lines running over it sending out welcoming pulses of warmth as Sam cradled it in his arms.

As he cradled it a gold liquid dripped through his fingers onto his legs and the floor as the Allspark wept.