Sam just nodded, his jaw tight. He wasn't looking at the Cube. He was looking at the still, gray form of Bumblebee, his guardian, lying crumpled against a shattered fountain. Legs twisted, optics dark, a quiet hiss of escaping coolant the only sound.
Mikaela took his hand.
“If we do this,” Sam said, his voice cracking but growing stronger, “can you fix him? Can you bring Bumblebee back?”
And Optimus Prime, holding the AllSpark like a fragile child, looked up at the fading stars.
“You’ve got forty-eight hours and one hell of an air support,” Lennox replied. He looked at Sam. “You’re not going.”