Rehab

There are quite a few things in the universe that will be up to trends, regardless of the time period. And sometimes, those things are the only option—simply because they lack alternative. As it turned out, both progress and evolution have their limits, eons pass, but the solution to that one case of problemós remains unchanged. Take Sam, for example. Boy, had she tried. Arguing, fighting, yelling, walking away, dying, more yelling—said “no!” more times then she could count (or care for that matter). Hadn’t helped. And at the end, she’d been left with the two ever infamous choices, as in “die (again), or lose your mind…” … and that is where the youngest of the Witwickys decides that, instead of a (not-so-?)metaphorical dive into the abyss of madness, her, despite some alien changes still organic, body, needs foods and drinks—because after Soundwave’s special delivery she ducked under her favorite stress relief covers and refused to show any signs of life ever since. So, with all the thoughts about fixing this historical injustice, Sam dug out her plaid (from under the bed and no, she has absolutely no idea how it ended up there—but then again, she only has the vaguest of memories about the day passed whatsoever, and all of them concern the ‘cons CO and that creepy-as-all-hell aura that surrounds him) and zombie-walked to the kitchen’s general direction. Praising those who built her flat (for the simple fact that a refrigerator is the first thing coming into the view when you enter the kitchen, as it stands right in front of the door), Sam made a beeline towards her intended target and began the—somehow melancholic—process of observing its contents. Distantly noted that she begins to resemble Simmons, as the amount of pizza boxes per shelf was far from healthy. By the by, the refrigerator had nothing but pizza, but the girl still stared, as if hoping that all this food chemistry would miraculously turn into something a lot more edible. “You cannot live substituting on fast food, you know.” And Sam was so not used to ceiling giving her advices that she yelped in utter distress and slammed her head over the shelf (that made her see stars in the worst meaning possible). She peeked from behind a refrigerator door… and saw Samira Simmons, the one and only. The ex-Sector 7 had boldly usurped the better half of the small kitchen (at the very least)—and steadfastly ignored any suffering her “friend dearest” had been through. “And your brew is impossible to drink, too.” Simmons added as if nothing happened, pointing at the coffee machine, which somehow ended up on a microwave. “I don’t drink coffee.” Witwicky said rather dumbly and she knew it. The girl then looked at the machine. She bought it who knows when and for Primus only knows what reasons, and it had long become the property of Carly Spencer, Sam’s neighbor-slash-groupmate. “Good on ya, then.” Samira grinned. “We don’t need Lennox The Second.” The Colonel’s undying love for this type of drinks, as Jazz once (wittingly) put it, had by far outdone even Megs’ megalomania. There were only two things higher on Billy Jean’s priority list: her daughter and Ironhide. “Man, you do like your space small.” The former agent said, glancing over the—indeed limited—living space and ignoring its owner’s obvious stupor with practiced ease. “Yeah…” Sam drawled. “Also…” She pointedly looked at her friend. “Hi to you, too. Long time no see.”