Choosing My Name, And Other Mistakes: Ch 21

-XXI-

The sleeping quarters were several floors down. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t what they showed me.

“Here you are, ‘Spark.” Prime indicated the first of many doors on one side of a long, curved hallway. “This one will be yours today.” He opened it, and all four of us stepped through.

We all fit in, because the room on the other side stretched halfway around the Citadel. Every one of the twenty or so other doors I’d seen led into it. Every few feet, down its great curving length, there was a berth. I blinked. “What in the world...?”

Prime gave a low chuckle. “Leave it to Shockwave to design something this insanely logical. These are the communal charge-banks, for anyone who needs to top-up while they’re working here.” He pointed to the far end-wall (which, unlike the rest, was a folded-steel curtain), and put a finger to his lips. “It looks like someone’s resting in the last stall. So we’ll keep it down. Here. Let me show you how this works.”

He pointed to the door we’d all just come in through. “This is your door, ‘Spark. It locks, if you want privacy.” He touched the berth we were standing around. “And this will be your charge-slab.” He reached over my shoulder, and slid a well-oiled silver sheet out from a thin slit in the wall. “I can’t close this with everyone in the way,” he explained. “But when we’ve left, you’ll clip this into the slot by the door, there.” He pointed. “Yes, it locks too. And it's more sturdy than it looks.”

I think Prime knew that I was grateful for these locks and sliding walls. I would never have felt comfortable going offline in an open row of berths. I looked at the controls to make sure I understood them all, then made a weak attempt to sound like an adult. “Thank you; I think I’ve got it. I’ll shut down now.”

Prime smiled. “Then we’ll leave you to it.” He took Elita by one arm, Megatron by the other, and walked out as I slid the curtain-wall shut behind them.

I locked my little stall up tight, and instantly felt more at peace. This was a little bit like home: the small, utilitarian room; the plain, undecorated walls (coppery-gold, not gray, but close enough). I stumbled to the berth, unreeled the charge-cord to a comfortable length, plugged in, and lay down to let the berth reform itself to fit my shape. I was ready to welcome oblivion.

Instead, I heard the screel of something heavy being dragged just on the other side of my thin curtain.

“Keep quiet!” hissed Elita-One from altogether too nearby. But the noises continued.

My beleaguered systems revved to full alert. I sat up, and glanced quickly at the latches on my door and divider Both had their ‘locked’ indicators lit. But I still did not feel safe. Not with that bash and clanking just outside. My tired processor began making all kinds of crazy suggestions. Had one of the commanders been assassinated? Was someone disassembling the building? I slid from my berth, and tiptoed to the wall to listen.

“We need our own room,” Megatron was grumbling.

“It’d be a waste,” Prime responded. “We hardly ever shut down at the same time.”

Megatron grunted, slamming the last of whatever they were moving into place. “When I want to hear Shockwave’s opinion, I’ll ask Shockwave.”

The heavy dragging stopped. But now it was whining cydraulics and the scrape of bodies that I heard.

“You want the middle this time, dear one? It was rough for you back there.”

A sigh of what I thought might be relief. “Please.”  

A clash of metal, and a Megatronish grumble: “Where’s my arm supposed to fit?”

“Under here. I needed a pillow anyway.”

“Peace making you soft, eh?”

“You wish, old man.”

“Ouch!” This was Elita. “My knee doesn't bend that way!”

“Sorry.”

“Hang on; I’ve got a crimped joint--” (sounds of struggling) “Got it.”

“Remind me why we do this?”

“No one’s making you. We’ve got three berths.”

Elita snorted. Actually snorted. She sounded so much younger, almost like one of my sisters. “Get along, you two, or I’ll find my own berth.”

My curiosity was killing me. I unlocked the metal divider, opened it slowly just a crack, and peeked...

…to find all three Commanders were scant inches from my curtain. I jumped back, sure that they’d spotted me.

But no one gave any reaction (at least, not an audible one); so I risked a second wary glimpse. And what I saw changed my understanding of family.

They’d dragged three berths into one stall, and placed them sideways, snug together, so they filled the entire cubicle. They’d been careful not to disturb my divider; but the other curtain at their feet was bowed out where the slabs pressed up against it.

They weren't lying on their backs, with fingers laced across their chests, the way Sunstreaker'd always taught me to go into my recharge. They were piled in a heap without regard for grace, scratched paint, or even dents.

Elita-One was in the middle, with the two mechs curled on either side. She had her cheek and palm pressed up against Prime’s chest, and wore this little, happy smile that to this day I can’t describe. I only know it was the smile of home. Prime’s face was that of someone who’d been given everything he’d ever wanted after a lifetime of loss. He held the other two like they were treasures, like they were his safety and his peace.

Megatron was still squirming: fitting his arm in just so, finding a place his knee could rest. He hunkered in around Elita till his forehead touched Prime’s helm, and reached across them both to hook his fingers tight into Prime’s armor. His body tensed and his brow furrowed for a moment as if he felt pain. Then, like some switch had been released, his compressed fear and anger drained away with a hiss from his slack cydraulics.

“I would die for you,” he whispered.

“And I you, Megs,” said Prime, smiling.

“Shut up and shut down, you two,” Elita whispered. But she didn’t look the slightest bit annoyed.

This was like nothing else I’d ever seen.

Thundercracker and Sunstreaker were roommates, and partners in the work of creation. But they’d never been close friends. The most intimacy I’d seen from them was their shared focus on me, and the occasional awkward attempt to comfort one another in a crisis.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were spark-twins, split from one spark at inception. But they couldn’t have been less alike. And although I had seen between them patterns of behavior obviously long set-in, and perhaps fraternal love, it came with a healthy dose of aggravation.

This thing that my Commanders had was new. It was a kind of love and need and sanctuary which was alien to me. I watched them, and felt something deep inside me open up and shatter.

The temptation was too strong. I had to know what this thing was. So I peeked. I admit it. First I risked a look into the relative safety of Prime's spark and Elita’s. What I saw there was so transcendent that it gave me confidence to risk even Megatron's troubling soul. But even it was peaceful and replete. The three sparks pulsed in a contented rhythm – not in unison, but in a harmony that wove together even more completely than their bodies. The colors sang of love, acceptance, and fulfillment.

I hadn't known something like this existed till I saw it. Now I wanted it so badly that my own spark strained and ached. I pressed a hand against my chest, but it did nothing to assuage the pain.

“You know,” I heard Elita murmur, “it might not have been such a good idea to leave her in an unfamiliar room alone. She's had to take in a lot lately.”

“What else could we do?” Prime whispered. “We're not her family. She doesn't know us.”

“Yes she does,” Megatron growled unhappily.  

With a heart-freezing lurch of horror, I saw Megatron’s red optics staring up into my own.

I slammed the metal curtain shut, and locked it. <Sorry!> I squeaked down the comm to him. I scurried back onto my berth. <I didn’t mean to pry!>

<Yes you did,> he commed back flatly. <Everyone's always curious. And we were right next to you. Of course you peeked.>

I lay back on the cold surface of my borrowed berth, utterly miserable. I’d lost him; there was no going back from this intrusion. <I’m shutting down now!> I transmitted, knowing I would manage no such thing.  

Time dragged. My mind refused to stop its churning.

<You offline yet?>

I jumped at the tinny voice from my radio. <Not yet,> I admitted. <But if you leave me alone, I might manage it!> I felt grumpy and confused and heartsick. I wished that I were someone else, someone who didn’t make a mess of things. I ached for something familiar, for home. And I ached for something I did not yet know the name for – something that lay just beyond that metal curtain.

I tried to comfort myself by replaying the file-memory of the first time I’d seen Megatron. It had always helped me cycle down before. But the real Mystery Mech was lying a few feet from me right now; and my spark wouldn’t be content with an old memory any more. I sighed. This wasn’t working.

<Music always helped me. Have you tried that?>

<Haven't had time to load anything into my cortex,> I replied, too surprised to remonstrate.

There was a long, long silence. I thought Megatron had gone offline. Then through my comm came a gruff voice singing. It was some recent ditty about beauty that would last forever, one I’d often heard Sunstreaker humming. I had never really liked it.

But I liked Megatron’s voice.

Perhaps should have been ugly, what with the grit and gravel in it. But underneath the roughness was an honesty that made his singing beautiful. (To me, at any rate. I don’t care what Sunstreaker thinks.) And every note was clean and true.

He sang three songs before he stopped. And I realized I didn't want him to. Not yet. I screwed up my courage. <Would you...> I choked, and tried again. <Would you recite one of your poems?>

I waited. He said nothing.

<It’s just – I used to replay old files of you reading them every night back at home. They always helped me let go of the day.>

There was a click as the connection cut. What had I said? What had I ruined now?

After an endless minute, Megatron's voice came back through my transmitter. <I thought all those recordings had been scrubbed. Where did you find them?>

<I don't remember!> I squeaked. <I didn’t know they were yours when I found them. I was starved for knowledge and uploaded chunks of data indiscriminately from the net.>

<Oh.> He sounded vaguely disappointed.

<I wasn’t-- I mean, I’m just glad I found them. I like your poems. A lot. Especially the mining ones.>

<Those? But they were scrap! Tailings! Just ditties I once sung to keep my rock-pick swing in rhythm! How the Pit did they get on the datanet?>

<I don't know!> I repeated desperately. <Ask Prime; he’s the closet archivist!> I was hurt and disappointed, like I’d lost something I’d never really owned. Then I frowned. So what if Megatron wanted to disavow his words? They still belonged to me. They could still mean what I had needed them to mean. <I liked them,> I repeated stubbornly.

He was silent so long I thought he’d fallen into shutdown. But then, along the comm-line, came the words I knew as well as the sound of my transformation.

<Down in this hole I've dug myself,
Down in this wretched, rascal hole,
I swing my pick in endless night,
Hunting for fire to light the soul.>

Megatron's was an ancient, broken, painful, rasping shudder of a voice. And yet it was that very brokenness that gave his poems (even the ones he didn’t like) a kind of weight and dignity. I curled up on this unfamiliar berth, and let the words I knew so well envelop me like a warm, safe cocoon.

<Thank you,> I whispered, when he wound down to the end.

<You’re welcome. Get some rest now, Sparky.>

Maybe it was habit, but I did.

* * * * *

Prowl brought me online. I started upright, terrified at this sudden intrusion of a stranger. I knew Prowl only from what I'd seen in my makers' sparks, and thought of him as someone who’d not wanted me alive. I craned my neck around for bots I trusted; but the room was big again, and the Command Triad had gone.

“How did you-- I was sure I locked--?”

Prowl jangled a small set of keys. “Drink this.” He handed me a large cube of mid-grade pink energon. “Things have changed. Octane's missing. Come with me.”

“Why should I trust you?”

He smirked. “Good girl. You’re learning. But Prime couldn’t come himself, so he asked me to bring you back to the Command Center.” He handed me a gun. “If I try to take you downward in the elevator, shoot me. If I take you up, you’ll know you’re safe.”

Why were people always giving me guns to shoot them with? Was this some warborn thing? Prime trusted Prowl though. “OK,” I said, taking the gun carefully. He took me straight back up to the main chamber, where I gave him back the gun (dusting my hands off surreptitiously behind my back).

I’d thought the room was full the last time I was there. I had been wrong. The place was packed like a big concert night at Spangle's. We shouldered through a press of intent bots, all fighting over workspace, none of whom dealt well with interruption. I could barely keep up with Prowl; but I was not about to try and hold his hand.

The press of bodies worsened, as we approached the Commanders. (I could just make out the tips of Prime's blue helm-prongs above everyone.) Prowl pulled me willy-nilly up in front of him, and pushed me forward between the packed mechs. I tripped over somebody’s foot, and fell against Optimus Prime...

...Who caught me. Even though he'd been intent on the datascreen in front of him. Because he's Prime, I guess.

“What's happened?” I could barely hear my own voice over the general din. “Why did you send for me?”

Prime pointed to a data-port on the side of the screen, and motioned that I should plug in. I did. And as I downloaded the info, I despaired.

There was a video – grainy, the sound muted; some second-rate surveillance footage. It was time-stamped from a half-hour ago. In the vid, a cocky white-and-black mech walked into some kind of fortress. He submitted to a body-scan while three bulky guards pointed weapons at him, and double-checked his batch-codes. None of this fazed him. “Ease up, guys. I ain't here to steal the prisoners; I just gotta ask one of 'em a few questions.”

“This still the best we’ve got?” I looked up at the voice, and recognized Ironhide.

“Yes. And we’re lucky to have even this recording.”

One of the guards was sent to retrieve Octane. Jazz waited in the tense little chamber, easy despite all the guns pointed at him. He even exchanged small talk with the guards.

Everyone was starting to loosen up a bit, when the first guard returned at a dead run. “He's gone! His cell's still locked, but he's not in it!”

The two other guards sprang into action, and an alarm began wailing. A new, even bigger mech with a fancy insignia barged in and started barking orders. “Where is he? Track his ankle-cuff! He's either wearin’ it or not too far away – those things are s’posed ta blow your leg off if you jimmy 'em too hard!”

The hapless guard held up an empty ring of metal, broken neatly into two pieces, and definitely unexploded. “Um, sir? I'm afraid we've been misinformed.”

“Are any other inmates missing?” Jazz demanded.

The officer's red optics flared. “This ain’t yer prison, Jazz. But seeing as yer technically my superior...” He huffed and looked down at his datascreen. “No. So far, accordin’ to the reports comin’ in, the only one we're missing is yer friend Octane.”

“I'll call Steeljaw in to track ‘im,” Jazz said. “But he ain’t likely ta find a trail. Octane's a flier. Better off ta check yer cameras.”

But the cameras showing Octane’s cell had all been sabotaged.

The video cut to static. Prime cleared the holo-projector, and toggled some switches. Suddenly, Spangle’s head was floating in the room with us. When I realized this was a holo-conference, not a beheading, I gave my recent mentor a sheepish wave.

Elita leaned in toward the mic. “Spangle, somebody’s sabotaging our security cameras. But I know you had Red Alert set up The Hub’s surveillance network. Have you had any problems with your system?”

Spangle shook her head, but she was frowning. “What’s going on, Commander?”

Elita huffed. “We’re looking for Octane. And Swindle’s cameras seem to shut down when we need them most.”

Spangle snorted. <'Bout time y'all went after that no good, slag-lickin'-- wait. Am I on a shared holo?>

“Yes. And everyone in Command's listening.” Elita leaned in close to the projection. “This isn't a 'Let us know if he comes into the club' thing, Spangle. This is serious. We need to find him now.”

There was a longish hiss of static as Spangle took in the import of Elita's orders. She ex-vented, and said slowly, <I'll call in a favor or two.>

“Please do,” replied Elita. “Call in all of them.”

There was an even longer pause. <You'll have all eyes I can muster lookin' for 'im, Ma'am.>

“Thank you. Elita-One out.”

Now the channel changed again, and it was Jazz's voice we all heard in our audials. No picture this time. There was no time for any of that. <Ain't no sign of Octane here, Bossbot. Not even a whiff outside his cell. Steeljaw checked every inch o’ this place, an’ found nothin'. I hate to say it... but I got a sneakin’ suspicion Octane was teleported.>

Prime slumped. “Thanks Jazz.”

Megatron grabbed the comm and jabbed a button like he was squashing a scraplet. “Skywarp! You know who this is. Report in!”

A low buzz of several voices came in through Skywarp’s comm when it opened. <Gimme a second, guys,> he said, off-mic. <Yeah, Megatron? What's going on?>

“I need a log of your whereabouts, and a list of all corroborating witnesses, for the last...” Megatron hit mute and turned to Prime, “What’s the latest firm confirmation we have of Octane still in his cell?”

“Two hours ago,” Prime told him. “The guard brought energon rations for the block, and saw him locked in then.”

“Hologram?”

“No. The guard said Octane drank his energon, and asked for more. No hologram can do that.”

Megatron turned back to the mic. “Two hours, 'Warp. Two and a half, just to be safe. And I remind you of the need for witnesses. Even a minute's absence is cause for concern.”

Skywarp's end of the line went deadly silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with the fist-clenched control I'd heard from Thundercracker when he wanted to kill someone and was trying not to do it.  

<I’ve been here all day working with the latest detox group,> he said, enunciating each syllable carefully. <But if you don't trust Mirage to vouch for me, and need an unbiased witness...> (There was some muffled murmuring in the background) <Here. Speak to Starlight. She's the first female member of the Cleanup Crew.>

Starlight! I leaned in to listen, wishing I could mute the noise around me.

<Um, hi?> she quavered. <What's this? What do you want me to say?>

“We only want the truth, Starlight. And don't worry, no one's in trouble.” Megatron covered up the mic and added, “...yet.” He forced the scowl from his face, and tried to sound as friendly as he could. “All I need you to do, sweetheart, is tell me if Skywarp's been with you for the last two hours.”

<Of course,> she replied. <He was hosting the meeting.>

“And you could see him the whole time?”

<Yes. Like I said, he was hosting? I mean, one or two of us might look away for a few seconds sometimes, but we were mostly paying close attention. We don't want to be hooked on this... on this stuff forever. And he's showing us how he'll get us weaned off it. So... Yeah. He's been here.>

“No purple flashes?” Megatron asked.

<What? No, of course not. Why?>

Megatron sighed. He seemed relieved and frustrated, in equal measure. “Thank you, Starlight. Put Skywarp back on, please.”

Skywarp still sounded angry. <What's going on, Megatron?>

“Octane's connected to the femme kidnappings. And he's just escaped from custody. From a locked cell, Skywarp. No scent outside. So you see why we thought of you.”

There was a heavy silence. Then, <I see. Anything I can do to find him?>

“No. But keep an eye out for him. And by Unicron's great hand, keep a lock on your reserves of the... of the red stuff.”

<Will do, Megatron. Skywarp out.>

“Yeah.” Megatron sighed, and leaned heavily on the communications table. “I'm out too.”

* * * * *

That afternoon felt like trying to move through a vat of knee-high congealed sludge. We made no progress. Everybody shouted. I was in the way and useless. But the worst of it was when my makers called me in a panic.

<Are you all right?> Thundercracker gasped.

“Um, yes, of course. What's wrong?”

Sunstreaker said without inflection, <Andromeda's missing.>

It took a few seconds for the words to upload their full meaning. Then I panicked. “You mean, kidnapped?”

<We let her shut off her tracker!> Thundercracker moaned. <She begged and begged till we gave in! We only found out she was gone when her friend called to ask us where she was!> Thundercracker, my favorite, and he sounded like a dead thing.

<Stay with Prime or Elita at all times,> Sunstreaker ordered. <Megatron even, if you have to. But don't be alone, Rainbow. Please. We don't want... we don’t want to lose you too.>

I hated this. Hated hearing my makers sound like this. Hated that my sister was missing. And hated most that I knew what was probably being done to her right now. I wanted to break down and cry.

“Dad?” I wasn't sure if this was privileged information, but I told them anyway. “Dad, they think Octane's involved in the kidnappings. If you see him... If you know where he might hide...”

Thundercracker growled low. <If we find him, we'll bring him in. Alive. But probably missing a lot of pieces.> The line clicked off. For the first time, I was afraid of Thundercracker.

I went to search for someone I could tell about my sister. But everyone was frantically busy. Right now, Andromeda was just another newling who’d gone missing. One they couldn’t really help until they’d found and grilled Octane. I knew all this. But I was desperate. Finally, I commed the Command Triad directly. But their lines were all jammed with other calls. I was here in the Citadel with every member of the Cybertronian command. Yet I could do nothing to help my sister.      

I plunged through the press of metal bodies till I found the exit, pelted down the hallway, and flung myself out onto Elita’s little balcony. And that’s where I stayed. For three hours. Alone.