Chapter Text
Favored son
Fence in your heart
Savored son
Sins forgotten
Dead Can Dance, Rakim
He caught his reflection in the darkened glass of the observation deck and paused.
His face.
He normally wasn’t one for vanity. He’d polish up when it was appropriate – recruiting, formal occasions, and the like. Otherwise, as long as things were more-or-less where they were supposed to be, he didn’t much care what he looked like.
Given the fact that his face had parted company with the rest of his head for the better part of a week before getting reattached, with half a decade passing before he finally woke up from the whole ordeal, he decided he could forgive himself a brief moment of self-reflection.
He first ran a hand along the cowling on the right side of his helm, lightly touching the louver covering the front, reassuring himself that the assembly was firm. Satisfied with that, he poked lightly at the structural ridges below his optics, noting how the malleable skin of his face seemed to pull more sharply over them now, casting the barest of shadows in the hollows above his jaws. He could find no real error in the reconstruction, no scars or tell-tale lines of grafting. But the difference was still there.
It was the face of someone who’d gone to hell, looked the devil himself in the eye, and come back with half of his soul scooped out of his mind.
Springer could deny it no longer. He had aged considerably in the five years he’d missed.
His hand dropped to his chest, where a shallow but long scrape ran diagonally from his left shoulder to the right side of his midsection. All of the damage – all of the physical damage – from G-9 had been fixed. This must have happened after that.
Right on cue, Kup came down the hallway, datapad in hand. “Hubcap put that dossier that you asked for on Arcee together.” He held it out to Springer. “Frankly, all you need to know is that she used to be Prowl’s lackey and every screw holding her together is loose. You’ll get to see for yourself when we hit Earth in about 3 more hours.”
Springer took the datapad. “Thanks for the Executive Summary.” He pointed to the scrape on his chest. “Any idea where this came from?”
Kup sighed. “Remember Roadbuster’s sparkeater weapon?”
The color drained from Springer’s face. “He didn’t…”
“Oh, Primus, no. Whirl did. Roadbuster caught him in the act and vetoed him out.”
Springer breathed a sigh of relief. “That makes a lot more sense.”
“It… does?”
“Whirl’s wishes in his end-of-life statement are very clear when it comes to persistent vegetative states. The whole body-without-a-spark thing disturbs him on a profound level.”
Kup considered. “Anything to do with the empurata stuff?”
“That’s my assumption. What happened to him?”
“Last I knew, he wound up on Rodimus’s crew searching for the Knights of Cybertron,” Kup said.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Anyway, I gotta’ hand it you ya’, kid. One of your own tries to euthanize you, and you ask if he’s ok? That’s leadership.”
Springer gave him a tired smile. “I’m sure he meant it in the nicest way possible.”
Ostaros didn’t know much, but he knew two things with a great and un-adulterated purity. The first was that he was created by a terrible, terrible person. The second was that he wanted to escape this place very, very much.
These realizations had been slow to dawn, given the isolation Ostaros endured. Life, even life adapted to solitude, can only handle so much of it. But all Ostaros ever knew for the longest time was the cackling of his creator, and for the longest time, he did not realize that life could be any different.
And then the black and white one arrived.
His creator called him Prowl.
And Prowl called his creator Mesothulas.
Ostaros knew he was created by Mesothulas, was at first comforted by the way his creator constantly doted on him. At that time, he only knew one thing. That his creator cared for him very much. Fed him when he was hungry. Taught him how to adjust his thermostats when he was too hot or too cold. Showed him how to calibrate his sensors for various electromagnetic wavelengths to illuminate the darkness and dim the blinding light. Fulfillment. Warmth. Light.
Comfort.
His creator was very eager to introduce Prowl to him.
“I want to show you something wonderful,” he had said, wringing his hands together. “I want to show you what I made.”
Prowl had looked at Ostaros with cool regard. “This is your prototype?”
“Prototype!” Mesothulas spat. “This is my firstborn! This is new life! Scan him with everything you have. See if you can detect that he is anything other than genuine.”
Prowl tipped his head to the side for a moment. Ostaros copied the gesture. “He radiates just like any other protoform.” He raised his right hand to wave and Ostaros raised his left to do the same. “Still has the protoform mimic reflex.” Prowl did his best to suppress a frown in order to study the stupid half-smile also characteristic of freshly forged sparks, empty of experience, eager to soak up everything around them only because they did not yet know the horrors of the world they were born into, did not yet know the terrors they were doomed to endure and become. “I thought you were working on spark extraction?”
“Oh, I am, I am! Ostaros is, in fact, the first step of the process. Before I can learn how to safely extract a spark from a body, I must first learn how a spark operates and animates one. What better way to learn than to build one from scratch? Look at him! Artificial life! Completely synthetic, but completely indistinguishable from forged!”
“What are you going to do with him?”
Mesothulas gave Prowl a perplexed look. “Raise him, of course. Teach him! Fill him up! He is the very essence of perfection and potential. Can you not feel the raw power of that spark? Whatever he will become, he will devote himself to the utmost. Whatever he will do, he will throw every ounce of his will behind it.” Mesothulas nearly danced with glee, hands still clasped together at his chest. “I can hardly stand to wait to see how he will turn out!”
Prowl spared Ostaros one final, wary look, then turned back to Mesothulas. “We need to discuss those stasis bullets…”
Ostaros watched as they walked away. He didn’t know much, but he did have a fully functioning vocabulary. He didn’t know much, but he did know a lot more than he did just minutes earlier.
He knew he was synthetic.
He knew he was fake.
He knew he was a stepping stone to something very, very terrible.
For the first time, he knew fear.
He heard all of the conversations between Prowl and his creator over the course of time. He learned a great deal.
He learned about punishment and strategy and politics and betrayal and war.
He learned there was a whole other world outside of his birthplace. He learned about the impenetrable radiation moat that separated him from it. He learned Prowl could cross it safely with the monstrous-looking armor. Armor that merely reflected the monster who wore it and the monster who designed it.
He maintained the stupid half-smile, faking. Faking ignorance. Faking loyalty. Fake fake fake. But that was the safest play for now. Until he knew more. Until he was stronger. Or until something changed.
In the end, it was the third of those possibilities. Ostaros had witnessed the weight of Prowl’s conscience wearing him down. Sensed something was about to happen. And so he was not surprised when he saw the monster armor crash through the lab one day. Did nothing when the monster armor threw his monster creator through his monstrous Noisemaze creation to a monstrous demise. Did nothing when the monster armor destroyed the lab.
And when the monster armor turned to face him, he forced that stupid half-smile, forced it as hard as he damn well could, hoping to project that stupid harmlessness, hoping against hope that this was not just a ransack, but also a rescue. For a moment, his hope faltered as the monster raised his blaster, the lab burning around them, the air filling with smoke. Still, he smiled. Still, he played harmless…
And then the monster lowered his blaster and shook his head. “Goddammit, I can’t do this.” The monster removed his helmet to reveal a stranger. “You wanna get out of here?”
Ostaros nodded.
“You don’t happen to know how to turn the radiation moat off, do you?”
Ostaros nodded again, walked to a control panel in the corner of the room, and flipped the requisite switches.
The stranger set his blaster down in order to pull a gauge out of a compartment, his other hand appearing to be inoperable. He read the gauge and nodded approvingly. “Good work.” He then gestured to the Noisemaze gate. “Can you turn that off too?”
Ostaros risked letting the stupid half-smile slide to a lopsided grin, flipped two more switches, and breathed an inward sigh of relief as a high-pitched hum cycled down and the nightmare visions behind the gate vanished.
The stranger regarded him for a moment, unfazed by the burning lab crumbling around them. “Something tells me you’re not as dumb as you look.”
Ostaros replied before he realized the words were even in his head. “Something tells me you’re not half the tool Prowl is.” He snapped his mouth shut, suddenly realizing what had just come out of it.
The stranger laughed and shook his head. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.” He seemed to consider for a moment before continuing. “Prowl won’t be, though. I don’t think he’ll kill you himself, but…” He met Ostaros’s gaze. “You’re gonna need to watch your back out there, ok kid?”
Ostaros nodded.
Ostaros turned to Prowl as the black-and-white bot entered his cell, stupid half-smile in place. Prowl regarded him for a moment, frowning.
“Can you speak?”
“Yes.” Ostaros pitched his voice higher than his natural frequency, softer than his natural tone, aware of the dominance cues he did not wish to send, substituting naiveté instead.
Prowl continued. “Can you tell me what happened to Mesothulas?”
“Yes.”
“Please do so.”
“The other one threw him through the gate.”
“The… other one?”
“The one with the gold helmet.”
Prowl nodded. “Tell me what happened to the lab. The place where you were created.”
“The other one smashed everything. Set it on fire.”
“Why did he do that?”
Well, let’s see. You’ve had nothing but disagreements with Mesothulas for the last five weeks because you can’t take it anymore. The merc you sent was wearing your radiation armor. The fact that you ordered him to do it is blindingly obvious, but it’s also blindingly obvious that you think I’m an idiot, so I’ll just play along. “I don’t know.”
Prowl nodded once more, turning to leave. “Very well.” Not thank you. Not I’m sorry I destroyed your home. Not where do you go from here? No indication whatsoever that Prowl recognized Ostaros as a real, living individual.
Fine, then. He’d had his chance.
Prowl had his back completely turned. Ostaros leaped, connected with the back of Prowl’s head and smashed his face into the bulkhead, then threw him to the floor. Prowl blindly pawed at the air, clearly taken by surprise. Ostaros wasted little time, kneeling to the floor and threading his hands around Prowl’s throat.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck right now.” He let his voice fall to its natural octave, let its natural edge return. All those people Prowl killed on Carpessa. A neutral city of innocent people. Just to goad their loved ones into war. Just to kill more people.
And yet, maddeningly, Prowl remained calm. “Because you won’t get far as a murderer.”
“Seems to work well enough for you.” Ostaros found himself unable to keep the tremor out of his voice, unable to keep himself from shaking with rage and fear.
“You have nothing else to your name. Go out there on your own, an undocumented protoform, my blood on your hands. See how far you get.”
“Maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe stopping you from orchestrating the murders of thousands of others at a time is enough.”
A small chuckle managed to escape Prowl’s throat despite being nearly closed off by Ostaros’s hands. “You think I’m the only one? You think the war will stop just because I’m not in it? The world is much bigger than just you and me.”
“Fine.” Still, his hands tightened around Prowl’s throat. “Put me out there. Give me a history. Guy like you should be able to do that. Didn’t think I was listening at all back there, did you? Didn’t think I knew about all the strings you pull out here. But I heard everything. I heard about the triple changer program. Put me in it.”
Prowl almost laughed. “You want to go directly from a protoform to a triple changer? Do you have any idea what that will do to your sensor array?”
The grip tightened even more. “Something tells me I’ll be able to handle it. Something tells me you know that already.”
“Your core drive will get re-formatted. You’ll lose all of your memories, including this conversation. You’ll forget all about me.”
Ostaros’s optics narrowed. “Then I’m no longer a liability for you. You’ll win again.”
“Your options are limited. That’s the best deal you’re going to get.” And I’ll be damned if I underestimate you ever again. You’re an over-clocked bastard now, and that’s not going to change. Lucky for you I have plenty of uses for over-clocked bastards.
Finally, Ostaros relaxed his grip and stood up from the floor. “Fine.” But something tells me we’ll cross paths again. I think I’ll figure you out again. And when I do, I swear I’ll take you down. I swear you’ll pay for your sins.
Darkness.
Silence.
A pinpoint of light.
Pinpricks in his fingertips heralding the receding of numbness, sweeping over his body, followed by the crippling ache of re-activating transmitters.
Moaning.
When the pain finally abated, the moaning stopped, and he recognized it as his own.
The pinpoint of light grew, rapidly widening in a white, blinding flash, then faded to a normal balance.
A black and white ‘bot was standing before him.
“Who are you?”
The black and white ‘bot looked up from the data pad he was reading. “My name is Prowl.”
“Who am I?”
Prowl looked down again at his data pad. “Your name is Springer. You apparently have excellent leaping ability. Your specifications should be loading now.”
Indeed, specs and diagrams began to scroll in the foreground of his HUD. “Yep, getting them now.”
“Do you remember anything?” Prowl asked.
Springer paused for a moment, querying his directories. “Nope. Drawing a blank. What’s to remember?”
“Nothing. Your memory was wiped as a side-effect of the reformat.”
Springer frowned. “How much did I lose? Can I get it back?”
Prowl shook his head. “You are being given a clean slate on purpose. Your previous life was… checkered, to say the least. Long string of misdemeanors, but nothing violent. You got wrapped up with the wrong crowd and were finally caught on a felony. You testified against them. In exchange, you have been provided a new identity. I am the only one who knows both your current and past identities. Your memory was wiped for your own protection. As compensation, you were enrolled in the triple-changer program. Your physical and psychological specifications are far above average. You were given your choice of assignments before your reformat. You chose to serve on Ultra Magnus’s security team.” Prowl handed him the data pad. “You have today to download and assimilate all relevant historical data and acclimate to your new form. Practice driving on secondary roads with your installed training program. You will report for road licensure tomorrow morning. Following that, report to Ultra Magnus for your assignment. Your evenings will be devoted to flight school until you earn your rotary license. What you do after that point is up to you. Your housing assignment is on the pad, along with an account number with a small allowance to get you started. Do you have any questions?”
Springer looked up from the data pad, gaze lingering on the face before him. Had he seen it before? Was its owner really telling him everything he needed to know? Really, there was no way of telling. Denied his past, moving on to the future was his only choice.
“Nah. I’ll get it figured out.”