Archive of Our Own

Work Text

Choosing my Name, and Other Mistakes

a Memoir

By Rainbowsparkles of Tessarus-Minor

This golden disc was given to me by Optimus Prime, with orders to record everything I can remember on it. You probably think my life's not a worthwhile subject matter; and hey, I pretty much agree with you. But Prime said not to leave this room till everything has been recorded. I'll only get one pass at this – there's barely an hour before the ship blasts off into parts unknown. So forgive me if this comes out as a mess. Here goes.
I was built by two mechs who thought more femmes might make their world a better place. They hadn't spent more than five minutes with a real femme in millions of years, however; so when they started building, well... Let's be kind and say they meant well.
The first instant of my life was pain. A million senses I did not yet have a name for burned along my every conduit, and smashed into my brand-new cortex. I gasped, and my vents flew wide. White light shone through me, piercing every atom. And from the light, a Great Voice whispered, "Welcome."
Birth did not feel like a welcome. It felt like disintegration. So from the first, I haven't really trusted Primacron.
My heavy body dragged me down – an unknown mass around my spark. I tried to find and count and move its limbs, to not feel smothered by its weight. Then just as I was learning to survive within my body, its sensor equipment booted up, and the world started pressing in on me. Dark blobs and blurry lights swam in and out; muffled sounds crashed against my head; I inhaled and I exhaled, and each cycle felt like an eternity. "Who am I?" I asked the Voice. "What am I?"
But Primacron never did explain. It only responded with a question of its own: "What name do you choose for yourself, small one?"
I looked down at the bright spark in my chest. Watched how it danced and twirled with every color of the spectrum. I knew the name I wanted.
"Rainbowsparkles," I told the voice. "My name will be Rainbowsparkles." I did not know who or what I was, but I thought I'd found the most beautiful name possible.
I'm still miffed that Primacon, all-powerful creator so they say, did not warn me I was wrong about my name. Maybe Unicron the Destroyer was ascendant on the day that I was born.
Now, if anyone's reading this (I can't decide if should I hope it's read, or hope it rusts on some forgotten shelf), you're probably annoyed with me already. You're wondering why you decided to read this journal. I imagine you shaking your head, thinking, "Slag me, this mech's got issues!" All I can say is, please don't stop.
Because I'm not a mech. And that's the issue.
I'm a femme. A newling femme forged by two ex-frontline soldiers on what's still called (in implied capital letters), "Postwar Cybertron."
I thought my birth story might be useful to some of the science-types. After all, I bet none of you warborn mechs remember your own ignition. You were all forged so unimaginably long ago.
I want to make it clear that my creators weren't at fault for my peculiar "talent". They were just as surprised as I was. (Well, maybe not quite as surprised as I was, considering that it almost killed me.) I've since asked my sisters, and they told me my experience wasn't typical. (So don't worry too much, all you new dads out there.) Still though, being born's not for the faint of spark.
I met my makers spark-first; and it almost killed me.
I was a second or two old, and I still thought my name was wonderful. I turned my heavy head, (hearing its stiff, new abductor cables creak), and tried to make sense of the, well, the everythingness all around me. My still-calibrating optics fastened on two pulsing, glowing spheres of light; one fiery orange and one blueish-white: my makers' sparks. I didn't know what I was looking at. (I didn't even know what seeing was!) I only knew that those two dancing lights were beautiful. And that they loved me. I reached out a hand toward them.
But unfortunately, when your lifespan is still measured in seconds, downloading memories from two 11-million-year-old mechs will pretty much melt down all of your sizzling new circuits.
Apparently, I crumpled to the floor in an insensate, smoking, twitching pile of expensive metals. My poor makers were certain their last and hardest-fought-for newling was dead before she'd even claimed her name.
"-ke up! - pl-se, wake -!"
There were sounds again, scared, frantic sounds this time. Something was tugging at my edges, jostling me out of equilibrium. I felt nausea (an unwelcome new sensation) slosh somewhere inside. A moan rose out of my throat, and echoed around in my head. I wanted to explode and melt and die and never have been born.
"Sunst- d- you hear th-t? She's -!"
"She's brok-n!" (There was a sharp, angry, ringing sound from somewhere farther off. It hurt me. There was pain in it.) "Prima-, why -d you d- th-s? What -d we - wrong?"
I moaned again, and reached out to the pain-filled voice. It needed me. But I bumped against something hard much closer. Instantly, the whatever-it-was wrapped around me and lifted me. I felt gravity's downward tug like something wanting to absorb me. But thing holding me was warm.
"Sunstreaker! Get - here! She's not -!"
Something came clanging, clomping toward me. But I turned my head away. I was afraid to see those dancing lights, afraid of what they'd do to me if I looked into them again. I flung my arm across my face, and tried to keep my optics covered.
"Sh- moved!"
"I know! Get the -!"
Something (someone?) started gently putting all the tangled things inside me right again. Sharp smells and flashes of bright heat came and went. But I wasn't scared any more. Because the whole time, someone steady held me close, and murmured safe sounds into my recalibrating audial receivers.
I rebelled when they tried to pull my hands away from my optics, though.
"No," I groaned, revving up my arm-servos and gripping the front-flanges of my helm. "Don't want to see it." (I did though. Those lights had been so, so beautiful before they'd begun killing me!) My own spark clenched inside my chest, aching with grief that I would never again see something so lovely.
"Don't want to see what, sweetling?" The first voice I'd heard was low, and somehow barren.
"Beautiful lights. That hurt."
"What lights? Primu- Primacron? Did he hurt you?" This was that second voice, the angry one. "I'll find a way to kill 'im if he did." Someone was tugging at my hands: gently, carefully, but with unresistable persistence. "Thundercracker, what's wrong with her? What did she see?"
"No!" I wailed, as the tugging won and my hands came free from my face.
There were no lights. None that could hurt me, anyway. Just a soft white glow from a big ball-thing in the ceiling, and from veins that ran along the walls. It was a familiar glow. It reminded me of the Great Voice, the one who'd asked me what I wanted to be called. (I still thought Rainbowsparkles was a perfectly glorious name. This delusion would last me for another minute and a half.)
I let my taut body go slack. "They're gone," I said, wondering. "I guess everything's all right."
Two dark shapes whispered urgently together. About me. I didn't care.
"Can you stand? I want to make sure I've repaired everything." The one who'd held me took my hand and helped me to my feet. I steadied myself, and let go. I stood. So did they: two figures, bipedal like I was, the taller of them broad and hunched; the other straight and slim and proud. Both were looking intently at me.
"Who are you, please?" I asked them.
The shorter, yellow one stepped forward. He (I somehow knew they were both he's) was exquisitely formed – a lithe, blue-eyed mech so beautiful he almost made up for the loss of those two lights I had seen. "I'm Sunstreaker," he said. "I'm your maker."
"Hi." I waved awkwardly. "What's a maker?"
Sunstreaker laughed, and it was wonderful. I didn't know then what a rarity his laughter was; but I saw the taller blue mech raise an eyebrow in surprise. "I'll explain maker to you later, little one," Sunstreaker said. (This, I think, was the first of all the many, many awkward questions I would ask which no one wanted to answer.)
"Oh. Well, thanks for fixing me," I said lamely.
"You're welcome." He gave a little awkward bow.
I turned to the larger one. His back was to the softly glowing globe in the ceiling, so his wide wings cast us both in shadow. But though I only saw him as a dark shape from which stared two unblinking red optics, I was unafraid. Because he was the one who'd held me. I knew I was safe with him. That he was someone I could depend on. I still feel that way about Thundercracker.
"Thanks for not giving up on me," I said. "Who are you?"
He smiled – I could tell because I saw his optics crinkle – and told me his name. "I'm your other maker," he explained.
"You know our names," said Sunstreaker, "What's yours, little one?"
I looked down into the spinning, changeful light within my chest, and felt the warmth of selfhood surging through me. I pressed my hands against my chest, and for a moment, even the cool metal felt alive. "I'm Rainbowsparkles," I said proudly. "Isn't that a great name?"
"PFFFT!" Sunstreaker clamped a hand over his mouth, and turned away, his shoulders heaving with suppressed laughter. (I've never quite forgiven him for that.)
I looked up at Thundercracker hopefully. But he was faring little better; his face was all squinched-up, and he kept twitching.
"What's wrong with my name?" I demanded. "Yours are long, too!"
Thundercracker tried. He really did. "It's not the length, Rainb- Rainbow-" He took a second, shook his head, shunted his vocalizer, got control. "...Rainbowsparkles. It's only- We're not used to names that..." (His optics rolled upward pleadingly) "...names that don't sound tough."
I dropped my gaze from his, embarrassed. Should I have chosen something more fierce? I wracked my brand-new brain for options. Standoff? Quick-Kick? Pulverizer? None of those fit me; at least, not that I could tell. I stared through Thundercracker, trying to think up a name I liked half as well as I loved Rainbowsparkles. But then something caught my eye. I stopped. I pointed. "The lights," I choked. "The lights that hurt. They're inside you!" I stumbled back from him, and looked down into my own spark for safety and reassurance. It was bright with every color of the spectrum. I was a living, spinning, swirling soul, alight with hundreds of new questions.

Alight...

Lights...

"The lights. Lights that hurt. They're not just in you. They are you." I risked a fearful glance toward Thundercracker and Sunstreaker, my makers. Back into those beautiful pale-white-blue and flaming-orange lights. Their sparks. Their souls. Them.
And all I saw was love for me. Everything ancient and hurt and broken and defiled was overwhelmed in that instant by their love. For me. And who was I to deserve it? I'd just been born!
Thundercracker moved quickly to support me as my knees buckled. He put a gentle hand over my optics. "It's all right, little one," he said. "I understand it, now."
Sunstreaker took my other arm, and helped me sit before I fell. "You think she's really seeing our sparks?" he whispered. "How can she do that? Did you program her to do that?" There was anger in his voice now. I was afraid of him.
"Of course I didn't program her for this! Did you?"
"No! Who do you think I am? I don't even know how to program something like that!"
Thundercracker sighed. "I don't think anyone does, 'Streak."
I raised my head tentatively. "What's wrong with me, please?" I quavered.
"Nothing!" Their voices came in unison. But I wasn't sure that they believed it.
Thundercracker patted me carefully, like I might explode if he did it wrong. "Nothing's wrong with you, Rainbow. You're just... different."
They were so patient with me, that first day. There on the floor of the Creation Chamber, in the light of Primacron itself, they worked tirelessly with me on a problem which they must have both found incredibly creepy. I mean, what is all that armor for, if not to hide sparks? And here I was, hinting that I could see what they were thinking, every repressed memory, all the failures of which they were most ashamed? That cannot have been comfortable for them. But back then I only cared about my own discomfort. I hid from the things I didn't like.
But they persisted. And may Primacron bless them for it. Because they never once made me feel any less loved for my mutation.
Through long hours of trial and error, I learned to focus on optics, instead of sparks. It takes practice to not stare at the brightest lights in the room, but I had a strong incentive. I liked living. I liked being sane. Gradually I learned to keep half-blind, to decode what my makers wanted to convey through their words, facial expressions, and body language; rather than simply reading the truth inside their sparks. Long after dark, when I'd grown overconfident and cranky, (and my two wiser makers thought I might avoid outright collapse), we finally left the Chamber of Vector Sigma. We hiked up tunnels and more tunnels, and emerged into the night. That's when I saw my planet for the first time.
We walked, because I'd spent all day learning to ignore half of what my optics sensors told me, instead of practicing basic functions like transforming or driving. I didn't mind walking though. Out here there were so many things that I could look at! Roads and buildings, stars and clouds were all blessedly sparkless. Safe. Of course, I didn't know what any of them were. So I asked question after question.
"What's that?" I pointed up at a tall, dark shape in the night. "It's beautiful!"
Sunstreaker's vocalizer hummed, and he seemed to grow a few inches.
"Don't get too cocky, Mr. Artist," Thundercracker warned. "She's gonna think everything's beautiful for the first day or so."
"Little do you know." Sunstreaker turned his back on Thundercracker, and put an arm around my shoulders. "That's one of the towers I helped design, Rainbow."
"What are all those little lights on it?"
"People live up there." He pointed. "Every light you see is a window. And behind every window is a Transformer just like you, sipping an evening's cube of energon, or reading the latest news, or settling in for an hour's recharge."
"What're those?" I pointed, as small colored objects streaked across the sky.
Thundercracker smiled fondly. "Those are mechs who can fly. Like you. You'll join them up there soon enough. I'll show you."
"Like me? But they're so small!"
Sunstreaker laughed. "They're very far away, sweetling. Close up, most of them are just as big as you are."
"And none of them are shooting at each other, more's the wonder," Thundercracker muttered.
I almost asked what he meant by that ominous statement. But then we moved out onto a roadway. And I learned that, despite what my makers had said, the other transformers were nothing like me.
They were – all of them – mechs.
"Remember what we practiced!" Thundercracker hissed into my audial. I nodded, making sure I focused on metallic surfaces, never beneath optics and armor. Sunstreaker pressed in close beside me. So did Thundercracker. We kept tripping over one another's feet.
We soon caused a small traffic jam, as every bot on the road slowed to stare at us. At me. A crowd of bots surrounded us, in colors just as various as the ones in my fast-beating spark. Out of it zoomed a wheeled blue speeder, which skidded to a halt some feet away. Then in a graceful, liquid movement, it unfolded into a robot on two legs. My mouth fell open. That transition was the second most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"How did he-?"
"Hush little one. You'll do it too, soon enough," Thundercracker whispered, his arm tightening around my shoulders.
"Hey Sunny!" called the blue mech. "Got a new femme? Lemme see!"
Beside me, my yellow maker tensed. "Back up, Blurr. This one's delicate."
"They're all 'delicate' or 'fancy' or 'experimental'. You and Thundercracker don't know the meaning of the word 'overkill'."
"Overkill's a cassetticon living up around Simfur. You're the one who's confused."
"Primus beneath us, Sunny. That's the worst pun I've heard since the War ended."
"Blurr, I'm gonna punch your face in if you call me 'Sunny' one more time. Also, back off. I'm not kidding."
The blue bot backed off a scant step, but he was hopping with excitement. He darted from side to side, trying to peer around my makers and get a better look at me. "I see you gave her wheels, at least. Color looks weird, though."
"That's none of your concern, Blurr," Thundercracker warned. "Now go back your beloved road, and give her space!"
"Ooohh, tetchy aren't we, Mr. Nice-Guy-Now, Best-Buddy Decepticon. I was just looking at her. Ease up! You've got, what, eight now? You can afford to start sharing."
Thundercracker's jet-engines revved. He raised an arm, and pointed the long tube-thing on it at the fidgety blue mech. From the tube came a low, teeth-grinding hum. "Blurr, I am not your 'buddy.' And this certainly is not your femme. Now drive away."
Blurr held his hands up. "Hey pal, you know the rules. No shooty-shooty." He turned to Sunstreaker. "You gonna let him talk to me that way, Streaks?"
Sunstreaker crossed his arms and stood between me and the unknown bot. "Yes. Tonight, yes. You'd better go."
I watched in apprehensive awe as the blue mech transformed back down into a speedy-looking car. It pushed aside the other onlookers, and drove away with a long squeal of tires, leaving behind the acrid smell of scorched rubber. After a moment, the other bots slunk off as well. What had any of that weird standoff meant? I did not know how to begin to ask.
"This is insane," growled Thundercracker. "We've got to get her home before more gawkers find us."
Sunstreaker sighed. "Now that Blurr knows, we can assume the entire province will have heard of it by morning. Wish we could make them without every other bot making such a big deal about it."
Thundercracker snorted. "It isn't like you not to want an audience... 'Sunny.'"
Sunstreaker shoved him. "Shut up, you fragging glitch-face! Can you carry her on your back in jet-mode? Since she's still not able to transform..."
"No, I get it. Good idea." Thundercracker let go of my hand. "Give me some room, sweetie."
Like Blurr, he also folded out and down, becoming a sleek, swept-wing shape. His motion was nowhere near as dance-like as Blurr's had been. And his parts clanged together roughly. Still, my spark flared painfully at the simple perfection of it. I walked over and ran one hand along his wing, in silent awe.
"Climb on," he said. "And hold on tight."
"Don't slagging drop her!" Sunstreaker warned.
"I'd kill myself if I did," Thundercracker muttered, as I clambered onto his broad back. I shut my eyes, and locked my arms around him. Then his engines roared, and the ground fell away. By the time we made it home, I was asleep.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

II

I woke up with the sun in my eyes, and squinted out into a warm, bright star as alive as a spark, but with no power to flood me with unwanted information. I still love our sun. I'll miss it like a good friend when I go.
"Up an' at 'em!" called Sunstreaker from the open doorway. "Time to learn your transformation."
I jumped to my feet, filled with nervous anticipation. I desperately wanted to be cool like Thundercracker and that strange blue bot had been last night – to fold and dance as gracefully as they had – but what if I couldn't do it? What if I had been born clumsy?
Sunstreaker jerked his head impatiently. "Come on. Thundercracker's waiting outside."
I followed my maker out to the drive, and tried not to let on how scared I was that I would fail them.
I must not have been very successful, though, because, "Don't worry," was how Thundercracker greeted me. "You'll get the hang of it in no time. Transforming is part of who we are!"
But transforming is tricky. Do any of you warborn mechs realize that? It's not an automatic thing. There are a bunch of tabs and slots and ball-joints, bits that don't seem like they ought to bend that way; and you have to wrangle all of them while trying not to lose your balance halfway between two modes. Two hours later, I still couldn't do it.
"Careful!" Sunstreaker snapped. He caught me as I toppled over for about the millionth time. "We'll practice this all day if need be, but for Primus' sake, don't snap a strut or scratch your finish!" Sunstreaker helped me untwist the parts that I had tangled. "Again," he ordered. "You can do this, Rainbow."
After another hour or so, Thundercracker threw up his hands and went inside. But Sunstreaker stayed with me. I've never gotten along as well with him as I do with TC. It's just something about his ego, and the way he's obviously proud of all the fancy bits of engineering he gave me. It's no fun being someone's art project. And yet, I always come back to the time he spent with me that day, watching my every awkward move, suggesting tweaks and better ways to keep my balance, never showing any impatience or disappointment.
"There!" was all he said when I at last accomplished my first unassisted transformation. He inspected the alignment of each folded limb, and made sure every outer plate was tabbed in properly. I saw a little half-smile skitter across his face as he stood. "Start your engine, Rainbow." He listened to the steady hum of my electric motor. "Now, rev up to 4,000 rpm. Slowly! Don't push it too hard the first time."
"What's 'Arpee-Em'?" I asked, confused.
He smiled at me. "You'll figure it out, kid. Just tell your engine to go VROOOOM. But keep your wheels locked!" I obeyed. And I felt my spark begin to thrum along with the hum of my engine.
Sunstreaker walked around me one last time, paying particular attention to my wheels. He kicked my big single rear tire (it gave a pleasant, hollow boom), then crouched down on his hands and knees to check the alignment of my two small front tires. He ran a hand over my chassis from low front to high, rounded back, testing the flow of air around me. At last he gave a grunt of approval, and transformed. (He made it look not only easy, but graceful). "Congratulations, kid. You've done it. Now…" He revved his own engine (the old, loud kind that still runs on processed energon) "Ready to see why driving is the most fun you can have and still be legal?"
He roared off in a cloud of tire-smoke and exhaust fumes. I zoomed after him, trying to figure out how to accelerate and steer at the same time.
We headed not into the city, but away from it. I assumed that my spark-reading was the reason, that I was being kept away from other mechs. I didn't fight to be dumped back into a crowd, though; the whole thing with Blurr had been unnerving. As the sun settled low on the horizon, Sunstreaker led me onto narrower and narrower roadways, and finally stopped in a dark, abandoned mass of broken roads all looping over one another. He transformed and turned to me with undisguised, unbridled glee; and I realized I had been wrong about Sunstreaker's reason for bringing me outside the city.
"We haven't rebuilt this place yet," he explained, giddy with excitement. "Better enjoy it now, before Prowl finds out about it and puts up 'Keep Out!' signs and chains on everything. Come on! I'll show you all my favorite ramps."
I followed him distractedly, trying to look at everything at once. Ahead of me, Sunstreaker gave a sharp, triumphant cry, and gunned his engine. I sped up to follow him, and the road disappeared beneath my tires. I screamed.
It's lucky I was not good at transforming, because if I had been I might have done myself serious damage. As it was, I flew straight over the gap, landed solidly on all three of my tires, and slid to a stop beside Sunstreaker. My poor systems were just about overheating.
"Did you know that was going to happen?" I gasped.
"Of course. Wasn't it fun?"
"Fun?! It was terrifying! Do these road-things always disappear like that?"
"Not any more," he said. "Nobody's bombing them."
I think he could hear me shaking, because he transformed and put a steadying hand on my roof.
"Sideswipe and I were well-known for being able to get through, even when all the roads were out. It was because we liked pulling off crazy jump-stunts like this." He was looking at the stars, not me. His voice was wistful. "Come on, Rainbow." He thumped on my chassis twice. "Let's go again. I wouldn't take you somewhere if I wasn't certain it was safe."
My second, third, and forth time on the jump-ramp, I did better. My fifth time, I squealed with delight and almost flew.
Sunstreaker smiled. There was a sense of joy in him that afternoon – a playfulness without the need to show off. His laughter then is what I hearken back to, when he gets all intense about how often I'm buffing my precious finish.

We finally came home when all the stars were dimming and the night was almost over. Sunstreaker drove into our little washrack – the room he used at least daily and that Thundercracker avoided – and began to teach me the fine art of body maintenance.
He showed me gravely how to wash all the road-grime out of my wheel-wells – with emphasis on the importance of keeping one's brake mechanisms clean. "Speed's fun," he admonished, "But stopping's what keeps you alive."
He pulled bottles, cloths, and sprayers from the floor-to-ceiling shelf stacked full of cleaners, polishes, and coatings. Then he showed me how and where to apply each of them. When my vehicle-mode was sparkling clean and every strut felt scoured, Sunstreaker told me to transform, and we repeated the whole process.
"Your plating is titanium alloy," he explained as he handed me a microfiber cloth. "We chose it for the color. Do you like it?"
I looked down at my forearm, where I was rubbing the soft cloth in circles just the way he'd shown me, to buff the wax and bring up the shine. Yes, I did love the way my colors never stayed still, but shifted in the changing light from rich purple to green to copper-gold. "It's beautiful, Dad," I told him, meaning it.
Sunstreaker smiled like I'd given him a gift. "We thought so, too." Then he grew serious. "But Rainbow, because your plating is unpainted, you will have to be extra careful to guard yourself against scrapes. This alloy's harder than most metals, so you shouldn't have much trouble. Just, you know... be aware." He showed me the ultra-fine sander I should use if I ever did get a scratch. I felt conflicted: I had enough of Thundercracker's influence in me to pretend not to care how I looked; but I did (and still do) love the iridescent shimmer of my plating.
"What about these bits?" I asked him. All of my endoskeletal rods and joints were not the purple-green titanium, but a denser metal painted yellow that was flecked with tiny bits of gold. I pointed to my elbow-joint, and noticed something. "It's the same color as your paint, Dad."
Sunstreaker tried not to show how much he liked being called 'dad.' "Yellow looks good with the other colors in your armor," he said quickly. He held up my arm so I could see its underside more clearly, and pointed. "We mixed real gold into the enamel. It's a powerful symbol of worth and purity on a planet I once lived on for a while. It's even more rare here than it is there; we had to pull some major strings to get this much." He looked up at me sternly from beneath my outstretched arm. "Don't scratch it off."
"And these?" I pointed to an inlaid golden filigree that ran along the outsides of my thighs and upper arms. I loved the twining fractal patterns; they were so unlike all of the straight-line structures I saw everywhere around me.
Sunstreaker's optics grew dim with memory. "Those are another thing we learned from Earth," he said. "It's all organic there – you'll learn what that word means eventually – and everything is constantly growing and changing. Think of it, Rainbow – there are organisms there that can look completely different from one hour to the next. I wasn't a big fan of the place in general, but the plant-life did have some amazing aesthetic properties."
"But how should I take care of it?"
"Oh." Sunstreaker snapped back to the present. "It's coated with a hard, clear varnish. Just-"
I finished for him, "Don't scratch it?"
He smiled. A real smile. A spontaneous smile. Then he took my face between his hands and looked at me with great intensity. "You're beautiful, Rainbowsparkles," he said.
I squirmed. "Of course you think I'm beautiful. You made me!"
I was trying to lighten the moment. But he only grew more serious. "Your beauty is important, Rainbow. We gave what we could of it to you, because a little beauty makes a difference in the world – especially one that's known as much ugliness as ours has. Your beauty matters, little one. Remember that."
I didn't really understand him then. But I've never forgotten. And I think I'm starting to have some idea of what he meant.

A few days later, on a clear, cold morning with only a little wind, Thundercracker showed me that I could fly.
"The main engine on your back's what gets you airborne," he instructed soberly. "But the small rockets on your ankles are just as important. You'll use them for balance and for steering." He held out a hand, and cracked the tiniest of smiles. "Come on. 'Bow. You'll love this."
I took his hand, feeling excited and nervous. I was remembering how it had felt when Sunstreaker's road dropped out from beneath me. I hoped flying would be less scary than that.
"Ignite your thrusters," Thundercracker instructed. (I did, and it was like trying to balance on two squashy balls.) "Now jump," he said. "With me on three. One… two… "
We jumped. I tried and failed not to squeal as we rocketed up from the ground.
Before I knew it, we were high above the cluster of apartments. I could see the streets laid out in nesting arcs, the other take-off/landing areas spaced out at even intervals throughout the subdivision, the central Circle where the local businesses and tradesmechs plied their crafts. (I hadn't been there yet, but I could read the signs flashing up at us in various colors of neon.) Everything looked flat, unrecognizable, and somehow fake.
I clung tightly to Thundercracker's hand. (He was in bot-mode, relying on his own heel-thrusters to keep airborne.)

You're doing fine, Rainbow. Just fine.

I heard his words inside my head – tinny and thin, but clear.
"How are you doing that?" I shouted over the roar of my thrusters.

Radio transmit. Here's my frequency.

Something hissed into my cortex – a stream of numbers and symbols too rapid to catch individually. Yet all of a sudden I knew how to do it. Like this, Dad? I asked.
He turned to me, and grinned. Well done, 'Bow. Now relax, and let your body hang. Trust your thrusters; they will hold you. Feel the balance between the pull of gravity, and the power of your engines. Find the midpoint between them, and hover.
Holding tight to my creator's hand, I adjusted my engines incrementally.
There you go, sweetling. He was still smiling, and it warmed me through. Now, lean back and sit down on the air just like you do your chair at home. Go on. Try it!
I gave a quick, nervous giggle. I couldn't help it. It was so scary and strange and exhilarating to be up so high. Nothing could get to me up here. I adjusted my rockets one more time, and leaned back as Thundercracker had instructed. A squeal of delight escaped me before I could stop it. I let go of Thundercracker's hand.
"I'M FLYING!" I shouted to the cold, bright sky, and threw my arms wide, only wobbling a little bit.
Well done, sweetheart, said Thundercracker, smiling all the while.
We spent half an hour experimenting. Thundercracker made sure I stayed in low-traffic areas. But I didn't feel confined. I had the entire sky to play in. Trying out a slow loop, I caught a glimpse of a single star glittering dimly through the planet's atmosphere. I glanced back at my blue maker to make sure he was following, and took off straight up to chase it. He transformed, and roared after me.
When we were high enough to see the curvature of Cybertron, we slowed to a stop by some unspoken mutual consent. Thundercracker unfolded his limbs, and turned back to look down at the planet with me. Cybertron was beautiful. Its smooth metallic landmass polygons sparkled like copper in the sunlight, and its cities thrust up from the plains with all the grace of Sunstreaker's best sculptures.
I stared down at the golden curve of home. The world's so beautiful, Dad.
He shocked me with a sudden curse. It can be ugly, too, sweetling.
I did not know how to respond to that. We hung there in the quiet, above all the unknown, scary things. The world glittered as it had before. It was still beautiful.
Thundercracker flew over next to me, reached out, and squeezed my hand. Sometimes, your maker is a grumpy, bitter bot, he said. You're right; the world is beautiful. You make it so. He enfolded my small hand in both of his. Come on, 'Bow. Let's go back down.
Since then, I've found out that the world is not as golden as it looked to me that day. I've had to deal with some of the darker things hidden beneath the surface. But I'll always have the memory of what I saw and how I felt on that first flight. It's a file I review often.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

III

My fifth day online was the day I got my first crush, and the day I ran away from home.
Sunstreaker had taken me with him to the local commerce hub. While he haggled with an energon vendor for a tank of the custom-refined mixture they fed me for my first week, I took the opportunity to look around. I was getting better at controlling my perception (i.e. not looking too deeply into other people's sparks), but I hadn't had much practice in the real world. Sunstreaker and Thundercracker kept me pretty secluded. So this trip into a busy market was an exciting adventure for me.
I turned slowly to take in the rest of the arched bazaar-court. It was a full circle of small, fascinating-looking shops. I practiced reading the bright signs: "Needlenose's Needed Notions: Everything a Bot Needs to Be Chic." "Fixit's Repairs: One Hour, or it's Free." "All-State Transport: Load-Carriers Wanted. We Pay For Your Time & Travel." "Tracks's Trinkets." On almost every door there was a little sign with, side-by-side, the angry purple badge on Thundercracker's chest, and Sunstreaker's sad red one. Some of these signs had letters underneath proclaiming, "Bots & Cons Both Welcomed Here!" The first time I had seen these, I had thought my makers must be rulers of the entire planet. But when I'd asked if that were true, Thundercracker about blew a gasket laughing. I still hadn't gotten a full answer. But it seemed that every mech I saw wore either the red or the purple face. The store we were in now was one of the few who did not have the "Welcome" sign. Instead, it had a crossed-out purple face displayed prominently on the door. I wondered suddenly if this was why Thundercracker had stayed home, rather than come with us to the market. Uneasy now, I inched away from Sunstreaker. I did not want to look like I might be doing business with a trader who would not allow one of my makers in his shop.
At the materials shop next door ("The Ironmongery, Rumble & Frenzy, Proprietors"), two little bots began unloading metal sheets from a flatbed trailer-truck. I practiced observing without being overwhelmed. It was only when I caught an accidental glimpse of spark that I realized the truck was a mech, too. But I wasn't the only one staring. The working mechs kept turning to stare back at me. One of the two short bots came over, looked me up and down approvingly, congratulated me on being forged, and offered me a sweet energon treat. But I obeyed the strict instructions I'd been given before we left home, and politely refused.
Sunstreaker's deal was taking forever. The vendor kept on saying angry things about "partnering with a Decepticon!" while Sunstreaker, never the mildest of mechs, kept grimly reassuring him about whatever-the-problem-was. Any second, one or the other of them was going to blow his top. I tried to find something else to distract me.
A crowd of twenty or so mechs was gathering now on the central island of the bazaar's traffic circle. They were holding up homemade signs and chanting things that made no sense to me. "Bring Back Our Femmes"? "Death to Kidnappers"? "Conspiracy of Shame"? "Call Out The Cover-Up"? I didn't know what any of it meant. But I could tell that they were angry.
A contingent of vehicles drove in from one of the many spoke-roads which radiated from this commerce hub. As they arrived, the mechs holding the signs poured off the traffic-circle, and surrounded the newcomers as they transformed. The volume of their clamor rose as they began shouting for the attention of a silver-gray mech whose height set him apart from all the others in his retinue. I looked at him, and my jaw dropped. He was magnificent.
It wasn't that his form was all that different from the many others I had seen, though it was obviously much more powerful than most. It was his bearing. He moved like a mech who knew down to his boot-soles who he was and what he was made for. I watched him giving directions to a few bots in the crowd, and saw them scurry to obey. As they did so, the silver mech's headcrest unfurled proudly to become four splayed-back fins, all inlaid with gold that sparkled in the sunlight.
I'd never seen his like anywhere. My makers had said I was different. I was special, built from rare materials. This crowned mech who moved through the crowd as if he were their king – I was sure he was also someone rare and special. Perhaps even another custom-crafted newling. Like myself! And if he really was a newling like me, and had found such self-command and purpose... well then, maybe there was hope that I could do the same?
I went inside and tugged Sunstreaker's arm. "Who's that?" I pointed out across the market.
"Gimme a minute, Rainbow." (He was still dealing with the testy vendor.)
But the mystery mech and all his entourage were streaming out now through one of the exit archways. I tugged again, harder. "Please, Dad! I don't have a minute!"
"Newlings, eh?" The energon vendor sniffed. "They always think the world revolves around them. You gotta show her otherwise. Firm hand, and all that, eh?"
The mystery mech was disappearing through the arch now. I tugged frantically.
Sunstreaker scowled and shook his head at the vendor. Then he accompanied me outside. "Who do you need to know so desperately?"
I looked around. But the crowned silver mech was gone. And because like an idiot I'd not paid enough attention, I could not be sure from this distance which spoke-road he'd gone down.
I hung my head. "We're too late. I just thought maybe I saw my brother. But he's gone now."
"Brother? You don't have a brother. What made you think-?"
"He had this... this fancy..." I gave up. It had not been just his height or looks that I admired, that set him above the rest. It had been his sense of self.
Sunstreaker huffed a huge, frustrated sigh. He forced his voice to sound reasonable. "No one's made any newling mechs, Rainbow. Just femmes. You don't have a brother, and thanks to Prowl being a Smelter-loving- well, being himself, you're not getting any new sisters either. Now please. Sit right here where I can see you, and let me get back in there before Jackpot decides to sell your filtered energon to some other Autobot."
That was the end of it. At least, as far as Sunstreaker was concerned. But I was certain he was wrong. I kept thinking about that unknown mech, replaying the recorded memory over and over, watching how the sun had glinted off his mirror-bright, unpainted finish. Unpainted polished metal like my own. By evening, I'd driven myself crazy. So I sneaked out back, transformed, and ran away. I had to find out who this mystery mech was for myself.
I drove toward the high towers of Tessarus proper, filled with the certainty of my omnipotence. To this day, I'm not sure what I thought I would find. A roadside screen that printed out the answer to my question as I passed? A mind-reading dataport I could plug into and download his name from? The mystery mech himself? I admit, that was my most secret hope. I tried to make my way along the same route I'd taken with Sunstreaker that morning. But it was hopeless. After an hour's fruitless driving, my only discovery was that a five-day-old newling was about as capable on her own as a dropped wingnut. The towers were no closer, and the sun was sinking fast.
"I'm absolutely not lost," I muttered over and over. As if saying it would make it true. Would make these creepy, empty lanes and tunnels less creepy. (I'd seen no other bots at all for several minutes.) Sometimes above the walls that hemmed me in, I caught a glimpse of what I hoped was the tip of one of the central towers. I had no idea which way home was, and tried not to think about it. I ground my gears (driving is much more complicated than the older mechs let on), rounded another dim, deserted street-corner, and swore I would spend the night in a doorway before I'd admit defeat. Before I'd call for a rescue. The only rescue I'd accept was if my mystery mech rounded the corner, recognized me as long-lost kin, and taught me how to be just as amazing as he was. All before the sun set, of course.
The streetlights started humming into life, but they only made the shadows seem darker. Ahead of me in one such dark shadow, I heard a gate creak open and slam shut. A hunchbacked, ugly mech skulked out into the dim orange glow. His every awkward movement signaled a wish to remain unnoticed. But I needed some directions. So I slowed to a stop and transformed as gracefully as I could.
"Excuse me," I called after him.
He jumped, and scuttled away faster.
"Stop! Please!" (I may have shrieked. I was desperate.)
He flinched like he was expecting a blow. I kept my distance so as not to scare him off. "Please, sir. I only need directions. Please. Can you tell me how to reach the city center from here?"
With great reluctance, the strange bot finally turned around to face me. When he did, his mouth flew open, and he stared like he'd been hit with a stun gun. Then he fell onto his stumpy knees right there in the middle of the road. I was flustered (and a tiny bit amused). But then the misshapen, grease-streaked bot covered his face in his hands, and started sobbing.
"I can't believe you came to me," he blubbered. "Me! " He flapped a grimy little arm. "Don't look at me. I'm hideous."
I had no idea what was wrong with him. But I had to try and help. I mean, I still needed directions; and he was the only bot around! But as I inched toward him, this seemed like a worse and worse idea. For one thing, he was really, really ugly. We're talking massive screw-ups in the planning and construction phase, here. But what's worse, he smelled. I realized to my horror that he oozed some foul black substance from his every joint. It drooled out of the corner of his mouth, and even from his optics. I froze, and fought back a gag reflex.
Still he knelt there, snuffling wetly, unable to take his eyes from me.
Confused, concerned, and (I'll admit it) frightened as the sun's last light winked out from the unreachable tower above, I did the one thing I could always resort to in an emergency. I opened the part of myself that I'd kept tightly closed since my disastrous birth. I looked into the blubbering bot's spark. I read his soul. I meant to only look for the way out of here. But what I saw was much, much more than I had bargained for. Even today, that spark is still the most desolate, lonely thing I've ever seen. I forgot all about my being lost.

He was the arm of a much larger robot, the sum of himself and four other outcasts. He could read their thoughts and share in their emotions. And every single thought of theirs was hatred and resentment of himself. Every emotion he shared was revulsion at having to link with such a disgusting thing as him. "Hideous thing." "Abomination." "Thing." Blot howled and swung the fist his body had become. Abominus, the five-bot combiner everyone always wished was somewhere else, crashed through another battle. Blot swung himself at anything that moved: a fist that smashed everything in his path, not caring if it was Autobot or Decepticon – they all hated him anyway.

There was a flash of light, a stab of pain, and the scene cut to some time later.

"Get out!" Hun-Gurr's cold eyes stared pitilessly at him.

Blot backed away from his team leader, and slipped in his own glistening viscera. "I only came for the medkit. Please, Hun-Gurr. I'm- I'm sick." Blot tried to hold his gutted side together, but since his whole arm was hanging by a string, it was a lost cause. Something warm and wet and sticky oozed out of the massive wound.

Hun-Gurr looked utterly disgusted. It was how everyone always looked, when they caught accidental sight of him. "Sick, Blot? I'm the one who's sick. Sick of looking at you! Sick of smelling your foul stench. Sick of cleaning up whatever filth you're always leaking. Why don't you die already? Stop making more of whatever that goop is, and let yourself bleed out! Think how much nicer this whole Primus-damned planet would be, if you were no longer on it!"

Hun-Gurr slammed down the makeshift door between them. "Go find some kind-hearted Autobot with a gun, who'll put us all out of your misery. I'm going to bed!"

Blot hid until Hun-Gurr slid into recharge. He could see the medkit. It had fallen on its side behind the locked door's wire mesh. He stretched his fingers hopelessly, but could not reach it. He stared at his sleeping teammates a while longer. Then he turned and shuffled off into the frontline wilderness. He lay down and tried to follow Hun-Grr's last advice. Tried to bleed out. To die.

But as with everything else in his life, Blot failed.

Sobbing, I wrenched myself free from this poor bot's spark. I gasped in a ragged breath of the repugnant air around him. Then I threw my arms around him, heedless of the stinking discharge. The slime he oozed felt awful on my pristine finish. And I wasn't sure I liked throwing my arms around a stranger. But I had seen his spark. It pulled at me. What else could I have done?
The hunchbacked mech - Blot of Ultrex - clung to me like he thought I was a dream. Like he thought that I could save him. Like he thought he'd finally died and gone to heaven. And I let him. I let him cry that nasty sticky gunk onto my shoulder. I like to think that, if you'd seen what I saw in his poor spark, you would have let him blubber on your shoulder too.
"You're so beautiful!" he slobbered. "So beautiful! And yet you came to me! To me!" He gave a high, desolate laugh, and made a vain attempt to scrape the muck off me. (It only smeared.) "I'm so, so sorry!"
"It's all right," I said. (It wasn't; I was gagging.)
"Will you please be my friend? Please!" he begged. "You won't have to tell anybody. You won't have to be seen in public with me. You won't have to acknowledge me on the street. But please, will you be my friend?"
I'd seen his spark. "Sure," I choked. "Sure, I'll be your friend. Come on now-" I stood back, and offered him my hand. "Let's get up…" (I was hoping I had not scraped up my knees. Hoping this stuff would wash off without staining, or corroding, or...)
A rough shout tore through the night air. "Get your filthy hands off her, Blot! How dare you?"
Blot yelped, and lurched away from me, hands raised in instant surrender. An audial-shattering jet engine boomed only a few meters above me. Thundercracker's turbines whined as he banked hard to come around.
Blot dropped into a weird bipedal beast-mode, and tore off in sudden panic. But his short-legged, waddling run was far too slow. A horn blared, and Sunstreaker roared around the nearest corner in a bright flash of yellow. He slewed sideways across the alley, penning Blot in.
I sighed in both humiliation and relief. My makers had come to retrieve me.
"Hi, Dad." I waved a sticky hand at him.
Blot backpedaled and almost fell. Then Thundercracker hit us with one of his famous sonic booms, and the entire world dissolved to dizzy ringing in our audials.
Thundercracker transformed and slammed down at the alley's other end. Blot was caught between Sunstreaker's rumbling fury, and the outraged blue wall of metal that was Thundercracker.
So was I.
"Get away from our newling, you disgusting vermin!" Sunstreaker lunged at the cringing Blot, but grimaced and stopped short of touching him. Thundercracker was not so fastidious. He walked up and gave the hunchback mech a shove that sent him flying. "If you ever come near her again, you piece of filth," he growled, "I will end you."
"Wait!" I shouted, confused and shaken. "He's yucky, but he wasn't hurting me!"
"Not yet," said Thundercracker darkly.
Sunstreaker made a face and pointed to the new smears on my armor. "You call this not hurting?" he demanded. "You're going to need at least three hours in the wash to get that out! Not to mention diseases. I'm sure he's carrying several of them."
Blot threw me a haunted, beaten look from underneath his heavy brow. "I didn't hurt her," he whimpered. "I'd never, ever hurt her!"
Thundercracker pointed a finger back down the alley. "Get out. Now."
Blot sidled fearfully past him, limped off, and disappeared.
Now Thundercracker whirled on me. "What in Unicron's name were you thinking? Smelt it, 'Bow, you could have been-" He stopped, and looked wildly around, his arm-guns buzzing with pent-up charge. I didn't know what he was so afraid of; it wasn't as if the buildings were planning to attack us. "Are you all right?" he asked me finally.
"Of course I'm all right!" I snapped. "I was just- just driving!" I tried to wipe some of the mucus off me. "What right do you have to treat Blot like that?" I was trying for righteous indignation, mostly to cover up my own antipathy toward the leaking mech. But no one noticed. I was confused by my makers' reaction. This seemed like more concern than was warranted by a bit of slime. I considered trying to find the answer in their sparks.
"Yo 'Bow. Optics up here." Sunstreaker barked. "That spark voodoo of yours gives me the creeps."
"I wasn't peeking!" I protested hotly. Because I hadn't been peeking. Not yet.
"Leave her alone," Thundercracker said wearily. "She's already seen your glorious Autobot spark, and knows to stay out of it. Here." He held out a grimy rag to me. "Get yourself cleaned up, Rainbow."
Sunstreaker scowled at Thundercracker. Then he shook his finger at me. "You are headed straight for the washracks when we get home, young lady."
Thundercracker lifted one of my arms, sighted along its plating, and began scrutinizing my arm and shoulder joints with a sub-pocket magnifier. "Are you sure he didn't hurt you?"
"Didn't hurt me," I sighed. "Only slimed."
"Did you talk with anyone else tonight?" Sunstreaker tilted my chin up, and shone a finger-light into my optics, looking for who-knows-what.
"What? No! Look, nothing happened, all right? I didn't even scratch my plating, see?"
"Scratched plating is the least of our concerns," Sunstreaker muttered darkly (and this floored me). He gave a dissatisfied grunt, and folded the tiny light back into his finger. My makers turned aside for one of their whispered conferences.
"I wasn't in danger!" I called to their backs. "You know I can find out instantly if some bot's not trustworthy-"
"Your 'magic powers' wouldn't matter," Sunstreaker snapped over his shoulder. "You'd have no chance against a trained soldier."
"But-!"
"No need to terrorize her," Thundercracker warned.
"No." Sunstreaker shoved the taller jetformer aside. "She needs to know. I'm not going to lose one like your Constructicon pals did!"
Thundercracker grabbed Sunstreaker's arm roughly, and leaned right down into his face. Sunstreaker flinched. "Sorry!" he squeaked. "I didn't mean-"
Thundercracker looked over at me. I backed up a step. I'd never been afraid of him before. He shuddered – I heard his armor rattle. Then he seemed to shrink into himself. "You're right" he said. "It could as easily have been us." He waved a hand dully at Sunstreaker. "Tell her. But don't scare her more than you have to."
Scowling, Sunstreaker shook off Thundercracker's hand. He put his hands on my shoulders, bent close, and spoke soberly. "You're special, Rainbow. But you're not safe. Some bots aren't above stealing a femme newling if they find one wandering alone."
"Oh." I said. "I see." But I didn't. All this stuff was clear as crude oil to me. I glanced quickly into the shivering sparks of my creators, and fresh guilt sloshed into my confusion. I might not understand their fear, but I could see that it was real. "I get it," I said (though I didn't). "Running off: bad idea. Sticking with you: good idea."
I threaded my arms through theirs – more to comfort them than because I needed it – and we formed a family huddle. Sunstreaker winced at the remnants of Blot's effluence, but still held onto me tightly. I was just as trapped by their need to care for me as I'd been by Blot's pathetic cries. It was all in their sparks, plainly to be read.
I folded down into my alt-mode with a sigh of defeat. "Show me the way home, please."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

IV

Home. It was past midnight, but I still sat staring at the bare, brushed-metal walls of my small room. I hadn't decorated the place yet - I was too overwhelmed with living to think about things like paint or lighting kits or holopics. Besides, it was restful having a place to retreat to with only bare walls and a cot to recharge on. And no sparks in it to read.
I sat with my arms clamped tight around my knees, unable to relax. I kept thinking about how terrified my makers had been when they'd found me. I had expected anger and some sort of punishment, but there'd been neither of those things. Instead, my makers wordlessly installed a nearly invisible tracker in my wrist. And then they'd given me some warm, mild energon, and sent me off to bed.
Hours later, I was still in bed. But I could not get my processor to power down.
"She's already getting restless," warned a muffled voice from the other side of my wall. I cranked up my audial receptors. Were they talking about me?
"None of the others ran off this soon after ignition," came the hushed reply.
"Ran off" was about me, all right. But what was this about "others"? I rose from my berth, and crept in servo-straining silence onto my storage cabinet, where I could press my audial sensor against the wall.
"Slag and blast it!" Something hard thunked against the wall three inches from my head. I muted back a yelp of fright. Had my makers found out I was eavesdropping?
"Quiet, you idiot! You'll wake her!"
"Sorry. I know. Primusdammit…!" Sunstreaker's voice was choked.
"Quit punching the wall, and come here." (There was some desultory shuffling) "I've got you, pal. We're still in this together." Thundercracker was using the same voice he used on me when I got mad. (I relaxed just a little, out of habit.)
"All right, all right, get off me; I'm not gonna punch the wall again. It's only-" (Restless footsteps started clanking back and forth.) "We were so close, Thunders. If we could have made one more, we'd have finally got it right!"
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. I think my spark may have stopped pulsing.
"By 'right,'" began Thundercracker slowly, "Do you mean a femme who never leaves, who does exactly what we want? Because we don't have any right to do that, 'Streaker. I'm not sure we even had the right to make them in the first place. We were only playing Primus with our toys. I mean, look at them! Nothing run-of-the-mill about our femmes. We put in every crazy gimmick we could think of!"
"We made them beautiful!"
"We made them ridiculous." I heard the creak of ancient, tired metal. "No wonder they want to run away."
"I told you we should've programmed this last one to be a homebody."
"Wanting to use illegal personality control on our own newling?" Thundercracker countered. "Not a very Autobot-ish sentiment from you."
Sunstreaker said a word which I've learned since is very naughty. "Oh, like you Decepticons were such pillars of virtue!"
"No, we weren't. And because we weren't, I've seen what cortex-manipulation is like. Trust me. No one deserves that. Least of all our daughter."
My engine started whining. I'd forgotten to ventilate. I sucked in three rapid, cooling breaths as silently as I was able.
"But it would only be to keep her safe! We could go in tonight while she is sleeping, tweak a line of code or two…"
"You want to force Rainbowsparkles to stay with us forever?" Thundercracker's voice was cold. But I felt colder.
"If we get all the wiring right, we could even make her like it!"
Footsteps skidded across the floor, and something (someone?) slammed into the wall. It shook with the impact. I pressed a fist into my mouth to mute a scream, as sounds of struggle escalated not six inches from where I sat frozen. I heard these awful little gagging sounds. Ten seconds passed, and felt like several million years.
Something (or someone?) heavy hit the floor. "I'm going out," said Thundercracker, in a dark tone I'd never heard before and hope to never hear again. "I'm going out before I break our little truce for good. Don't touch her till I get back. If you do... well, one of us might live through it. And I like to think it'd be me."
Footsteps receded. The outer door banged. My maker's engines fired up into the night.
Sunstreaker gave an awful, rasping cough. He called Thundercracker a few unfamiliar words. Then very quietly, he started crying.
I slid gingerly back to the floor, shifting my weight in tiny increments for fear of making any sound. Then, moving as if the room were rigged with pressure-sensitive explosives, I slid home my till-then-unused deadbolt.

If you're reading this, I'm sure you're wondering why I stayed. But since you are likely a zillion years old, veteran of a war that ran on longer than I can compute, and used to blasting your way across entire battlefields - well, I'm sure you would have run. And you'd have been fine on your own. You would not, for example, have curled up in the makeshift cocoon of your berth's rubber padding, and pretended that what you'd heard wasn't real. But that's what I did. As my shiny chronometer clicked over, the measurement of my lifespan increased by 15%. I was now a six-day-old newling. And I was miserable.
It wasn't just that I had no concept of where to run away to (getting lost in those alleys had shown that all too clearly). I did not even know basic things like where to find fuel, how to buy supplies, where to recharge if I was away from this nice berth, or even what to do with myself once I was 'free.'
So I locked my door. (I would've dragged my storage cabinet in front of it, if I hadn't been so terrified of making noise.) I wrapped myself in my berth's black rubber matting and pretended I was brave and strong and tall like the corona'd mech I'd seen across the square just that morning. Go ahead and judge me. But I doubt you'd have done better, if you'd been me.
I did not dare go to sleep.

I heard when Thundercracker came back home a few hours later. I listened with all my might, trying to guess his mood.
His footsteps moved along the hall. I tensed, but he went right on past my room, and stopped at Sunstreaker's. His brisk knock sounded loud in the last quiet quarter of the night.
"Go 'way!" Sunstreaker's muffled voice was sleepy, with no trace of fear or anger. I was quite surprised.
"We have to talk, 'Streaker."
"Get slagged. 'M tired."
"I'm coming in. Don't shoot me. Your door still unlocked?"
"'Course. What if Rainbow had a nightmare?" Something shuffled in Sunstreaker's room. "Primus... OK. I'm upright. But it's your fault if I don't get enough charge, and slag up Emirate Xaaron's sculpture tomorrow."
I heard a low chuckle. "I'll blame you if I crash en route to New Crystal City. I gotta carry a few tons of silicates for All-State Transport, remember?"
What was this? They sounded nothing like they had two hours earlier.
"I'm sorry," Thundercracker said.
"Me too."
There was another long pause. "C'n I sit down? 'M exhausted."
"Sure, pal."
"I've gotta say one thing."
"Can't stop you..."
Thundercracker loosed a sigh that sounded like it had come all the way up from his boots. "All my life, I've loathed myself for never standing up to Megatron. Starscream did. He was our object-lesson on what happened if you defied our Mighty Leader. So whenever Megatron would tell me to carpet-bomb my home-state, or exterminate a compound of Neutrals, or stand silent through his ritual tortures, that's what I did. You served Optimus Prime, who probably mutters platitudes about 'Rights' and 'Freedom' even while he's in shutdown. You take freedom for granted. I do not."
I have no memory of rising, but about this time I found myself crouching with my ear pressed against my door. I'd even opened it a crack in order to hear better. So far, things seemed safe enough.
"You know what?" I heard Thundercracker yawn. "I'm proud when our girls defy us. Can you understand that? It means they are fighting for their freedom."
"Maybe..." Sunstreaker did not sound convinced. "But wasn't the plan always to have the last one live with us? It was your plan as much as mine, I might add."
"Wouldn't be the first stupid plan I made." (Again, that sound of fatigued, creaking metal. Thundercracker really needed to put more oil on his joints.) "I don't want to be anyone's jailer, Streaks. I know what it's like to be owned. I did not enjoy the experience."
Sunstreaker groaned. "Here's the thing, Thunders. I want to live in a world with femmes in it. Wasn't that the whole point of this enterprise? Remember what it was like in the glory-days of pre-War, before the Third Faction up and abandoned us?"
"Heh. Barely."
"Yeah, my memory's rusty, too. But it was nice, wasn't it, just having them around? We can agree on that much?"
"We can agree on that much."
"I like femmes. I always have. But our girls? Thunders, I love them the way I love my own body."
Thundercracker snorted. "Did you really just say that?"
"Shut up! You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I do. But we gotta let 'em leave us, Streak. Even Rainbow."
No one said anything for a long time. "What will we do after she leaves us?" Sunstreaker finally asked, in a whisper that tore my spark.
There was a heavy clunk of metal-on-metal. "I don't know, Streaky. I have no idea."
These were my makers. The bots who'd crafted my art-show body, who'd stuck with me while I figured out how to manage my spark-sight, who'd shared their joy in speed and flight, who'd come to rescue me when I was lost. So of course, I gave in. I opened my door, tiptoed down the hall, and knocked at Sunstreaker's room. "May I come in?" I asked.
I heard them gasp. But when Sunstreaker opened the door, he showed only concern for me. "Are you all right, Rainbow? Did you have a bad dream?"
"No. I mean, I don't think so. What's a bad dream?" I moved cautiously into a room I'd never been allowed inside before. (My makers had been very keen on private quarters being private. Now that I understand the red-badge vs purple-badge thing better, I imagine a Decepticon and an Autobot must have had to establish very firm boundaries right up front, if they were going to live in the same house.) I looked around quickly, entranced by hundreds of tiny delicate mobiles hanging from Sunstreaker's ceiling. But I wasn't here to snoop. I squared my shoulders, and dove in. "Um... Listen. I could hear you talking. It's OK!" I waved my hands for calm as they both visibly panicked.
"How much did you hear, sweetheart?"
I could not think of an answer.
"Wait – have you shut down at all tonight?"
I sighed, and gathered up my courage. "Um… no. I was- I was eavesdropping. I'm sorry."
Two sets of optics – red and blue – went wide.
I took one last step forward, and reached out to take their hands. They were still sitting side-by-side on Sunstreaker's charge-berth; so, standing, I looked down on them. Maybe that height helped me to ask the hardest question I had posed to them so far: "Can I trust you?"
"Oh, sweetheart...!" I was trying not to read their sparks, but the heartbreak flared up so bright it broke through.
"Can I trust you?" I repeated, shutting my optics to their pain.
"I don't know." It was Thundercracker who finally answered. I saw Sunstreaker shoot a sharp glance sideways at him, then sigh and bow his head in acquiescence. "I wish I could promise you that we'd never let you down, Rainbow. But we're just broken soldiers playing god with pretty toys."
"Why?" I asked. "Why do you do it? Why am I so important to you? You both have other jobs. And nobody else we've met makes femmes. Why you? Why me? What am I for?"
They looked up at me hopelessly. It was as if I'd asked them to fold inside-out.
"Please, Dad," I begged, looking from red optics to blue ones. "I need to know why I'm here and what I mean."
They tried. They really did. But each attempt sputtered and died.
"A long time ago..."
"After all the fighting stopped..."
"We used to wish..." Sunstreaker dropped his head into his hands.
Thundercracker squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't, Rainbow," he said. "There are no words for it." Then I felt his grip tighten on my hand. "Can you read something in my spark," he asked, "something specific – if I tell you what it is?"
Sunstreaker's head snapped up. "It might kill her!" he hissed.
Thundercracker ignored him. "Can you do it? Don't say you can if you're not certain, 'Bow."
"I don't-"
"Practice run. What kind of energon did I drink yesterday morning?" Thundercracker thrust out his chest. "Go on. Look."
I looked into his pale blue spark. Looked for... Energon. Yesterday morning.
"Unfiltered White," I answered promptly. It had been surprisingly easy. With a certain thing to look for, I'd avoided getting lost, or caught up in the horrors of the deeper past.
"What about me?" Sunstreaker asked, his hand tightening anxiously on mine.
"Hard engex," I answered him instantly. Then added, "Really, Dad?"
"All right." Thundercracker looked sternly up at me. "Don't let go of our hands, sweetling. And never forget we love you more than anything we've ever known." He grabbed Sunstreaker's hand, to close the circle. "Go ahead. Look. Start with your name. And get out if something starts to hurt you."
I was a little nervous now. But also excited. I loved my makers. I wanted to trust them. And honestly, I was curious. So I opened my eyes to Thundercracker's tired washed-out blue, and to Sunstreaker's angry orange-red. I followed twisting tendrils till I found my name. Then I grabbed hold, and let myself be pulled in.
Images flashed. Sounds echoed. Emotions that were not my own pressed on my spark. My name, my stupid name, was bound so tightly throughout both their sparks, that everything they thought or said or did was somehow tied to me.
It was terrifying. There was too much. I had to focus. So I picked a scene at random, and dove into it for refuge. This was a memory that both my makers shared. I watched the light. I read the code. I felt the memory. I looked.

I saw a shortish white-and-black mech knocking at our door. I'd never seen him before this. Yet in my makers' sparks I saw his name and a long history of resentment.

Prowl delivered the Cease and Desist order in person.

"At least he had the bearings to do his own dirty work," Sunstreaker muttered. He snatched the datapad out of Prowl's hand and scanned it quickly, seething. "Why?" he demanded.
"It's all in the document."

Thundercracker glowered at the shorter Autobot, fists clenched and weapons humming. "Whose idea was this?"

"Shockwave showed me some troubling statistics. We brought them to Megatron, hoping he might overcome Prime's tendency to put the freedom of other 'sentient life' before his own - or before ours."
"What do you mean, 'before ours'?" Sunstreaker bristled. "Our newlings aren't hurting anybody!"

Prowl held up a hand for patience. "It wasn't Megatron who turned the tide. It was Elita. Both Shockwave and I were taken by surprise."

That stopped them. "Elita?" Sunstreaker gaped. "But… but why? She is a femme!"

Prowl didn't answer. Silently, he placed a large-screen datapad on the table between them. Numbers and graphs scrolled down its face: an endless blur of unwelcome statistics. Thundercracker and Sunstreaker stared at it bleakly, trying not to comprehend.

"It's not just the materials shortage," said Prowl gently. "Though there is that too, of course. All those fancy gimmicks add up, as you well know, and even unlimited Shanix can't buy something we don't have any more of."

Sunstreaker surged forward, raising a fist. But Thundercracker caught the hand. "Go on," he growled to the Autobot Lieutenant. "I want to see you try to justify this."

"There are the disappearances as well." Prowl stood ramrod-straight, hands behind his back - all present and correct, but for the eyes. His eyes were dim with an unaccustomed sadness. "I realize what we are asking of you is not easy. But it's time to shut down production."

Thundercracker threw down Sunstreaker's fist. Prowl deserved the dented faceplate Sunny wanted to give him. "No," he snarled. "You don't know. All that precious data, and you know absolutely nothing." He turned on his heel. "Come on, Sunstreaker. Let's show him."

Prowl followed the two bots through a small back-door, into their well-stocked warehouse. It was much larger than the spartan apartment. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with all types of metals from common steel to rarest indium. There were lengths of wire, fiber-optic, metallic cable, and hydraulic line; paints in big buckets and in tiny precious jars; nuts, bolts, and rivets in all sizes; wrenches, winches, tongs; and a small forge in one corner. Prowl's eyebrows raised as he calculated what it had cost the two mechs to accumulate all this material.

Sunstreaker noticed the white mech gaping. "Impressed?" he sneered. "You could take all this away and we wouldn't miss it. It's just… stuff. Worthless." He walked to the largest slab, on which lay something covered by a light dust-sheet. At first he lifted the thin cloth delicately. But then he ripped it away and stood there balling it up in his fists. "Look at her, Prowl. Three days from the Chamber. Two if we work nonstop. And you came here to tell us to abort." He crossed his arms, and leaned against the worktable. "Slag you, Prowl," he said, and meant it.

Prowl's optics dimmed. "I didn't know you were so close."

"You don't know slag." Thundercracker smacked Prowl's chest with the back of his two fingers, in a gesture of utter rejection. "You're still thinking like a wartime Autobot, all charts and stats and acceptable losses." He pointed to the form on the cluttered slab. "She's not just data, Prowl. This is a person."

My makers took up guard between Prowl and my almost-finished body. They had not drawn any weapons, but their glares were laser-bright.

Prowl sighed. "Let me comm Prime."

I won't bore you with a complete recital of the things I saw that night. Besides, most of it only made sense much later, after I had done a ton of research. But here are the main points, all lined up in order so it makes sense - kind of. You probably know most of it, but I'll write it out in any case.
Back when things like this mattered, Sunstreaker was an Autobot, and Thundercracker was a Decepticon. When I was brand new, I assumed they'd been fairly high up in the pecking order, because everyone we met seemed to know them. But they were just old frontliners who'd been in most of the big fights. Grunts, basically. Survivors.
Once the War ended, there wasn't much an old frontliner could do that was worth much, or not punishable by serious jail time. Though the records try not to showcase this, lots of people freaked out. Big time. In that respect, my makers were lucky. They both hit on the same idea, and they met up while pursuing it. Thundercracker discovered Sunstreaker in the Old Forge, working on a design for a newling body - this was before anyone knew for certain whether Primus would ignite a newling's spark - and instead of shooting at each other (and being sentenced to permanent spark-containment for breaking the brand-new Ceasefire), they decided they would work together to construct my eldest sister.
Apparently, they only stopped locking their chamber doors against each other when Windchaser had a nightmare. She spent a whole night on the floor in the hall between their rooms, because she couldn't get inside to wake them up.
Knowing him as I do now, I'll bet that just about destroyed Thundercracker.
Needless to say, locked doors were a no-no in our house. But that did not mean all the old wounds were forgotten.

It felt like I read their sparks for an eternity. But when I finally shut down my optics and crawled back to the real world, only a minute or two had passed. I crawled up on the berth between them, and sobbed my poor newling heart out.
"We told you not to stay in if it hurt!"
"It didn't hurt, Sunstreaker. I was careful. I'm just-" I huccuped. "I'm just really sad for you, Dad!"
Something deep inside me whined, and Thundercracker heard it. "And you're also exhausted. So are we. Enough drama for tonight. We all need recharge, now."
"Don't leave me," I pleaded pathetically.
"No one's leaving." Sunstreaker pulled a four-ended charge-cord splitter from a drawer. "I kept this for emergencies," he said. "My berth can get us all up to 75%, at least. Thundercracker, you're welcome if you want to stay. Rainbow, plug this into your chest before you burn out your equipment for the second time this week."
I didn't see what happened next, because I fell asleep. But when I woke, all three of us were propped up on Sunstreaker's berth together: my head leaning on his shoulder, Thundercracker fallen against me, and Sunstreaker snoring with his arm around both of us.
I've never mentioned it to either of them – I think Sunstreaker especially would be embarrassed. But it's one of my most treasured memories. It was the night we three became a family.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

V

"Rainbow… Rainbow… Recharge time ended hours ago..."
I grumbled and rolled over, trying not to come online. I'd stayed up way too late again, downloading info from the datanet. (I'd been alive only two weeks, and had millions of years of history to catch up on.)
Someone gently shook my shoulder. "It's a new day, 'Bow. Come on."
I resisted. I'd seen several new days by this point, and was beginning to feel pleasingly blasé about them. Besides, I'd been having this great dream (I knew what dreams were, now) in which I traveled with the crested silver mech to unknown worlds. It was a good dream, and I did not want to leave it. We'd been having such adventures...
Anxious whispers buzzed in my muzzy audials. "There's nothing wrong with her, is there?"
"Not that the sensor's reading. Did you check the charger?"
"Of course. It's fine too."
"If you've slagged something up and she's been hurt-!"
I sighed, and gave up. "Relax, Dad. I'm awake."
"Oh, thank Primus!"
"Primus had nothing to do with it." I was still unclear about the whole Primus-Unicron-Primacon thing. But I was pretty sure he/they did not effect my sleeping schedule. I sat up, swung my legs over the side of my berth, and tried to focus bleary optics. "What's on the schedule today?"
"We thought you might like to meet your sisters. They'll be staying with us for a while."
I blinked. "All right, you win. I'm awake now. My sisters? What?"
Sunstreaker tugged my elbow. "Come on. You'll want to look good for your introduction!" He leaned in as if divulging some state secret. "I'll let you use my Earth-imported polish. Just this once."
But I couldn't focus on polish right now. (Sisters? Plural?!) "How many of us did you build?"
"Eight," he replied, and grinned.
I felt my knees go weak.
"Here." Thundercracker thrust a datapad at me. "Learn about your family, little one. You've got-" (he checked his chronometer) "...about half an hour."
I stared dumbly down at the screen in my hand. To think I'd spent so much time last night studying historical debates between Alpha Trion and Omega Supreme! "You're right," I told Sunstreaker. "I do want to polish up." I fled to his offered sanctuary.

So there were others like me – perhaps not my mystery mech, but others like me nonetheless. There were seven portraits on the datapad – femme newlings of such grace and beauty that for the first time I felt under-engineered. Windchaser, the first-crafted. Aries, Andromeda, Lancer, Tracer, Arclight, Sunspot… and me, the last one.
I read my sisters' bios as I buffed my every joint and surface to a perfect sheen. They all sounded so cool. So talented. So exciting. I was nothing but a pretty frame – an over-gilded bumpkin who knew nothing of real life. I was terrified my sisters might not like me.
Washed, waxed, and dried, I stared into Sunstreaker's full-length mirror (the one Thundercracker teased him about whenever they were bickering). Till now, I'd been completely focused on what my body could do. I hadn't bothered much with what I looked like. Now, though, faced with the prospect of comparison with seven sisters, I worried I might not measure up.
You'd think after building so many femmes, my makers might have gotten the insanity out of their system; that maybe they'd learned about the merits of restraint. But no. My basic shape is OK, I guess. I mean, I don't have sixteen multi-jointed legs, an extra head, or a body too big to fit through doors. I have a basic biped-form: as tall as Sunstreaker, but with a curvier and thinner frame than his or Thundercracker's blocky shapes.
Once you get past those basics, though, the overkill begins. And it's more than the rare metals in my plating.
Most bots, I've learned, have only got one transportation form. But when you've got both land- and air-based makers, each both convinced their alt-mode is the best… Well, I should be grateful I've only got a vehicle alt-mode and rocket-pack. I don't have to manage, say, a beast mode or a gun mode in addition. (I will never know how Sixshot does it.)
I locked optics with my own reflection (yellow optics, a rare color back in war-times. But a newling with the normal red or blue is almost unheard-of). I knew little of what made for a pleasing appearance, so perhaps I wasn't qualified to judge. But I'd learned something of aesthetics from watching Sunstreaker sculpt, and thought my face was a good one. My face and paint weren't what set me apart, though. It was what my golden eyes could see.
Curious, I tried to peek at my own spark in the mirror. I wondered if it was still undecided, flicking from color to color. As I looked, my optics flared to white. (No wonder my creators always knew when I was peeking!) But my reflection wasn't the real me; it had no spark. So no spark-reading. I was wondering how to open up my chest and satisfy my curiosity, when a sudden loud knock startled me so much I dropped a bottle of Suntreaker's precious polish on the floor.
"Rainbow! Time to make an appearance!"
I hurriedly replaced the polish on its shelf. "OK, Dad. Coming!"
But I couldn't move. I'd talked myself into real terror at the prospect of meeting my sisters. I did not know how to face them.
So I turned to the memory of the gilt-crowned mystery mech. I raised my chin and threw my shoulders back, imitating his confidence to hide my lack of it. I checked myself in the mirror, and instantly felt foolish. I looked nothing like him. I looked like a nervous newling. So I turned away from the mirror, and drew his memory back over me like a disguise. Then, moving with deliberation and with head held high, I followed Sunstreaker's voice out into the common room.

The room was packed, with femmes in every single chair and corner. For once, I wasn't tempted to look underneath the surface. Their myriad shapes and colors were quite dazzling enough.
"I got to meet them all in person!" A thin, white and silver flier (whom the datapad had told me was Windchaser), spoke in an excited, fluting voice that carried over all the others. "They invited the boys and me up for breakfast yesterday morning!"
A sunset-pink femme stretched her long limbs lazily. (Andromeda, I remembered from my rapid study) "You couldn't get me up and working at the crack of dawn!"
"Then it's a good thing you're not running all of Cybertron," came an acerbic voice belonging to a fiery red jet-femme called Aries. She was slouching in a corner of the overcrowded room.
"What were they like?" piped in Lancer, the tallest, in light-blue and black.
"Optimus Prime was nice," replied Windchaser. "Busy, but nice - I liked his voice. Elita-One was kind of snobby - I don't know what got stuck up her exhaust, but she certainly needs a flush!"
A few girls laughed; but Sunstreaker pounded the table, startling me. "Windchaser! Don't speak of Elita-One that way!"
Windchaser rolled her optics. "Don't start with the femme-worship, Dad. She changes her oil just like the rest of us do."
"Yes. And she deserves your respect. She is one of your Commanders." Sunstreaker crossed his arms and stared her down.
Windchaser shrugged, and turned away. "Getting back to my story," she said pointedly, "Since some of my sisters have not had the pleasure meeting with our esteemed Command Triad..."
"Yes!" said someone. (Tracer, I think.) "Tell us about Megatron. In the stories he's always a monster. Were you afraid of him?"
Windchaser gave a tinkling laugh. "The stories must exaggerate. He's just an ordinary largish mech." She giggled. "You should have seen him - infamous big tough guy, fidgeting like he had a short in his neural net! I don't think he likes femmes much."
Thundercracker looked up at this, and snorted like he was amused. But he said nothing, only shook his head.
I was fascinated by Windchaser's description. So far the three bots who presided over our planet were only paragraphs I'd glossed over in my studies. (I kept getting sidetracked by other things.) "What color were their sparks?" I called out, like the clueless idiot I was.
Talk died. Everyone turned to look at me. My makers raised their eyebrows, and made frantic shushing motions. "Pardon?" asked Arclight, a quiet green femme who'd not said much up to that point.
"You know, personalities and such." I flailed. "Just trying to learn more about my leaders, you know…"
"How should we know what color their sparks are?" demanded Aries.
"No reason!" I backpedaled desperately. "Pretend I never said a word!"
I looked over at my creators, but they only shrugged. I'd blundered my own secret out, and there was nothing they could do to put it back.
I hurriedly retreated to a chair in the least-crowded corner. (Tracer slid her turreted purple form away from me without a word, and went to find someone less weird to talk to.) I tried to make myself as small as possible, as conversations gradually resumed throughout the room.
"Can you do it?" asked someone in a whisper. "See spark-colors, I mean." It was Sunspot, the second-youngest. She was a yellow and pink insect-bot, short and rounded, with wide and wondering blue optics.
I pulled my feet up to my chin and turned away. I didn't want to tell her. But she knelt down and plunked her elbows on the arm of my chair. I shot a scared glance into her spark-chamber - couldn't help it - but her yellow spark was warm and full, so I relaxed a micron.
"We're all freaks here," she whispered, smiling. "Our creators are actually kind of infamous for it. I am a walking solar power plant." She loosed the first two folds of wide, gossamer-thin wings from beneath the shields along her back; and sparks of energy licked over their translucent honeycombed surface. Still smiling like we were sharing a joke, she pointed. "Windchaser is a crazy-great glider, but she's as fragile as an icicle." She shrugged, "Perils of being a first try, I guess. Aries is packing a gun so powerful she could destroy the planet if she wished - I suggest you stay on her good side. Arclight's got every kind of tool that you can think of slotted into that bulky frame, all engineered to fit over her hands. Lancer's crazy-fast, in both her ground based and flight modes. Tracer's a wolf/tank triple-changer who can phase through walls. And Andromeda's got this energy field that makes people like her - I have no idea how it works, but I want one." She gave me a quick pat, and shrugged. "Welcome to the club, Rainbowsparkles!"
I grimaced. "Thanks. Looks like I'd better learn to like it." I realized what I'd just said, and squeaked, "Um- no offence?"
Sunspot laughed. "It's not all bad. Give it time." She looked at me and made a face. "Your name's not really 'Rainbowsparkles,' is it?"
I grimaced. "Afraid so."
"Wow." She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
"I know..." I shook my head, but had to smile – even her proto-laugh was infectious. "It seemed like such a good name when I was three seconds old."
Sunspot put both hands over her face, shoulders heaving. "Sorry!" she gasped.
I gave up. "It's all right. It's funny. Go ahead and laugh. Just try not to tease me too much later."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Sunspot composed herself, and plunked down in the chair Tracer'd abandoned when I made this the Pariah Corner. "So," she asked, leaning forward and lacing her fingers underneath her chin, "Your name's a non-starter. But what's the best thing you've discovered so far about being you?"
I could tell she was nudging the conversation, but I was content to let her have control of it for now. I shrugged. "I'm still trying to figure that out! I mostly hang out with my – with our dads, and try to learn as much as I can download in a day. I'm not exciting like Windchaser, or scary like Aries, or talented like Arclight. I'm just... me."
Sunspot nodded. "OK. So what's the worst thing about being you?"
I balled my fists against my mouth, and gave vent to a muffled yowl of frustration. "Argh! All the things everyone expects me to know naturally, like which side of the road to drive on, what traffic signs mean, every single bot's name and rank and serial number, the whole history of the last umpty-gazillion years…"
Sunspot laughed.
I went on before I could stop myself, arms waving in a short life's worth of pent-up frustration. "And then there's all the super-secret creepy junk that no one wants to talk to me about. I mean-" I shot my sister a sidelong look. "Do they harp on you about kidnappers?"
Sunspot sobered. "Yes. But it's a recent thing. And before you ask, no – they don't explain to me about it, either. They just made me promise never to go anywhere alone."
I hunkered in, relieved to have a co-conspirator. "I know they're afraid for us. But how are we supposed to protect ourselves if they never tell us anything?"
Sunspot ducked her head and hid another laugh behind her hand. "They mean well, but they have no clue, do they?"
I looked over at my makers, so happy with all of their girls back home, and flinched. "Is it selfish to want to leave them?" I asked in a whisper.
Sunspot tilted her head and looked at me strangely out of her bright blue eyes. "Yes," she answered in a whisper of her own. She shrugged. "But what else can we do? We have to be ourselves. We're not their drones."
A high voice called over the general babble, startling me. "We'd better get moving if we're going to be there on time!" It was Windchaser, of course. She tittered, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I certainly can't be late!"
As one, everyone rose and headed for the door.
"Come on!" Sunspot pulled at my arm. "You'll like it. They're quite good."
I stammered. "Wait - did I miss something? Are we all going somewhere?"
Thundercracker appeared beside me. "Windchaser's performing with her aerial troop in Vos-Rebuilt tonight. The Inter-City Transport leaves in half an hour."
"But-!"
"Not everyone can fly, sweetheart," he said, misunderstanding. "Besides, you'd drain your fuel-tanks if you tried."
"I know! But what-?"
He put an arm around my shoulders and drew me outside with the rest of the family. "Sometimes," he said, smiling indulgently, "I find it's easiest to just follow the crowd."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

VI

I'd never left the Tessarus region before, so an hour's journey by shuttle was a major event. I tried to tamp down my excitement, because everyone else – even Sunspot – acted like this was no more interesting than breakfast. So I kept my mouth shut. But I gawked around at everything until my neck-struts whined.
Sunstreaker sniffed and muttered something about filthy squalor.
"Only a couple addicts begging Shanix," Thundercracker muttered. But I saw that he was hyper-vigilant, his optics scanning every mech and every darkened corner.
Sunstreaker huffed. "Remember all the grovelling empties who used to hole up in here, so energon-starved they couldn't even speak to beg? This crowd's an improvement, I guess."
Thundercracker shivered. "Maybe. But empties never snatched a newling-" He jolted to a stop, and I plowed right into him. "-At least, not that I know of..."
We entered the Outer Tessarus Way-Station, a massive, glass-and-girder building which was filled with mechs: some scurrying along with us; some shouldering past from the opposite direction; others standing in little clusters – all shouting to be heard above the hubbub. At first, they all seemed focused only on getting where they were going. But as our small group made its way between the massive docking platforms, things began to change. Heads turned to stare at us. The constant shouting was replaced by a susurrus of whispers. Movement slowed through the whole complex, as all bots turned to look at my family.
Windchaser jumped up onto a thick pillar, holding herself aloft with one arm and clamped knees. She waved, the slim whiteness of her figure in stark contrast to the blocky, multicolored mechs around us. "Hello, boys!" she called out. "I'm off to Vos to compete in the aeronautics show. Care to come watch, and vote for me?" She threw out a dazzling smile in the same way I imagined Sunstreaker or Thundercracker had thrown slops of curdled energon to the beggars they remembered.
Pandemonium broke out all across the station.
"Windchaser!" Thundercracker pulled her quickly down into a narrow space between two pillars (all that passed for privacy in here). "You don't know any of these mechs!" he hissed. "You can't trust them!"
She pushed him off. "Oh Dad, stop being paranoid!"
"Yeah, let her go!" some bot called out from the crowd pressing in on us. "You're not her keeper. Freedom is the right of all… somethin'-somethin'."
I backed into someone, and yelped when a hot puff of engine air hit the back of my neck. An unfamiliar voice whispered, "Come on home with me, darlin'. Why you taggin' along with these old fogeys? I can show you a good time."
"Dad!" I pushed away from the stranger, and grabbed hold of Sunstreaker's arm as the crowd surged toward us. I did not like the look in their eyes, and hoped I'd never see inside their sparks.
"That's our ship! Get aboard!" Sunstreaker yelled over the din, and he and Sunstreaker began shoving us forward.
I fought against a sudden bout of dizziness as we clattered up a twisting flight of metal-grating steps. (My gyros were confused from looking everywhere but straight ahead.) The ground floor glimpsed through slats beneath my feet was far away. I tried not to notice how the entire boarding apparatus swayed - I did not think I could manage a mid-fall activation of my rockets. And besides, what would happen to Sunstreaker? To my other ground-mode sisters? Who'd catch them if we all fell?
We ran up a sloping ramp (No railings!), and into a dark, round doorway in the side of the shuttle. Thundercracker showed me how to strap myself into the harness-nets that hung in rows from the ceiling across the hold.
"What were you thinking?" he snarled at Windchaser. "Isn't getting you girls safely to Vos hard enough without you drawing attention to yourself like that?"
I cowered. Thundercracker had lost his temper with Sunstreaker before. But I had not thought him capable of such rage against one of his creations.
Even Windchaser looked startled. "What are you so scared of?" she asked him, violet optics wide. "It's my job to excite the crowd whenever I perform. And the more bots I bring in to see the show, the more Shanix we make from the event. Falcon and Acidstorm always have me advertise our shows, because I can bring in five times the bots they can. My sales pitch has been working for years. Why is it dangerous, all of a sudden?"
He lowered his voice, but not enough. "Haven't you heard the rumors?"
"They're just rumors, Dad."
"No they're not, sweetling," Thundercracker said, and he slumped like all the pressure had been drained from his cydraulics. He bent in to whisper, but I was near enough to hear. "Scavenger's newling went missing a few weeks ago. And last month, Grapple and Hoist's femme was taken as well." He sighed. "We did not gather the whole family just to watch you fly, my dear."
I watched my sister process this. Watched her head droop. Watched her eyes dim. Watched grim defiance flash there in her depths. "So you assumed we'd all come back and live with you?"
"You would be safer," he said.
"No thanks," she said in a low voice. "I'd rather have my freedom."
"Don't be a fool, Windchaser!" Thundercracker hissed. "Scavenger trained his newling in combat and self-defense. And still she was taken! So don't disregard the danger you are in!"
"I do not disregard it, Dad. I choose to live. Even if living means I'm in some danger." She put a gentle hand on Thundercracker's arm. "Please don't try to lock me up at home. I don't want home to feel like prison."
Something flitted across Thundercracker's expression. Then he sighed, and slumped against his harness. "We'll talk about this later."
"I'll still feel the same way later," said Windchaser.
I tried clumsily to change the subject. "Uh, hey guys?" I asked. "Why aren't there any chairs?"
"This is a cargo ship," explained Sunstreaker. "We don't have all of the old transportation system running yet. No one alive remembers well enough how it all ran before the War to be able to rebuild it like it was. There's plenty of other construction, though. So bots strap on with any material shipments that happen to be going their way." He craned his neck to make sure nothing sharp was threatening his finish. "It's a poor way to travel. But not all of us can fly. So-" He shrugged. "Cargo ship it is."
I jumped as the huge overhead doors slammed shut with a reverberating clang. Darkness fell instantly, and I fought back a lurch of fear. "I admit I'd prefer to travel in something nicer!" I shouted, as the mighty engines far below our feet roared into life. But my voice sounded thin and silly as the ship's vibrations shook me.
In the dim glow of a couple orange floor-lights, I saw Sunstreaker gripping his bit of harness tightly. "As an Autobot I've always despised loves to say…" (he made his voice go nasal) "'And awaaayy we go!'"
I felt my body go heavy as we lifted off. This was nothing like flying on my rockets. This was raw muscle, iron will, and power I could not dream of that lifted us into the sky. It seemed a miracle that such a massive, heavy ship could get airborne. I fought claustrophobia and exhilaration in equal measure, and wished very much that we'd had windows.

Five hours later, in the Vos Aeronautics Arena, Windchaser introduced us to her stunt teammates, Acidstorm and Falcon. They were flyers, like her, but built less for gliding and more for brute speed. I liked them - they seemed easier with femmes than most the other mechs I'd met. And when they talked about Windchaser's skill, they used the same cocksure manners in which they bragged about their own. This was my first experience with real teamwork, and I liked it. (In fact, I found myself wishing I could be part of a team like theirs someday!)
Windchaser flirted with a few other competitors who were making their last-minute adjustments before the show. "It's probably cheating," she confessed. "I know full well that it throws them off-balance, and that's why I do it." She shrugged. "It's all part of the fun." Windchaser waved a cheery goodbye to them all, then led us from the darkened under-stadium up seven flights of stairs to a glass-walled observation box high in the tower-stands. Inside were comfortable chairs, a table laid with fancy energon confections, and room enough for all of us to mill around without bumping into each another. Our home seemed downright shabby by comparison.
Everyone was suitably impressed.
"So, Rainbowsparkles," Windchaser asked, smiling, "What do you think of all this?"
I smiled back- I couldn't help it when her own excitement was so charmingly infectious. "I can see why you enjoy performing so much. Everyone here loves you!" I looked out the window-wall to the stands filling up below. "I never thought there were so many bots on all of Cybertron! Are they really all here just to watch you and your team fly?" (I saw her flinch at the implied insult, and realized too late that I could have worded myself better.)
"They're just glad to have something a little dangerous that they can watch without getting in trouble," she replied. "It gives them a taste of the high they miss from back when the War was going on."
I was a little envious of the way she spoke of the incomprehensible Great War so glibly. I had nothing to add on that subject, so I turned to look out the window again. The sky was a wide, pale green, the sunlight flashing brilliantly on all the many-colored bots arrayed below us. I cast about for something to say, and settled on a cheer I'd heard one of the other flyers had call out to his teammate down below: "Knock 'em dead, Windchaser."
She smiled and hugged me. "I will, little sis. I always do."
Sunstreaker came to stand beside us at the window. He said nothing, but scowled down at the massive stadium packed tight with cheap-seat spectators. His cheekplates moved as he clamped his jaw tight. "They don't have… fights here, do they?"
"Oh, we get the audience as hyped-up as we can," Windchaser told him. "But security's still really tight. They come down hard on anyone who throws a punch. I don't think we've had anything worse than a 'heated argument' so far..."
Sunstreaker grimaced like he was in pain. "I don't mean the spectators. I mean down there." He pointed to the big oval arena.
Windchaser pursed her lips. "The rugby matches get pretty intense sometimes, I guess…." She trailed off, looking at Sunstreaker's face. Something seemed to click behind her bright eyes. (I was clueless. But I watched, trying to figure things out without having to resort to spark-reading.) My sister leaned against Sunstreaker's side, and stared out the window with him. "Do you mean something like the gladiator fights, Dad?" she asked him quietly. "I heard about those from Blitzwing, when I met him at a bar last year. He said you were one of the best pit-fighters, way back in the day..." She looked up at him, smiling. But Sunstreaker wasn't smiling back.
"A lot has changed since then," he said.
"Yes, it has." She took his arm. "And no, there are no more fights of that kind. Team sports, and sometimes wrestling or other tests of strength, that's all."
Sunstreaker snorted. "I don't know if I should feel relieved or disappointed."
Windchaser took his hand, and swung it back and forth a few times, bouncing lightly on her toes. This was the longest she'd stood still all day, and I think it was starting to get to her. "Watch me fly today, Dad. It will be beautiful."
Sunstreaker turned, and touched his brow to hers. "I know it will, sweetheart."
It was (and still is) rare for my makers to show affection for each other, despite having dedicated their lives to this shared family. But Thundercracker can be sensitive when he's paying attention. He walked over to Sunstreaker and put an arm around his shoulder; and the three of them just stood there: creators and first newling - looking down at the arena.
I moved away from them, embarrassed.
...And caught a glimpse of the proud, flared head-crest of my mystery mech moving proudly above the crowd. I thunked my forehead hard against the glass, trying to see him better. "Who's that?" I begged, pointing urgently downward.
"Where?" asked Arclight. Startled at my sudden intensity, she dropped her snack back on the table, and came over to stand next to me at the windows.
"There!" I pointed. "The silver-"
"Are you serious?" Tracer piped in lazily. "There's like, ten thousand bots down there."
I staccatoed a finger at the window. ("Watch it - windows break, you know," Thundercracker called sharply.) "Him! Right there! The big mech with the-"
"Oooohh, does Wainbowspawkows have a cwush?" cooed Andromeda nastily.
I scowled and ignored her. He was right down there, invisible to everyone but me. I watched him shouldering his way through the packed crowd. He was powerfully-built, but even so his progress through the press was slow. Despite all I'd been told, it seemed so obvious to me that he was another newling. That fancy headcrest? Come on. No other warborn mech had anything like that. I wanted – needed – him to be a peer, a brother, a mentor.
I had to know. So in a flash of desperate decision, I turned from the high window and fled toward the stairs. "Don't worry!" I called back from the doorway. "I know what I'm doing!"
I leaped over the stair-railing as soon as I was in the open. I maxed my rockets, and hoped I'd find balance in the air before I slammed into the ground five stories down. I wobbled and slewed sideways, but I kept my optics laser-focused on that shining, gilded crest.
My landing wasn't graceful. I half-fell onto the shoulder of a hefty black bot just in front of my Mystery Mech. But that bot's curses meant nothing to me. Because I saw him. And he saw me. After (an admittedly short) lifetime, I was meeting the intense red optics of the silver mech at last.
"What's this?" Pointing at me, he glared around at all the other bots, like he expected them to answer. I was surprised to hear a scraping roughness in his voice. Had his creators cared nothing for vocal purity?
I rose, dusted myself off, and bobbed my head in the generic greeting I'd seen bots exchange on the streets everywhere. "Excuse me. Sir? I was just wondering. What's your name, and where were you crafted?"
Every bot on the crowded walkway turned to look at me. Their mouths fell open. I ignored them. My Mystery Mech's grimace of annoyance morphed into a toothy grin. "For asking that, you just became my favorite bot on this whole planet," he declared. "Whose newling are you?"
"I was made by Thundercracker and Sunstreaker. But I belong to no one but myself!" I took a steadying intake; and asked the big question again, hoping with all my spark that I was right. "Whose newling are you?"
My Mystery Mech looked like he'd opened his best present ever. "Do you truly not know who I am, young one?"
"How could I?" I demanded, growing angry. "I was only forged 14 days ago! Who are you to think you can lord around like you're in charge of the whole planet?"
The bots all around us stared, then doubled over with laughter. They stopped like they'd been muted, though, when he shot them a scowl.
My Mystery Mech turned back to me. "I approve of your independent spirit, femmling. And it may interest you to know that there are many who have asked me the same question. Most with far less tact than you have shown, by the way." When he smiled at me, I felt my spark expand in a pink surge of joy, despite the awkwardness of this whole situation.
Then someone ruined it. A hulking giant of a mech elbowed past us, knocking the Mystery Mech off-balance. "Oi! Yer blockin' up the walkway, blockhead!" the big bot complained. Then he took a second look back at my Mystery Mech, and froze. I saw the servos in his neck move as rebooted his vocalizer. "Sorry Sir!" he squeaked in a voice now a full octave higher. "Really, really, really sorry! Ain't reco'nized ya without yer helmet. Please don't slag me!"
The Mystery Mech raised an arm-cannon even bigger than Aries's, and stared down his nose at the gibbering ruffian. Then he gave a curt nod of dismissal. The big bot scuttled off into the crowd. My Mystery Mech acted like it was normal to set powerful mechs cowering with a look. I grew even more jealous of him.
"What made you think I was a newling?" he asked me, like there'd been no interruption.
"Isn't it obvious?" I pointed to his flaring, gilded crest. "Only a newling would have something as fancy as that."
The mechs around us dissolved into fits of knee-slapping laughter. And my Mystery Mech? He led the chorus. He was not offering to be my mentor. He'd not even given me his name! And he was treating me like I was… silly! I was hurt, and disappointed.
The Mystery Mech recovered himself finally, and put a hand on my shoulder. "What's your name, little one?"
I really, really, really didn't want to tell him now. Not in front of so many mechs who'd only laugh at me some more.
"Come on," he wheedled. "I must know. Your bravery should be sung from the rooftops."
His red eyes bored right through me, and I understood why that big mech had quivered before him. I yielded. In a voice barely above a whisper, I mouthed, "Rainbowsparkles."
My Mystery Mech had been a let-down in a lot of ways. He'd turned out to be obnoxious, proud, and obstinate. But I'll say this much for him: he did not laugh when I told him my name. He smiled, but it was not a mocking smile. "Rainbowsparkles." He shook my hand. "Believe me when I say that meeting you has been the highlight of my year."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you teasing me?"
He looked down at me gravely. "No. Not this time, little one."
I sighed, and gave up on the mech I had imagine, hoped, and wanted him to be. Instead, I saw the real bot standing there. Eons were graven on his face. This was no newling, fancy head or no. I slumped. "I gave you my name," I whispered. "What's yours?"
His high, gilt crest subsided, folding tight against his head. His mouth opened, then shut again. He took both of my hands in his, and finally said in that rough, grating voice: "Rainbowsparkles-who-belongs-to-nobody, you're the first transformer in eleven million years who hasn't known my name on sight. For your own sake as well as mine, I ask you to delay learning my name as long as possible. But when you do, I hope you can forgive me." He bowed, and touched his forehead formally to the backs of my hands. "It's been a real pleasure, youngling. Good-bye."
With poise that made it feel less like a snub and more like necessary progress of his Very Important Work, the mystery mech moved past me, drawing his hangers-on with him. I stared after him, but he too was quickly lost in the press of the crowd.
Someone jostled me as I stood there dumbly in the middle of the walkway. Someone else knocked me sideways much more roughly, and I lost my balance. But as I fell, two familiar blue arms caught me, and dragged me up out of the fray and into the relative shelter beneath the stairway I'd jumped.
"What were you thinking?" Thundercracker shouted. I could hear his intakes wheezing.
"I know, I know. Kidnappers." I was too tired to argue. "I thought I saw someone I knew, Dad. I was wrong."
"Who?" he demanded. "Who else do you know besides your family?"
I looked my father fully in the face. "Thundercracker, if I knew who it was, I wouldn't have embarrassed myself just now. It's nothing you need worry about. I'm not planning to run off again; but I need you to let me be for a few minutes now. OK?"
He met my gaze, and I could see him shaking with what I assumed was rage, or fear for me. (I didn't feel like reading him to find out which. Besides, I'd just remembered that I could have stolen my Mystery Mech's name out of his spark, if I'd been thinking clearly. What an idiot I was!) "OK," said Thundercracker.
"'OK' what?" I'd lost track of things for a second.
His eyes slipped away from mine. "We don't mean to be your jailers, 'Bow. We're just-"
I found the thread again. "You're scared. I get it."
"Terrified, sweetheart. Terrified for our daughters."
It was only the second time I'd heard the archaic term 'daughter' used for me. But I was too overwhelmed to feel the full weight of it just them. When Thundercracker turned, and started clumping up the stairs, I followed him without resisting.

"D'you catch 'im?" Andromeda asked. "Did he declare his undying love for you?"
"Slag off," I told her dully. Andromeda's fabled 'likeability field' did not seem to affect me at the moment. I went back to standing at the window, and let my forehead thump against the glass.
"Way to go, 'Dromeda." Aries's voice could splinter iron. She changed the subject with all the grace of a rusty, wobbling wheelbarrow. "Windchaser, have you looked at the time lately?"
Windchaser gasped. "Aw, bolts! I've got to run!" She waved at us with all her usual ebullience, and dashed out the door. Like me, she leaped over the stair-rail at the first landing. Unlike me, though, she transformed and flew gracefully away. The sunlight flashed on long, white wings as she glided down to a far corner of the stadium, where her teammates were arguing with a referee.

I'll say this for the performance. It made me pretty much forget about the whole encounter with the Mystery Mech. I don't think I closed my mouth or cycled air properly for the entire run. My neck servos were stiff for hours afterward, worn out from all the constant swiveling.
There were two acts prior to my sister's. First, a white and red transformer who was so massive his head was level with the fifth balcony strolled into the arena. To lukewarm cheers he proceeded to break apart his limbs and become five regular-sized bots! I was astounded. But the crowd of warborn mechs seemed unimpressed. The five bots waved away the boo's and smatters of applause, then transformed into flight-modes. They took off in tight formation, and did a series of stunts over the arena. I clapped and cheered till Sunstreaker threatened to muffle my hands in padding. "You're gonna scratch the finish!" he reminded me. I didn't care. I loved this. It almost made up for my mystery mech's intransigence. But the rest of the crowd just acted like this whole thing was old news, and called out for the next act. The five fliers combined into one enormous unit again, and slumped away, looking depressed.
The next act was announced, and a single dark-red jet flew in overhead. He (or perhaps she?) did some truly amazing (in my opinion) stunts. But again, no one seemed impressed. Thundercracker just shook his head, and snorted something about how poor Thrust would always be a second-stringer. Even before the dark red jet had finished his last loop-de-loop, the crowd was stomping their collective feet and shouting out my sister's name in unison.
The entire stadium took up the call. A million-zillion (so it seemed) feet stomped and shook the place like an earthquake. It was electric; a contagious sound and feeling that went through me like a power surge. Soon I was stomping and yelling Windchaser's name with all the rest. When she and her team sauntered in, the place went absolutely crazy.
My sister's team were skilled fliers, all right - even I could see that. But they were also great showmen. They knew how to work the crowd up into a frenzy of anticipation for each special trick. They were called back for three encores. (Sunstreaker had to explain to me what an encore was.) All I know about flying is based on my rocket thrusters. Wings are very different, as Windchaser and her team demonstrated memorably. She flew with a grace that was breathtaking. They all did. And maybe Sunstreaker was right about the power of beauty, because watching what those three bots made together in the sky went a long way toward rekindling the brightness of my spark. I resolved to forget that hoity-toity mystery mech and everything he wouldn't tell me.
There's not much to tell about the rest of the day that you might find interesting. We went together to a little backstreet energon bar Falcon told us wouldn't be too crowded. We filled up the place. Everyone talked. I listened. Windchaser, Falcon, and Acidstorm told embarrassing stories about one another. My sisters let me in on some of their shared jokes. Despite the weird intensity of the mechs at the travel depot, and a certain frustrating encounter I'd had back at the arena, this was the best day of my life so far. (My life was short, remember. It did not take much.) It was such a relief to find a place with my sisters; to not be a femme-singularity for once. I still wanted to punch the not-a-newling silver mech right in his grinning mouth. But sitting there between Sunspot and Arclight, drinking a tasty variety of double-refined midgrade, laughing as I discovered that once Thundercracker got going, his keen observation of his fellow-mechs had given him hilarious stories to tell... sitting there with my family, I was happy.
I was glad when our makers said we would be staying at a travel-recharge hostel for the night. I was exhausted. I'd describe the place, but I was too tired to remember it. I think Sunstreaker or Thundercracker might have had to carry me in, come to think of it. The day had dumped an awful lot onto my newly-minted mind.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I met my first warborn femme a week later.
Thundercracker, Sunstreaker, and I were sitting in the fueling nook, sipping our morning energon, when the knock sounded at our door. I thought it was some kind of explosion, which tells you a lot about the frequency of visitors we got at the apartment. (The small sign over our door that read, "If you've come just to see our femmes, slag off!" probably had something to do with that.) But Sunstreaker rose and went to the door like he expected someone.
I heard unfamiliar voices, and several pairs of feet clumped into our small home. I looked over at Thundercracker, thinking about the visit Prowl had made to them before I was ignited. But he looked no more worried than he had before the knock.
Sunstreaker welcomed a red mech and a blue femme into our kitchen, unfolded extra seats from under the table, and plunked two cubes of energon in front of them. The strangers took the offered places, and Sunstreaker returned to his seat as if this were all completely normal. He waved a hand in my direction. "Rainbowsparkles, meet Ironhide and Chromia."
"Nice to meet ya," said the red one.
"Likewise?" I faltered.
The red mech (was he Ironhide, or Chromia?) turned back to Sunstreaker. "How's the family?"
Sunstreaker smiled. "They're all fine. Did you two see the exhibition last week? We all went down to Vos together. Windchaser was in it. She did very well, I think."
The blue femme didn't smile. "Do you know where they all are now?" she asked. "I mean, right at this moment?"
Thundercracker put down his energon. "Ironhide, what's going on? Has another femme gone missing?"
Everyone at the table cut their eyes sideways at me. "Maybe we'd better discuss that later," the red one who (thanks, Dad!) was definitely Ironhide said. "For now, we've come to tell ya about the new registration program. Optimus wants to make sure all femme newlings are known and accounted for."
"What? Why?" demanded Thundercracker. "I thought we were worried about newlings going missing, not more newlings showing up. They don't need some official forge-certificate in order to exist. Nobody knows who Spangle's makers are, and she's done fine for herself." He leaned an elbow on the table, his red optics narrowed. "If this is Command trying to take over raising our daughters, Rainbow won't be taking part. No thank you."
The two strangers drew back a bit. I noticed they both had the red-face badge – not the purple one on Thundercracker's wings. I still wasn't sure exactly why that mattered, but I saw how much it did.
The blue femme – Chromia, I think – wasn't cowed, though. She spoke up with steely calm. "This isn't about how they're forged or raised, Thundercracker. This is about saving them. Part of the registration process is installing trackers."
Thundercracker slapped his hands on the table. "Finally! How long have I been sending comms suggesting that?"
Sunstreaker raised his chin proudly. "Rainbow's already got a tracker in her."
I decided to remind them I was there. "What's going on?"
"Oh." Ironhide turned toward me. "Sorry, little lady. Didn't mean to scare ya."
"Should I be scared?"
"Naw, o' course not!"
The warborn femme spoke up again. (I'd known she was warborn from the moment she'd entered. She was as unlike me and my sisters as we were from our makers.) "We're creating an archive for the newling femmes, Rainbowsparkles." (She shot a disbelieving glance at both my makers just then, and I knew without looking into her spark what she was thinking.) "You'll need to come with us to the Registry Building. But all you'll have to do there is say your name and put your hand on a scanner. It's nothing painful. But it will give us a permanent record of your spark-signature and energy-field, as well as your basic medical info. It's a precaution. That's all. So you can always be found and identified, no matter where you are or what might-" Ironhide put a hand on her arm, and she broke off there.
"It sounds..." I didn't like it, but I couldn't figure out how to say why I didn't like it. I turned to Thundercracker for support. "Remember how you said you didn't want to be anyone's jailer?" (He looked up at me sharply, and I remembered too late that I wasn't supposed to have heard that conversation.) I plowed ahead anyway "Being tracked. Not just by you, but by- by everyone..." I shrugged uncomfortably. "I'll feel... hunted."
My makers exchanged glances. I was sure they'd tell Ironhide and Chromia no.
"You wouldn't be under surveillance, or anythin'. The tracker's are only activated if ya-" Ironhide stopped and recalibrated, "-if yer in danger, and yer makers don't know where ya are."
I stared at the four sober-eyed bots around my family's kitchen table. "But if they don't know where I am, how will they know if I'm in danger?"
That should have stumped them. But my makers gave in anyway. "We'll go together, sweetheart," Thundercracker said. "You can decide then, if you want to do it."
Something was happening I didn't understand. I could have looked into their sparks to find out more, but I was too scared of what I might find in there. I tried to read their expressions instead. In the end, it was the mute appeal in Thundercracker's optics that made the decision for me.
"All right," I said. "Let's go right now."
Everyone visibly relaxed.
"We'll get them to take out the tracker once this nasty thing blows over," Sunstreaker reassured me. I didn't know if I should be relieved.

We rolled out in what I've come to think of as the family formation: Sunstreaker in front, me driving close behind him, Thundercracker flying above. Ironhide and Chromia followed us, side-by-side. I revved my engine, though it didn't make nearly as much satisfying racket as Sunstreaker's did, and hoped the wind would blow away my general uneasiness.
Look sharp. We're coming into traffic now.
I snarled my gears. Dad, I've been driving for a while now. I can handle traffic.
There was silence from Sunstreaker. Then he muttered, "Could've sworn I was on Thunder's channel..." and my quiet engine let me catch the words. I replayed the entire conversation. And suddenly Thundercracker's watchful presence in the sky above me took on a darker significance. I wasn't sure if I was mad or scared, but I clung closer to Sunstreaker's bumper from then on.
We waited at an intersection for a space between speeding transformers. When our turn came, we joined the crowd of 'day-trippers and accountants' (Sunstreaker's words, not mine) turning onto the broad span of one of the city's massive spokeways: arteries from the outer circles to the city's tall, bright center.
I followed Sunstreaker's taillights over the multi-mile elevated bridge that was the radial highway. Along the way, I looked down onto wide, concentric boulevards; neon-lit craft districts; and tiny residential neighborhoods like ours. We'd almost reached the shining central towers, when Sunstreaker took an exit. I was disappointed, but followed him through a mind-numbing series of lefts, rights, tunnels and ramps. Are you sure you know where you're going? I radioed.
He snorted. I helped to design this city. I could find my way around here blindfolded. He paused. Besides, Ironhide gave me directions.
Just when I'd started to feel dizzy, we stopped at the doorway of a short, polished black lump of a tower. It was in the perpetual shadow of huge skyscrapers on all four sides. But somehow it still managed to look self-important. Brand-new, too – its surface had that oily sheen of recently-welded metalwork. When I transformed, leftover rivet-heads crunched under my feet. (Sunstreaker grumbled about waste and slipshod recycling crews.)
"This is it," Ironhide said unnecessarily. "I'll turn you over to the guard."
"Guard? Why? What guard?" Thundercracker asked him suspiciously. But Ironhide just grinned.
Behind the tower's heavy gate, we heard the long creak of a lock-bar being lifted. The door swung open ponderously. Out of it strode a red and black mech, looking like he'd just won best-in-show. "Hey Sunny!" he called out. "Long time no see."
Sunstreaker bristled. "I told you not to call me that!"
Thundercracker and Ironhide shared a look. Chromia winked at me. "Enjoy the fireworks," she whispered. "Ol' Red and I've got other femmes to tag. But we'll see you again sometime. You've got a lot of years ahead." They transformed, and drove off together. At the time, I was disappointed that I never found Chromia's 'fireworks.' Now though, I wonder if those two ever forgave themselves for what came out of all their work. I'm still not sure if I have.

"So, Brother-mine! What's the mobile count on your bedroom ceiling up to now? Or are you spending all your time now making people on much longer strings?" The guard clapped Sunstreaker on the shoulder. Sunstreaker stomped on his instep.
The new mech winced. "Ouch! That's no way to treat your only sibling!" He hopped over to accost Thundercracker instead. "Still hanging around with him, then?" he asked, with the forced casualness of someone tinkering with unexploded ordnance.
"Yes," Thundercracker replied coldly.
This new mech was extremely rude. But he'd said one of my hot-button words. I tugged on Thundercracker's arm. "How come Sunstreaker gets to have a brother?"
"Branched spark, little lady," the red-and-black mech replied, before my maker could answer. He threw an arm around Sunstreaker's shoulder. "Mutants, from inception!"
"You're a mutant, anyway," Sunstreaker grumbled, shrugging off the guard's arm like it might infect him.
The guard ignored him. "So, this is the latest model." He looked me over, head to toe. "Very nice. What gimmicks did you give this one, Sunny?"
Thundercracker stepped between them before there was any bloodshed. "Why do you need to know?" he demanded. "Do the Command Trine only let you out of here if you can trade them information?"
The guard looked at him blankly. "Let me out?" He snorted. "Oh, you wish. I only drove here a few minutes ago so I could meet up with you. This place's locked up tighter than Omega Supreme's-" he glanced at me. "I mean, it's very secure. But I happen to be one of the bots entrusted with a key." He whirled past Thundercracker's wingtip to where he could reach my hand, grabbed it, and shook it heartily. "Sideswipe, miss. Pleased to meet you. I'm your uncle, or something." He transferred my hand gallantly to his elbow. "Allow me to escort you into my top-secret sanctum..."
"Primus, Sides, you're such a-!" Sunstreaker swallowed down whatever he'd wanted to say, and shoved his Actual Real-Life Brother aside so he could take my arm in his. "You're gonna make her think our family's retrograde."
"I'm sure you do that just fine on your own, Bro."
I was still unsure how I felt about my "uncle." But he was the first person I had met who didn't treat the world like some kind of ongoing tragic opera. Or if he did, he was laughing at the absurd dramatics. I wished Sunstreaker had let me walk with Sideswipe, instead of snatching me back.
We moved into the slick black building. Behind, the door clanged shut, locking us all in claustrophobic semi-darkness. I suppose the whole thing ought to have been creepy. But what with everything being so topsy-turvy (and probably under the influence of Sideswipe's antics), I was having a great time. I felt like my too-sheltered life had for once gone off-script.
Sideswipe clicked something somewhere, and night-eye red running lights lit up along the little foyer's walls and floors. We followed where they led, and just ahead, this narrow hall opened into a larger chamber. Someone pushed me forward, and Sideswipe's voice proclaimed, "Welcome to the Registry, missie! And your name is?"
I glanced in panic back at my creators (they both shrugged). I sighed. "Rainbowsparkles. Pleased to meet you, Sideswipe."
My 'uncle''s laughter bounded and rebounded off the red-lit walls, until I thought my head would burst. "Rainbowsparkles? Really?" He bent over, hands on knees, wheezing. "Primus beneath us, that is priceless!"
Thundercracker came to my rescue. "Sideswipe, can we skip the commentary, and do what we came here for?"
But Sideswipe was still chortling to himself. "Rainbow… huh-huh... Sparkles…!"
"What have they got in here that's so solemn and important?" I asked, desperate to change the subject. "The place is locked-up and forbidding, but all I see is a room with very little light, a mess of hasty wiring along the walls, and a computer console in the middle of it all. So what's it for?"
Sideswipe visibly swelled with pride, and for the first time, I could see how he and Sunstreaker might be related. "The Newling Registry! Just opened yesterday. This place, and others like it we installed in every major city, will make sure no newling goes undocumented. Think of it as the Great Archives, but for newlings."
All this meant very little to me. "OK," I said. "But what's it do? How does it work? Ironhide and Chromia acted like it was this big, life-changing thing, but we've got a computer back at home."
Thundercracker gave a short laugh. And that made me happy, because he rarely laughed at all. "Archives are pretty boring on the inside, little one - just a lot of data-slates and storage servers. That's why I never spent much time in one..." He maneuvered around Sideswipe with elaborate caution (a symptom of the Non-Matching Badge Problem again) and drew me up to the console's screen, on which a few lines of pink glyphs flashed. He smiled at me and pointed to it. "Are you ready, 'Bow?"
I gave him an uncertain nod. "I guess?"
Sunstreaker shocked a month off my lifespan by throwing his arms around me in a sudden hug. Then he grabbed Thundercracker and Sideswipe's hands, forming a circle around me. "Please, Primus, let it keep her safe!" he whispered. "Let this keep them all safe!"
"Amen," intoned the other two, without a trace of irony.
I was totally thrown by all of this. I shunted my vocalizer. "Um. OK. I'll do the thing now..."
I stepped up to the central console, and squinted at the largest line of Neocybex, trying to recall the modern phonics and grammar I'd only recently uploaded. (Finding out that the languages we spoke at home were different from the post-war glyphs had made all of my difficulties finding current info on the datanet make sudden sense; but right now it just made me look illiterate.) "Newling… Reg...istry," I read.
"Good!" Sunstreaker encouraged me. "What does the one beneath that say?"
"Search… Database."
"Right. OK. But you don't want to look up an already-constructed newling. You want to enter your own record. Try the last one."
(Actually, I did want to look up a Certain Bot. But he'd made it pretty clear he wouldn't be found on this index, despite all my hopes to the contrary. I sighed, and let it go.) Self-conscious and proud and nervous, I read the last entry aloud: "New… Record."
"That's the one." Thundercracker was now hopping lightly on his toes. "Touch it, 'Bow. Go on."
I pressed the screen. It changed. Something heavy went ker-thunk overhead. And from the ceiling an arm-mounted ball came down with a soft whirring.
Please Stand By For Scanning, the screen blinked at me.
I shot a panicked backward glance at my creators. But they only nodded in encouragement. I held myself stock-still as a fine grid of bright-red lasers fanned out from the ball-thing. The arm scrolled it slowly up and down my body from the front and back and sides. As it did so, my internal schematics appeared on the screen. This was creepy, but fascinating. It took about five minutes for the ball and laser-grid to capture everything. Then a tiny bell chinged.
Scan Complete, read the pink letters on the screen. I touched them. And they changed again.
Expose Spark And Face Screen. I blinked.
"Expose... What? What is this?" I turned accusingly to Sideswipe, as if this were all his fault.
"It's to make sure you'll always be identifiable as you, no matter how much your outside changes," he explained. But to my ears, he sounded just a little sheepish. "We'll turn our backs, if you want."
"Yes. Please do."
I watched my makers and my uncle turn, to become eyeless silhouettes, their edges limned with glints of reddish light. I sighed, and cracked my chestplates open. Something whirred within the console. A light shone on me – a whitish light that seemed improbably familiar, till I recognized it as the same color my optics turned when I was reading sparks.
The little bell dinged. Spark Record Archived, the screen told me. I closed up my chest. "All right," I said, "You can turn back around now."
Behind me, there were sounds of shuffling. I was busy reading, though, and did not bother to look back.
Place Hand Flat On Recorder. I looked all around the room, and then back at the unhelpful screen. "Where's- What's the 'Recorder'?" I asked.
Sideswipe pulled out a drawer-tray from beneath the console-screen. In it was set a flat square of odd black material, which reflected no light whatsoever. It looked like a hole into some empty corner of the universe. It also looked alive, somehow. 'Place Hand Flat' on this thing? I drew back. "Um, what's it gonna do?" I asked. And yes, I will admit my voice did squeak.
Sideswipe tried to assure me. "I guess it does look scary in the dark. We can't have anything brighter than running lights in here, or it throws off the scanning lasers."
Thundercracker approached, but did not touch me. "It's just going to take a reading of your personal energy signature. A light lick from an electromagnet, that's all."
"Won't that sting?"
"Nah." Sideswipe spoke up again, grinning. "It didn't bite Perceptor's femme when she tried it this morning."
So at least one other newling had done this before me. Curses. Now if I wimped out, I'd be a coward. Flinching a bit, I flattened my palm onto the rubbery, not-quite-motionless rectangle, and waited to be zapped, or melted, or possibly eaten.
Something went fizz. It tingled, but was not unpleasant. Stand By For Tracker Insertion, flashed onto the screen. Before I had time to realize (and panic about) what that meant, something sharp and warm and wet happened inside the hand on the recorder-thing. I smelled hot solder, and felt a new tenderness between the metal plates of my palm. A bright ding! sounded from the console. Wondering, I took my hand away and wiggled my fingers. Everything seemed normal enough. I looked down at the weird black square that had done this to me. It looked like plain black rubber now – nothing remarkable at all.
New Record Entered flashed up on the screen. Sunstreaker cheered, then caught himself being too 'boorishly excited.' Sideswipe and Thundercracker laughed at him, then whooped with unrestrained applause.
Enter Name To Complete Registry, the screen commanded. A keyboard slid out from the console. A cursor blinked at me. Suddenly I wanted to take back everything I'd just done, flee from this room, and live alone somewhere in the rust-mountains.
"It wants my name," I whispered.
"Well, yeah," said Sideswipe.
"My name, though."
"Not gonna lie – It's a doozy. But you'll survive."
Under my breath, I said the word I'd heard Sunstreaker use when he was angry. "Can I please change it?" I asked desperately.
"Sorry, Rainbowsparkles," said Sideswipe. "No dice. Once you choose a name at birth, you're stuck with it. You can try going by a nickname if you want, but..." He shrugged, and elbowed Sunstreaker. "Hey. Remember that 'Con who tried to go by 'Sparkeater'?" The two brothers shook their heads and shared a chuckle.
"Go on, sweetheart," said Thundercracker kindly.
I sighed, and bent to the keyboard.
R, A, I, N... I pounded out the letters, thinking 'Sparkeater' had sounded kind of cool. I, on the other hand, was adding myself to this Permanent Archive as "Rainbowsparkles," the very opposite of cool. ...K, L, E, S, I finished, and I considered adding, ...IS A SILLY BLOCK-HEAD, but thought better of it. I was already saddled with the most ridiculous name on the entire planet. I'd better not make it worse.
Confirm, flashed on the screen. I sighed. Then pressed a finger on the pinkly-glowing glyph. A trill of musical notes chimed from the console. I turned to the three mechs behind me, all of whom were grinning. I gave them with a mock curtsey. "Ta-dah! I officially exist."
Everyone clapped. "Congratulations," they all said. "We're glad you do."
Thundercracker hugged me. Sunstreaker, who'd used up this year's supply of hug, shook my hand heartily. Sideswipe punched my shoulder playfully, which just about made Sunstreaker explode. "Her finish!" he yelped. "Sides, are you insane?" But nothing could dim the glow of this moment. Sure, this 'registration' exercise seemed strange and unnecessary. But there in that dark, red-lit room, we were happy. Until Sideswipe pulled Sunstreaker into a corner, and spoke in a quick, humorless whisper. "Can I come by your place when my shift's over? It'll be late."
Sunstreaker looked startled. Then he nodded. "You have news?"
Sideswipe grimaced. "I'll tell you all the latest rumors when I get there. Make sure this little one's in bed though. It'd upset her."
So of course I resolved to stay up all night if I had to, with my audials pressed up against the wall.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

VIII

We walked out into the orange light of early evening, shielding optics that had grown accustomed to the darkness. I was surprised by the low angle of the sun. We'd been inside the Registry much longer than I'd thought. I said good-bye to Sideswipe, and realized I'd miss him. But as my uncle drove away, I didn't transform and prepare to do the same. I had too many things to process. So I stared up at the skyscrapers around us.
Wisps of high, sunset-lit clouds blew in the evening winds up in the going-purple sky, and made the towers look like they were falling. It was beautiful, but it made me feel precarious. I wished the world would stop shifting long enough for me to find my balance. I craned my head back and watched the sun's last molten light flow down: a rim of golden fire along the sunward edge of every tower. My spark panged – I was reminded of the gilt-edged headfins of my mystery mech. I sighed. He'd probably have managed all this discombobulation easily.
I straightened my back-strut, and pulled crisp, cooling air into my vents. I filed the gold-lined towers silhouetted on the purple sky into my permanent memory: a marker of the day that I'd been made official. Sure, there was a whole lot of weirdness about it. But somehow, I felt more permanent after my strange ceremony. I turned to my makers, sure they would be waiting with growing impatience for me to come out of my reverie.
But for once they weren't focused on me at all. They stood a few feet off, leaning together like conspirators or lovers, staring up at the sun-gilded towers as raptly as I had.
"Your team did well," I heard Thundercracker say. "It's almost like Tessarus never fell."
"We made it better," said Sunstreaker. "Now that we're in a steady orbit, I had them align the towers with the sun. See how they catch the light?"
Thundercracker smiled down at Sunstreaker (who then looked away, embarrassed). I thought this was one of their fleeting moments of affection. But I'd misinterpreted their mood. (This is the problem with not using my spark-reading. It's so easy to get things wrong!) Sunstreaker flinched, and looked down at his chronometer. "It's time." He drew closer to Thundercracker – not in contentment as I'd thought, but in some deep apprehension. "You go ahead and take her home. I can't skip any more of them." His voice was harsh, devoid of all the cultured smoothness he usually affected.
Thundercracker's face shut down like a wall. "I might as well join you. I'm due tomorrow anyway."
Sunstreaker looked shocked. "No! We can't take Rainbow to that place!"
Thundercracker sighed. "She'll find out about it sometime. Better that she find it out from us, than from some punk who's trying to impress her. We'll take turns waiting outside with her." He turned to me. "Come on, sweetheart."
Sunstreaker still looked unconvinced. But we rolled out. Behind us, the sun set. The towers now loomed dark above, threatening and aloof.

We headed away from the city center, down a spoke-road to the lower, duller parts of town. Sunstreaker never pushed the speed limit, and Thundercracker flew as if the air were made of mud. I was reluctant to ask where we were going, but I knew I wouldn't like it. We stopped in front of one low, drab-gray building in a multi-acre grid of many others just like it. I looked around, but there were no identifying signs on its dull surface. This place could have been anything.
Sunstreaker shouldered away from us like a mech preparing to have his legs ripped off. With his jaw clamped tight enough to twitch, he entered a long keycode at the door, and was let in by a blue hand.
"What's gonna happen to him in there?" I asked Thundercracker in a rising panic.
My maker snorted. "He'll be fine. Someday. Or so they keep telling us." He leaned back against the slag-brick wall, arms crossed and optics dim. I kept close to Thundercracker – tucked myself in tight against his side, in fact – but he seemed like he had forgotten all about me. We waited for Sunstreaker, saying nothing, watching everything.
Sometimes, a mech would scuttle out from a side-street, key in the code, and enter the same door Sunstreaker had. They always looked painfully furtive, like they were ashamed to be seen here. And though Thundercracker tensed and watched each mech through narrowed optics; although he was stared at narrowly in turn, nobody ever spoke. There was an unwritten code of silence in this place. The only time my maker and another bot acknowledged one another was when a black-and-purple jet whose frame looked just like Thundercracker's dropped down from the sky. He gave my maker a sardonic, miniscule salute. And Thundercracker nodded in return. But still, no one said anything.
I was the one who stiffened when we heard a halting shuffle coming from the darkest, smallest alleyway. I tensed because I recognized the sound. I also recognized the stench: a choking cloud like waste oil and rotten energon. Thundercracker's head snapped up, and he shouted out into the heavy silence. "Get your stinking carcass out of here, Blot! I thought we told you-!"
The oozing mech slunk out from the dark shadows on the far side of the street. "I'm here for the same reason you are, ThunderCRAPPER!" he squeaked. "So... So you can-" He drew himself up as far as his hunchbacked form would let him, and spat out, "So you can shove it up your shiny chrome-plated exhaust!" Blot gave me a sheepish, shameful glance, and apologized for swearing in front of me. Then he scuttled through the mysterious door, leaving a trail of blackish, glistening slime in his wake.
"Huh," mused Thundercracker. "That poor scraplet dug some courage up from somewhere." He looked over at me, lips pursed, wondering.
I looked right back at him. Here, at least, was something I understood enough to challenge him about. "I know Blot smells and leaks," I said. "But you and he both wear the purple badge. So why don't you get along better?"
My maker's gaze sharpened on me. But before we could really get into the awkward questions, the gray door opened, and disgorged Sunstreaker.
When he'd gone in, he'd looked beaten. Not physically damaged, but still defeated. Now he moved with a strength and purpose I'd not seen in many days. Sunstreaker put his hands on Thundercracker's shoulders, leaned in until their helms were touching, and spoke with quiet authority. "Prime's there today, Thunder. You made a good choice, after all."
All the fire drained from Thundercracker's optics. His wings actually drooped. But Sunstreaker remained firm. "Trust him, Tee. He's not like he was in the War. He... understands. He'll help you, better than the usual Docs do."
At this point, the black jet came out of the gray building, and saw us. He broke the code of silence, and came over. To my great surprise, he also touched his helm to Thundercracker's. "It's all right, pal," he said gruffly. "He don't bite. Get in there."
Thundercracker gave one last look at each of us, then shuffled off into the hungry door. I watched him walk inside with the same terrified grimace Sunstreaker had worn on his turn.
The black jet left without another word. I grabbed Sunstreaker's hand, and held it tight. (He did not try to disengage!) "Are you all right? What's going on, Dad? Thundercracker didn't tell me anything. Please. I'm scared for you."
Sunstreaker ran a tender hand across my cheekplate. "Oh, Rainbow. Thank Primus and Unicron both you'll never have to live through war." He drew me in for an unprecedented second hug that day. This time though, I thought it might be for his comfort more than for mine.
"Would it be easier if I just looked in your sparks to find out?" I asked, hesitantly.
He stiffened. Then he crumpled like a rusted, rotten girder. "Don't do it, Rainbow. Please. For Primus' sake! I don't want you to see it."
I waited. But he only stared up at the twinkling stars above us in the empty sky.
"Dad, Thundercracker said you two should be the ones to explain this to me. You say I shouldn't find it in your sparks. But that means one of you has to say it out loud. And Thundercracker didn't take his chance."
Sunstreaker sighed, and called his partner a foul name. He tightened his arms around me one more time, then let me go. "We come to see a doctor," he began, the words falling like clumps of lead out of his mouth. "We report every month to one of the old Medics, and they try to help us process the internal file corruption left in our core processors after the Great War." He stopped, and raised his gaze again to the star-speckled heavens. "They do their best, I guess. Try to remind us of what we were like before the War started." He snorted bitterly. "It's not easy, because Primus knows we've all forgotten who we were." He clapped my shoulder in dismissal. "Don't worry about it, Rainbow. We'll be fine. Besides, Prime's here today, with his magical new Matrix. I may have complained about a lot of his glitch-faced decisions, but I can't complain much about this. Not sure what happened when he talked to Primacron – or even if the stories are true. But this is the first time I've seen him since the Cataclysm, and he's different now. He understood me. I hope Thundercracker gets over his prejudice, and lets Prime untangle his glitches, too." He stopped, like he was suddenly embarrassed. "I'm babbling, 'Rainbow. Sorry to end your day on a glum note. But we'll all be fine. For the first time, I think I really believe that."
I squeezed his hand. "Thanks for explaining, Dad." I wasn't sure who this 'Prime' was, although I'd heard the title here and there. But Sunstreaker was standing straighter. He was speaking of the future in a tone of hope. And for that, I was grateful to Prime and his 'Magical New Matrix.' Whatever that was.
There were no other mechs approaching from the alleys, now. And the sound of faraway traffic faded as the night stretched out. I could feel all my overtaxed senses wanting to shut down after such a long, full day, and wondered how I'd ever stay online long enough to eavesdrop on Uncle Sideswipe when he came to share his secrets. I was grateful when Thundercracker rejoined us (and even more grateful to see that he too walked lighter, like he'd left a heavy weight behind him on the other side of that gray door). He told Sunstreaker, "You were right about Prime. Don't let it go to your head." And then he took one look at me and told me I'd be riding on his back on the way home. I didn't argue.
I never did look into either of my makers' sparks to find out what they'd left in that unmarked gray building. I was learning there was some knowledge I didn't want.

Sideswipe's soft chime came three and a half hours after my makers put me to bed. I'd put the chargers on their lowest setting (the one that let me stay awake), and lain there, waiting. It was just as boring as it sounds. But I had a lot to process. My head felt warm, despite the diligence of cooling fans. I heard the chime, and thought about returning to my usual eavesdropping perch next to the wall. But I was so very, very tired. So I lay there, motionless, listening to the pumping of my inner fluids and the whispers of my makers from the other room.
"I warn you, I don't have much solid information," Sideswipe said. "I'm a grunt; nobody tells me anything. But I'm asking around – quietly – and I've been hearing things. How many disappearances do you two know about?"
"The Constructicons can't find their latest newling." Even though the wall, Thundercracker sounded worried. "She's been missing since yesterday. And I've been thinking about Scrapper. A while back, he told me that his first newling once cut out in the middle of a commlink conversation. She was there, and then she wasn't. But when he flew out to find her, she was back. Acted like nothing strange had happened."
Sunstreaker piped up. "Perceptor's femme went missing for three weeks about a month ago. He just about lost his mind. But she came back undamaged. A little weirder, but undamaged. And wasn't there something about First Aid and Fixit's femme? She went to visit a friend or something, and they couldn't find her for two days..."
"That's four," said Thundercracker. "Four's too many."
"There's more," said Sideswipe. "A lot more, unfortunately. Most of the disappearances are, like you say, short-lived scares that seem to come to nothing. But..."
"But what?"
"What you said about Perceptor's femme coming back 'weirder.' She's always been odd – too much like him, maybe. But Percy said when she came back, she acted like she'd lost something. You know that feeling, when you walk into a room and can't remember what you came there for? Well, Percy said she acted like that all the time. And sadder. He said he could tell that she was grieving – and we all know Percy's not the most observant when it comes to people's feelings..."
"How did you hear all this?" Sunstreaker asked.
"He told me."
"He told you? Just like that?"
"Brother, unlike you, I have a winning personality."
Thundercracker made a low warning noise before my maker and my uncle could start any fisticuffs.
Sideswipe went on like nothing had happened. "Early this morning when they came in to get Double-A registered, Percy said he was glad we were doing something for the newlings finally. But he got all sad and muttered something about how we were too late in her case. Both of them acted like they were just going through the motions. It creeped me out, and I don't mind admitting it."
"Do you think Swindle's tracking system will work?" Thundercracker asked. "I was surprised Command let him anywhere near this project. I mean, we're all familiar with his reputation. I'd have thought Megatron-"
"Me too. But I'll bet Swindle gave them the usual sob-story about needing to find purpose in a postwar world." Sideswipe stopped talking, but I heard his unfamiliar footsteps pacing back and forth across the common room. "Anyway, the system works. I've been testing it out on Rainbowsparkles ever since she installed it. So yes, I know you took her with you on your little visit this evening – watch it!" There was a clang of metal against metal. "I have to go too, Sunny, so don't get all huffy on me! Rainbowsparkles is sleeping safely in her berth right now." The footsteps stopped, but my spark-rhythm thumped so loudly in my chest I didn't miss them. "See that little dot? That's your Rainbow. As one of the Registry Guards, I have constant access to the system. If she ever goes missing, I'll know right away. I- Sunny, I know you and I don't always get along. But brother, I want to help keep your family safe. And if someone is messing with newlings... well, all I can say is may Primus have mercy on their sparks. Because nobody else is going to."
I lay there, trembling with anger. They'd lied to me! I was being tracked every second! Tracked by my makers, by my uncle, by the High Command (whoever and whatever they were).
"I'd get all your newlings in for registration now," Sideswipe continued, as if he'd never deceived me. As if he thought he was a nice guy. As if he thought it was a great idea to lie to newling femmes, and spy on them wherever they went.
"We put trackers in all of them," Sunstreaker objected. "We keep watch on them already. Why is Swindle's system so much better?"
"Because it records their spark signature and core construction. It records everything about them, from alt-modes and armor-colors, to vocal timbre and eye-spectrum. It even records outlier abilities like Rainbowsparkles's frankly scary spark-insight."
Now I felt really violated.
"Is all that necessary?" Thundercracker objected. "Seems a bit too invasive, if you ask me." (I was glad to hear him standing up for me; but wished he'd put his foot down a lot sooner!)
"I know it's invasive," reasoned Sideswipe. "But what if some scumbag – Primus forbid – took a newling, modified her, and then passed her off as his own new creation? This registration means we can identify a newling even if she's been repainted, remoded, and had her memory wiped."
"Unicron's beard!" Thundercracker sounded angry, and scared, and very, very sad. "I guess I always assumed everyone agreed that newlings were... well, sacred!" I heard him move around the room, restless. "I'll call the rest of the girls in, and get them all registered immediately. How many registration consoles are set up so far?"
"Besides here in Tessarus, there's one in Tarn. And Iacon of course. And one in Kaon. Spangle resisted it at first, but she agreed to have a Registry built right into the Kaon Hub. Makes it seem cooler, or something. I heard Jazz persuaded her. So yeah – there's a Registry Point for every quadrant of the planet." Sideswipe waited, then finished quietly, "Get your girls there, Sunny. Get them there soon. I don't want any of them ending up like Percy's femme."
Nobody spoke for some minutes. Then Sunstreaker spoke up. "I'd really like to go out and kill somebody," he said.
I couldn't help but agree with him. But my body had different plans. Inside my head, there was a clunk and a sizzle of ozone. My processor had finally reached its limit. In the last second before I fell into stasis-lock, I shoved the charge lever all the way up to Full, and shut down hard. The world was scary. I was done.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

IX

The next morning, Thundercracker woke me with a summons to the energon local bar. I was too tired from the day and night before to be too curious. I blearily followed him across the intersection, and stumbled into The Pit Stop's low-slung entrance. There I found all my sisters gathered at the fueling table. Most of them looked as cranky as I felt. Some looked nervous. All had tall mugs of hot, high-grade energon in front of them – a peace offering from our makers, I suspected.
"Now that you're all here, we can start this meeting," Thundercracker said. He showed me to a seat beside Lancer, and moved to stand in front of all of us, and announced, "We want you to be able to defend yourselves."
"Defend ourselves from what?" asked Aries, with her usual belligerence. "Mechs worship the ground we walk on."
There were grumbles from the other customers. But the barkeep, a square-built mech with the angry purple badge worn prominently on his chestplate, shut them up with a deep-voiced growl. "Shut up!" he ordered. "Pal o' mine lost his newling the other day. I wanna hear this."
Thundercracker turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Still no news?"
The barman shook his head. "No." He splayed his hands flat on his bar, and squinted at us each in turn, like he was counting. "So what's your plan to keep these girls from getting stolen, then?"
Sunstreaker shouldered in beside Thundercracker, and naturally took the floor. "We've hired a warborn femme to teach them self-defense."
Everyone in the place nodded agreement. "You get Chromia?" someone called out from the back. "She'd teach 'em how to fight all right!" There was general laughter at this. I had no idea what the joke was – my frustrating, customary state of being.
Sunstreaker shook his head. "Not Chromia. Another of Elita-One's crew, Firestar. You know how everybody's trying to invent jobs that don't involve any killing..." (There were grumbles at this, and a couple mirthless chuckles.) "This was Firestar's choice. She offered her services; we accepted. She'll teach them basic combat so they won't be easy pickings." He stopped speaking to the room, lowered his voice, and focused on us girls. "She also wants to help you settle into mech society," he said. "We've done our best, obviously, but Firestar knows what it's like to be one of you. She knows how to deal with the way we mechs have always treated femmes." Sunstreaker swung his arms uncomfortably, like'd run out of words, but didn't know how to finish.
Thundercracker rescued him. "We know you all want to be independent," he said quietly. Unlike Sunstreaker, he cared nothing for the other bots around the bar. He was addressing his family. I could see even without reading his spark how much he loved us. "We want you to be safe, but..." He sighed heavily. "It's not fair to do that by locking you up at home. So please. Pay attention to what Firestar tells you. Try to learn everything you can from her. There is something bad happening that we don't understand. We don't want to lose any of you."
Aries snorted. "I've got a cannon. It's served me well enough so far." She patted her shoulder-mounted mega-gun. "Just let 'em try and take me."
The barkeep thumped a big fist on the counter, and we all jumped. "Don't think because you've got a cannon on your back that you'll be safe." He jabbed a forefinger at Aries. "My buddy's femme was outfitted with more than enough firepower. And she's gone. You're lucky your makers and Firestar came up with this deal. I'm sure Bonecrusher wishes he'd done it."
Thus vindicated, both our makers raised their chins in unison. It would have been funny, but I was learning to read more than just sparks, and I knew there was no humor here.
"We've thought of a little graduation ceremony for you girls, when you've finished learning everything Firestar can teach you," Thundercracker said. "We built trackers into every one of you. Command wasn't doing it fast enough, so we did. Now, however, all of you have been to the Registry, and had the newer, better locators installed. So once you've learned what Firestar can teach you, we will show you how to turn off the family trackers. Sunstreaker and I won't be able to check up on you any more. You'll be able to run wild, without us to try and stop you. Sound good?"
There was cheering, but it was muted. The gesture was only symbolic; we were still being tracked by the Registry. But I knew how much it cost our makers to allow us even that much freedom. So I tried to clap a little.
"Right then," said Sunstreaker. "It's decided. Firestar will tutor each of you in turn, starting with Windchaser – she's eldest."
I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that I'd be the last to meet this Firestar.

I heard stories from my sisters. They were still figuring out how they felt about me, the newest arrival; but sometimes I'd get messages. Short calls. A visit for the afternoon. Once Arclight and Sunspot took me with them on an outing to the city (in the rare and thrilling absence of our makers!). I listened well, so I heard stuff. And what I heard just made me more impatient to meet with this warborn femme.
For instance: Firestar let Aries use her scary-massive gun to blow a crater in the pockmarked near-side of the empty moon. (You could see it from our house!) When Andromeda tried to sweet-talk her with that charm-field of hers, she'd told my dear sister to stick it up her exhaust pipe. (And then Firestar had taught her how to wield the charm-radiation more effectively. I questioned the wisdom of this.) Although people always told Tracer to "Cut it out for Primus' sake!" Firestar had made her practice her creepy ability to phase through walls, until she stopped getting stuck halfway through. She'd taken Arclight to apprentice with a master craftsmech who had shown her how to use the vast array of tools her hands could transform into. Windchaser and Lancer were both full of praise for our new tutor; but they never said what she had shown them. When I received a gushing note from Sunspot about how Firestar had introduced her to a trio of Insecticons who were "Just like me, only different!" I knew my turn would come next.
That night, I got barely any recharge. I spent hours compiling all the questions I'd ask Firestar, till I'd realized there would never be an end to them. Overcome by my curiosity, I slept.

The sun streamed in through my window, blinding me as I booted up. I'd been dreaming (adventures with the Mystery Mech again, this time in space). Reality was trickier than dreams were, though. I sprang upright from my charge-slab, all buzzing nerves and clumsy lightness in my chest. What if Firestar thought I was too shallow or silly to learn anything useful? I mean, all of my other sisters were amazing; I was just shiny armor and a useless talent. I polished the shifting swirls of color in my plating, and buffed out the few minuscule scuff-marks I found there. The remnants of last night's fuel sloshed and curdled in my tank. But I made sure my spinal strut was ramrod-straight.
For once, I beat my makers to the fuel room; which was good because I threw myself onto my chair so fast it slid sideways two feet. I laughed nervously to myself, and reached for a bright energon treat from the morning's platter. (Despite everything, I was starving.)
"Hold up."
The voice startled me, and I froze with my mouth around a cube.
My makers walked in, all solemn. "Today's your first step into adulthood," said Sunstreaker. "It's time to start giving you adult fuel."
Thundercracker distilled a clear beaker of energon that was far paler than anything I'd drunk before. It glowed white instead of pink. He set it down in front of me with two hands, like an offering.
I hesitated. "What is it?"
"Pure energy, direct from Primacron himself. Themselves. Whatever." Thundercracker shrugged, and smiled. "Try it, 'Bow. I think you'll like it."
I took a sip. It was like drinking life. I gulped, and felt something like fire or light or power coursing through my limbs.
"This is amazing!" I told them, still sipping greedily. "Why did you wait till now to give it to me?"
Sunstreaker favored me with a half-smile. "It takes time for a newling's systems to get set up to assimilate pure fuel." Under his breath, he mumbled, "We learned that the hard way with Windchaser."
Thundercracker stepped up. "But if you're to go with Firestar today, we want you fully-charged. Ready for anything." He smiled again, but his smile too was crooked. I was taking a step toward independence, after all, and someday I might leave my makers all alone.
Both mechs held up their cubes of high-grade. I copied the gesture. They each poured a little of their fuel into each other's cubes and into mine; then indicated I should do the same. We pressed the sides of our fuel cubes together so they formed a single shape. Then as one, we tipped our heads back and drained them dry. I felt strange, off-balance, and exhilarated. Like I could probably go out and conquer the whole universe.
I grabbed my makers' hands across the table. My love for them felt big enough to hold not only them and all their history, but this apartment, this city, this whole planet. "Thank you," I told them, squeezing their square fingers tight. "Thank you for everything!" There was one thing I couldn't say, but it hung in the air between us: Thank you for letting me go.
"Don't let Firestar keep you out past sunset," Sunstreaker warned.
"I won't," I told them. "And I'll tell you everything we did when I come home." (I was naive enough to think I could.)
I rushed to the main door, and waited, bouncing on my tiptoes as it slid open. I rushed outside, not looking back, and ignited my rockets. I was flying joyful loop-de-loops over our house, when Firestar arrived.

She was a ground-based vehicle, so that put flight out of the question. I dropped down and shut my thrusters off; she transformed; and I realized too late I had no idea how I should greet her.
But she talked enough for both of us. "Rainbowsparkles! Last of the lot. I must say that's a handful of a name you've got."
I nodded in chagrin. "Trust me; I know it was a foolish choice. Call me 'Rainbow' or something shorter."
She smiled. "Got it."
Hands on her hips, she looked me over. (I snooped into her red spark just enough to see she liked adventure.) "I'm teaching you navigation today." She shook a teasing finger at me. "No more getting lost."
I slumped. "They told you about that?"
"Of course. I had to find out which basic operational skills those idiots forgot to give you." She smiled at me. "But here's the good news. On the way, you get to ask me all your questions. It'll help pass the time as we drive, and give me pointers on what I should teach you next."
"What if I don't have any questions?" I asked, feeling truculent in the face of that barrage breezy patronization.
"Of course you have questions. All newlings do."
She had me there. "Where are we going?"
She gave me a broad wink. "I thought I'd show you the world."
I crossed my arms and looked at her flatly.
Firestar sighed. "Not one for puns, eh? Well then, to answer your question as I promised: we'll most likely head to Iacon. The Great Archives is the best place to find out everything you want to know."
That sounded promising. "Let's go!"
She didn't move.
I looked around, feeling foolish. "Um, which way is Iacon?"
She chuckled. "That's what I'm going to teach you." She did something I wasn't watching close enough to catch, and suddenly there was a little datacube in her hand. "Subspace compartment," she explained (this told me nothing). "We've all got them. Easy way to carry things without having to, you know, carry them. Have Sunstreaker or Thundercracker show you how to use yours later. For now, download this data into your hard drive."
I hesitated. After my unauthorized road-trip, Sunstreaker and Thundercracker had warned me like a thousand times never to accept downloads from strangers. Firestar raised an eyebrow when I didn't take her cube. Then she sighed, and shouted to the house over my shoulder. "Sunstreaker! Come out here and validate this cube, will you?"
Both makers came out onto the front driveway. "What are you giving her?" Sunstreaker asked.
"The basic map of Cybertron. She doesn't have it memorized like you two do."
"We should have thought of that," Thundercracker muttered in Sunstreaker's audial. He stepped forward, and took the datacube from Firestar's hand. (I saw her flinch – her badge and Thundercracker's did not match, and he was much bigger than she.) He plugged the datacube into his wrist-port, and stood there a moment, grumbling about 'flashy Autobot tech.'
At last he delivered the verdict: "Looks fine." He pressed the cube into my hand with both of his. "The world," he whispered. "It's yours now." (Sunstreaker's got a reputation for dramatics; but Thundercracker leaves him far behind.)
Embarrassed, but greedy for knowledge, I downloaded Firestar's information. And it was indeed the world. A detailed map of it, at least. The planet opened up before me. My mouth must have fallen open or something, because everyone was laughing when I shook off the fuzz of filing new data.
"You might be surprised to hear that as a newling, you'll have the advantage over some of us oldtimers," Firestar said. "Cybertron has changed a lot since the War ended; but we're still stuck in old habits. Last week, I saw a mech nearly drive off the edge of a plate-boundary, because it wasn't where he remembered it." She smiled at me, and her blue optics sharpened. "Now, Rainbow, which highway should we take to Iacon?"
I thought about it. And realized I knew. A little yip of excitement escaped me. Bouncing on tiptoes, I pointed. "That way! The Inter-Torus Lateral!"
Everyone nodded solemnly. But Thundercracker and Sunstreaker looked a little sad.
"Lead on then!" Firestar dropped into her vehicle-mode (a little red flatbed truck), and I folded into mine. I think my rear tire left an ugly black mark where I peeled out of our driveway; but if so, someone had cleaned it by the time I made it home.

She was right about it being a long drive. But at first I couldn't think of any questions. Not with my hungry tires pulling me over the smoothly arching roadways, and the wind singing across my gleaming fenders. I drove with an exultation I had never had the chance to feel before. I had a map and knew where I was going. I was free.
As we approached the bridge off of the Tessarus plateau, Firestar zipped in front of me and tapped her brakes. Come on, I whined Sunstreaker-like, over the comm-frequency she'd sent me. The road's still smooth. Why do we have to slow down now?
You'll see, she radioed, as we zoomed up a steep causeway onto the inter-torus Bridge. Now hit your brakes, or be mashed metal.
Two seconds later, the ground fell away beneath us like we had been catapulted off the planet's edge. I screeched to a panicked stop (leaving a black zigzag across both lanes of the roadway), and transformed, intake-fans at maximum. The chasm we'd driven out over was so deep and wide that my mind balked at it. This was no depth conceivable in inches. This was a fall all the way to the beating white core of the planet. I sank to my knees on the far-too-narrow shoulder, and hugged the knee-high guardrail that was all between me and oblivion.
You might think that, since I could fly, this chasm could have held no terror for me. You'd be wrong. I'd grown used to living on a solid, metal planet; lifeless and immoveable as paint. This chasm cracked my sense of safety along with the planet. And it wasn't just the depth of it – the way it seemed like any minute now this threadlike bridge would break, and the whole world would tear asunder. No, it was the wind that threw me.
It was the hot, exhaling breath of something living. And it carried with it echoes of a low, subsonic rumble too deep for my audial receivers to pick up. But I could feel it shaking in my chest, could feel my spark trying to pulse in harmony with it. I hugged the too-thin railing, shut my optics down, and tried to keep myself from purging my fuel tanks in front of Firestar.
"Sobering, isn't it?" Firestar transformed and sat beside me, swinging her legs easily over the edge. "Don't be embarrassed – it takes most newlings this way." She shrugged. "Guess I'm too used to everything to be impressed."
"I don't understand!" I choked.
Somebody with a wide vehicle-mode roared by us, and I flinched in terror.
Firestar shook her fist and hollered after him, "That's not effective flirting, Onslaught!" But he disappeared. She sighed, and pointed. "Hop down."
"What?"
"We'll talk about it there. Come on." And then, as Primus is my witness, Firestar took a somersaulting leap off of the bridge.
I screamed.
She landed on a net of interwoven silver cables slung beneath the bridge's span to catch any poor flightless soul who skidded off. I'd been too stunned by the chasm to notice it before. And besides, the cables were very thin. (That's my excuse.) Firestar landed easily and rolled down into the center, like she'd done this a dozen times. (Actually, I'll bet she has.) She laughed like this was the most fun she had had in ages. I realized I was still screaming. So I shut off my vocalizer, and waited while my panic was replaced by anger.
I had to cup my hands around my mouth to fight the rising wind. "Do Sunstreaker and Thundercracker know you're doing this?"
Firestar just grinned. "Come down!" she called. "It's safe." She bounced a bit on wires so thin that I could barely see them. "Omega Supreme could recharge on this, and it would hold.
This was insane. This was going to get us killed. But if I lived, I'd have a killer story to relay to all my sisters. I'd have something to compare with all their exploits, instead of being the little homebody.
A few more bots whizzed by me as I hugged the guardrail. One of them shouted something; but the wind tore his voice away from me. I looked down at Firestar, and tried not to get too dizzy as my focus shifted past her to the glittering rift beneath us. I shut down my optics. Trembling, I rolled onto my stomach, and squirmed out over the edge like this was not the most insane thing I had ever done. Could I fly in this wind, if I had to? What damage was I doing to my finish? Why was I letting Firestar make me do this? I gripped the guardrail hard, cycled my vents a couple times, and dropped until I hung straight down. I wondered if my arm-joints had been built to bear this sort of load.
"That's it!" called Firestar. (Her voice was whipped and flurried by the wind.) "You've almost got it!"
I stretched my toes to feel for a foothold. Nothing. I let myself slip down further till I hung from just my fingertips. Still nothing. Warning alarms began to go off in my internal array. At last my toe brushed something – not nearly solid enough for comfort – then my servos gave way, the wind tore loose my last handhold, and I fell. I shrieked the scream of the dying... and rolled down into the bottom of the net.
Where Firestar sat, laughing at me.
I couldn't even swear at her. I didn't have the energy. I lay still for half a minute, venting my overheated engines and trying to convince myself that the thin cords I felt beneath me wouldn't snap and drop me down into that hungry wind. I didn't move till I was (mostly) sure I wouldn't heave Firestar off into the chasm.
I crawled along the shaky net to join my tutor, always making sure I had a firm grip with both hands and feet. I had been cossetted and coddled up till now. But light was dawning slowly, and a bit too late. The stories my sisters had told about their exploits with our mentor were always sent directly to me, not to either of our makers. Thundercracker and Sunstreaker knew nothing about what we were up to. I was totally in Firestar's power.
She stood on the slanting net, one foot propped on a higher strand, one hand gripping a cord at shoulder-level. She looked like some kind of dashing buccaneer. She turned to me, and swept her arm out wide. "This is your planet, Rainbowsparkles. It created you. Say hi!"
On hands and knees, I gripped the thin ropes, and looked down between them. It was not dark in the rift between Cybertron's continental plates. Every surface was threaded with a network of multicolored energon conduits, along which energy bursts pulsed and spread like thoughts in a brain-module. Nor was the rift empty. Far, far below, I could see miners, explorers, and tappers crawling the cliffs, following luminescent lines. No one was flying in this wind; but there were elevator shafts and zigzag roads to carry tankers of the fuel up to the surface. Fuel I might drink with my makers this evening, if I managed to get home.
My whole life, I had crawled along this planet's surface (or darted around its skies), always assured by both my newling hubris and the conduct of the mechs around me that I was the center of the universe. Now though, as I stared down through blurred optics at a vast energon network so like the pulsing mechanisms of a spark, I knew I was completely unimportant. I was a single cell in a vast planetary organism. I was a speck that could be blasted into nothing by a single breath of that hot wind.
And it would never even miss me.
Firestar came down and put a light hand on my shoulder. "I know it's a lot to take in," she said, as if she were the one who could read sparks. "But wait. You are a child of Cybertron. It will acknowledge you."
I couldn't understand what she was saying. I could barely even think. I'd come out for adventure, and instead I'd been unmade.
I saw my planet's life-blood pulsing, and felt its hot breath on my metal skin. I was a speck clinging to a thread hung from a wire. But then – what can I write to make you understand it? Nothing changed. But in an instant everything was different. The wind rising from the planet's center warmed and permeated my whole being: servo, spark, and mind. It was no groping terror, but a trusted and upholding friend. I don't know if I can explain why I stopped feeling like a hapless speck, and knew I was a loved and vital part of something glorious. I don't think I'm a good enough writer to do that. But I will tell you something concrete. I let go of the netting, spread out my arms, and called down joyfully into the wind: "Helloooooooooooooooo!"

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

X

Firestar was smiling at me when I came back to my senses. "You feel it, don't you?" she asked simply.
"I'm not quite sure exactly what I feel," I told her. "But-" I looked up. "Thank you for bringing me here, Firestar."
I turned, and lay against the netting. (The wind was warm at my back.) I thought about those pumping veins of energon. And suddenly, a new panic assailed me.
"I drank the planet's blood this morning!"
Firestar sat down beside me. "Yes you did."
"But- but isn't that... horrible?"
"It's how we were made. It's how we've always been."
"Won't we run out though, one day?" I asked Firestar. "Won't we kill Cybertron, if we keep on drinking its energon?"
Firestar smiled. "No, Rainbow. We won't run out. Our planet is... it's whole now. It's healed. As long as we don't go back to killing each other, I think Cybertron could sustain itself indefinitely." She pointed to a gray-green complex built into the cliff-face a little below the surface to my right. "We help some," she explained. "That's a recycling refinery. But mostly…" Her voice faded, her optics grew wistful. "Mostly, the planet just takes care of us. That energon you're seeing down there – I can't say it so that it makes sense, but trust me, Rainbow; it's Cybertron's gift of life to us. We are its children." Firestar's whole body sagged against the net. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to not be scraping out a living on a near-corpse any more."
I thought about this for a while. "Firestar?" I hesitated. "Why is it not a near-corpse any more?"
She turned away from me. She looked down at the chasm reaching into the heart of our world, alive with light. And when she spoke, it was with unaccustomed heaviness.
"I can only tell you what the oldest stories said. That Primus was the force of Creation. That Unicron was the force of chaos - or destruction, depending on who was telling the story. Understand, Rainbowsparkles, I never paid much attention. No one did." She sighed. "The legends say Primus and Unicron were once parts of one being. They say there was a schism. They say that Primus hid himself in - or maybe as – our planet Cybertron, so that his other half couldn't find and destroy him. Destroy us." She looked at me, her optics dark. "But we brought the Destroyer with us, little one."
Firestar hung slack against the netting, staring dully up into the empty sky.
"No one remembers how we all came online back at the beginning. But we were too busy fighting to ask questions." She smiled wanly. "Were the Decepticons born as warriors, and the Autobots created peaceful? Some say so. I don't know. Are any of Megatron's propaganda stories about Autobot oppression based in fact? I hope not. But I don't remember very well so far back. New memories supplant old ones, until the deep past is lost in an overwritten mass of stories that we've told ourselves until they all feel true. You get a lot of messed-up stuff inside your head when you fight in a civil war that lasts millions of years. We had this vague assumption we were special - we were the only non-organic lifeforms in the known universe, and we lived on a metallic planet. But in the war I think we stopped seeing the other side as - well, transformers. They became monsters, not brothers and sisters. We dared not admit our commonality. We were good, they were evil, and anything we did to protect ourselves was justified by their atrocities. I imagine the Decepticons thought the exact same thing.
"And that's what made the Great War go on for so long past sanity. We were insane. We could not forgive ourselves for what we'd done, let alone try to forgive all our enemies' atrocities. It took more than a ceasefire to end it. It took a restart for our entire species. Optimus Prime convinced Megatron to-" She broke off, glanced at me, then shook her head. "I'll explain later. But they formed a kind of pact. And then they ordered their armies to stop fighting." She shrugged. "They were united. But the rest of us were still as fractured as we'd always been. Every day we had to decide if we'd keepthe fighting stopped. I wonder sometimes if the peace would still have crumbled despite all our leaders sacrificed, if Unicron hadn't shown up.
"The chaos guy," I said, to show I'd been paying attention.
"The chaos god," Firestar corrected me.
"What is a god?" I asked.
Firestar shook her head and looked away. "Even now, I'm not sure I know. Even after I've seen them."
I waited. This was getting interesting.
"When Primus started giving sparks to the first newling femmes we made, Unicron sniffed out the creative energy," Firestar continued. "He came after our planet: horned and orange and massive and very, very, very hungry." She rolled, and pointed to the world beneath us. "Imagine that wanting to eat you," she suggested.
I shuddered.
She looked straight at me. "Primus didn't run."
I glanced down at the planet, full of sudden admiration. I felt like Firestar and I were specks again. "What did you do?" I whispered, totally enthralled.
"We fled." She said it with the same dark loathing reserved for acts of meanest cowardice. "We left him to face Unicron alone."
I waited for her to go on. And waited. She said nothing. "How could you?" I gasped out finally.
She shook her head, eyes dark again. "It was apocalypse. We were terrified. But I think Command had some idea of what was coming, because they'd prepared ships full of supplies for just such a global emergency. Not one of us was lost." She paused. "Our god was lost instead."
"What happened?" I whispered.
Firestar shut down her optics completely. "Primus grabbed onto Unicron, and wouldn't let him go." She shuddered. "We could hear Primus screaming as Unicron ripped him open. But he still held on. It was… the hardest thing I've ever had to watch. After a while, we couldn't even tell which one was which – and somehow, that was worst of all." She fell silent for a long time. The wind rumbled up around us, hot and alive and not a little dangerous.
Firestar pulled herself back to the present. "When the fight was finally over, all we saw was this huge, dreadful world of ash. No colors left. All molten gray. And lifeless. Our planet and our gods were dead, and we had watched it happen. Still, none of us could stand to leave. After a time, we sent down explorers. And, well…" Firestar looked at me flatly. "They weren't dead. Primus. Unicron. They're still alive. Somehow they're... reunited. Cybertron is twice as big as it once was."
"It was dead, though, you said. How-?"
Firestar sighed. "Once Jetfire's exploration team and the Constructicons set foot on the planet, it... rebooted. Started producing energon like crazy. There was a massive earthquake – scared the exploration team silly, let me tell you – and the whole planet transformed from a lump of ash into – well, into the Cybertron you live on today. Minus the major cities, of course – they'd been mostly melted in the fight between the gods. So there was lots of rebuilding to do. But maybe all that work's exactly what we needed."
Firestar shut her mouth tight, and looked away from me. I didn't need to read her spark to know that story had been hard for her to tell.
"Thank you for helping me to understand," I said. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that seemed too presumptuous. I was only a newling. She was warborn. So we stared together down into the chasm, our thoughts separate as the torus-states the crack divided.
Firestar shivered, and spoke almost to herself. "They say you can go down and speak to him. To them. To Primacron. But I don't… I don't want to know. Can you understand that? I don't want the responsibility of really knowing all of this for sure. And from what I saw of Primus… well, he's a lot more like you than he's like me."
The wind whistled up between us, but it wasn't a comfort. I was struck by a horrible thought. "What about me? Sunstreaker and Thundercracker made me, not Cybertron. Am I still-?" I bit my lip, afraid of the answer, needing to know. "Am I the same thing as you are, or something different?" (Am I just a cheap knockoff? was what I meant but couldn't say.)
Firestar looked at me, head cocked to one side. "That chamber you woke up in - do you remember it at all?"
I nodded.
"That's the place where people go to talk to Primacron," she said. She shrugged. "All I know is you got your spark from somewhere, Rainbowsparkles. And it wasn't from those two confused old soldiers."
I remembered the first Voice I'd heard, in my first instant online. It had not been Sunstreaker or Thundercracker. It had been something – Someone – well, bigger. I looked sideways at Firestar, and hesitated. "I think – I think Primacron spoke to me. When I was made. He wasn't – they weren't… It didn't sound very godlike." I was still mad that my creator-god had let me choose a ridiculous name without giving me any word of warning. I decided I did not trust this Primacron much.
Firestar looked back at me. "I don't think Primacron is much more than a bigger version of us, Rainbow," she said, sounding wistful.
A sudden question burst out of me. "Why don't I have any brothers?"
"Do you see any other femmes around?"
I shook my head. "So far, just my sisters and you. Oh – and I met Chromia one time."
"That's why," she said bluntly.
"But then what am I? What is a femme for? And how did they know if they made me right, when there were so few others to compare?"
Firestar's gaze went all distant again. "Oh, there used to be hundreds of femmes. Thousands. A whole third faction." Suddenly Firestar seemed so sad it hurt to look at her. (And I'm not even talking about what was in her spark. I peeked, worried, and it was almost dark.) "They all left, Rainbow. Left, were killed, or…" She shrugged. "The femmes hated that the mechs insisted on fighting, that they stopped trying to work out a peaceful solution. So… They left." She looked away from me. "I stayed."
I wanted to know why she'd stayed. I wanted to know all about it, about her entire life, everything. She was a femme – not like me, maybe, but a femme. I wanted to ask. But if you had seen her face that day, you would have shut up too. I didn't peek into her spark again. I was too scared to try it.
After a long silence that only I seemed to notice, Firestar did this little shoulder-roll-stretch, and like she was crawling out from under the previous conversation. "I think it's time to move along," she said. "Let's save the rest of your questions for Iacon."
I was more than ready to leave this place. I'd come out here hoping to put some miles on my wheels and see more of my home-planet, and instead we'd so far spent a long time hanging on a net under a bridge!
Firestar climbed to the edge of the net, leaped up, and grabbed the roadway's edge on her first try. She turned around, never once losing grip, lifted her legs, and somersaulted back onto the bridge. Let me emphasize this point: She made that whole thing look easy.
I stared, shaking my head, until she reached down for me. Then I cheated – I used my rockets to help me get back up there. We transformed, and drove down the long, thin archway onto the Iacon torus-state. And all the way there, neither of us said another word.
The sun was high by the time we sighted the outermost rings of Iacon. We'd passed five cities, and crossed over two more inter-torus bridges on the way, but had not stopped. Only midday, but I was feeling tired already. This day was much more full than I had known how to prepare for.
Firestar's demeanor changed as we passed through a heavy, engraved archway which proclaimed, "Iacon: Original Pre-Cataclysm Site. Here Let It Stand Until The Last Star's Light Winks Out!" That was odd; none of the other cities seemed to care much about 'original location.' Firestar drove distractedly, like she was staring hungrily at everything. Which meant that for the first time in my life, I wasn't the only one amazed by normal, boring things.

Iacon was very different from home. I'm sure you know this, but I'll write it anyway: Tessarus is laid out in neatly cross-quartered concentric rings. So were the other rebuilt cities we had passed. But Iacon's a helter-skelter pile of fractal circles. There's no sense of planning or organization. The architecture's different, too. Instead of towers rising toward the center, Iacon's all humpbacked domes. There's very little chrome or polished metal anywhere. It's all brushed bronze and etched nickel. Sorry, but Iacon is dull. It's got no flash at all. But it's got presence. It's got history.
"What a mess!" I blurted out, as we negotiated a seven-way intersection choked with ground-based mechs.
"Iacon was never much for order," replied Firestar in a strange voice. "But it is home. All through the War, we never stopped defending it."
The city was old. I could tell by the way everyone moved – carefully, as if this place were somehow holy ground. I could read age in the worn glyphs and pictographs that decorated many of the structures here. (Age was all I could read of them - they weren't written in any language I'd studied.) Iacon was more ancient than I could fathom. At just a few months old, I felt painfully out of place.
But all the other bots we passed seemed to have Iacon's energy flowing through their very sparks. At least, the red-badge Autobot ones did. Perhaps I should have felt more connection, more reverence – after all, one of my makers was an Autobot. But I only felt shut out.
"We're here." Firestar pulled off the roadway and parked beside the low slopes of a massive multi-dome complex. She transformed, smiled, and introduced the building like it was a well-loved friend. "The Archives of Old Iacon. All the collected knowledge of our race."
I transformed, and looked at it doubtfully. The low, brown building looked more like an armored bunker than a library. The only thing denoting its importance was its location at the very center of the city. (A fact I only recognized because I still had Firestar's map on my inner-display.) I looked at my mentor and raised an eyebrow.
"This is the place?"
"Trust me," said Firestar. "You'll love it." She braced herself, and hauled open a dark, rivet-studded door. (It creaked on massive, ornate hinges, and deepened a curved drag-mark on the ground.)
The floor within sloped steeply downward from the moment we entered. The air smelled a bit musty, and seemed denser than the air outside, like it had been compressed somehow. (Or maybe the Archives' atmosphere just weighed heavily on me.) Deep silence made our footfalls seem obscene. The only things that moved were motes of dust that parted, swirling, as we passed.
"What are you hoping to find out here?" Firestar asked. "Please tell me that it's something small. You've had more than enough heavy knowledge dumped on you for one day."
I felt my face give away my embarrassment. I knew just the question, but did I dare admit it to her? "Um. It's silly…" I prefaced.
She snorted. "Good! The sillier the better."
I gulped twice, and went for broke. "There's this big mech. I've seen him twice. At first I thought he was a newling like me, but Sunstreaker and Thundercracker – and now even you - say there aren't any mech newlings. I'm curious, though, because all the other warborns are so plain-" I caught myself and backpedaled. "I mean - sorry! - your build is quite nice! It's just this mech had a headsculpt even more flamboyant than Windchaser's! And he carried it off like it was nothing. I just want to know who he is. That's all."
"Why?"
Firestar's question stopped me cold. Why did I still care so much about a mech I had seen twice? Why did he matter? (Why had he looked back at me the day we'd met so disappointingly?) I braced myself for honesty.
"I guess... I just want to be like him. I want to know how he does it - moving through a crowd of bots who all look up at him like he's- like he's the walking sun, or something. And he just takes it in his stride. I want to be able to do that. Mechs look at me all day like I'm the first energon they've seen in a month. I want to stop being scared by that – to stand out but not be overwhelmed. You know?" I faded to a stop. This was a lot to admit out loud to a stranger.
Firestar smirked. "I might understand you better than you think," she said. "And it's the perfect kind of question to bring into the Archives. Have fun, Rainbow. I'll be back in about an hour."
"You're leaving?" I squeaked, surprised. (And – since I'm being honest here – a little bit unsettled. Remember, I was used to being hyper-supervised by my worried creators. Some part of me felt Firestar was being irresponsible.)
"I have some other errands in the city," Firestar said. "This was my home, remember."
I would not ask her to stay with me, would not prove myself dependent. But my makers' talk of kidnappings had woven insidious tendrils through my spark. I admit it - I was afraid to be left alone. I looked for an excuse to keep Firestar there with me. "How will I find anything in this place without someone to show me how it works?" I demanded.
"Ask one of the librarians," she said. "It's what they're here for, after all." And with that, she turned around and walked back briskly up the hall and out the door.
I listened as the massive door groaned shut behind her. I may have even jumped a little, when its bolt clicked into place. I cycled a steadying ventilation through my systems. Then I turned, and faced the Hall of Records.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

XI

There's an oppressiveness to places that have History to them - you know, the ones where people try to walk without letting their feet clang too loudly. (I wonder if I'll always be an outsider in ancient places, a femme who hasn't lived enough to understand or to be worthy of them?) The Hall of Records was old - old in a way that few things on this planet really are, due to that Primus-and-Unicron melting thing Firestar'd explained to me. The floor was tiled in a mosaic of found items. I'm sure a warborn native would have understood the deep significance of every one. Me? I walked carefully around the edges.
I was out of place and clueless. But Firestar had said that I could find my Mystery Mech's name in here, and I was not about to waste this opportunity. I had not the faintest notion of where I should start. But I tiptoed into the vaulted central dome of the Archives.
I craned my head around, and let my mouth fall open. (No one else was there to see me, and this place deserved some gaping.) Like I said, it was a dome-complex – one massive central dome, with five smaller ones budding out around its sides. I could tell there was far more of this place underground than I had seen above. But this was no dark cave. The main dome's translucent, warm-hued panels let the sun's noon-light filter through, and gave the dust-specks shafts in which to dance. Thick trusses ran from the peak to the floor, widening as they went to take the weight. Between each truss were rows and rows of shelves – shelves filled to overflowing with datapads, communicubes, holograms, datadiscs, vidfiles, ancient rolls of magnetic infotape, and even some thin metal sheaves with glyphs incised into their surfaces.
Gingerly, half expecting it to crumble if I dared to touch it, I picked up a metal scroll. The writing on it was in simple, squared-off characters I'd never seen. I put it back, amazed, humbled, and wondering. Where would I find my mystery mech in all of this? It would take me a million years.
An unexpected motion up above and to my right startled me half to death. I whirled around, and saw I wasn't as alone as I had thought. Up on a curving balcony that ran around the dome's circumference 20 feet above my head, an unusually tall mech stood frowning at a hunk of metal with some lines of writing on it. He paid no attention to me, but pulled out a small fold-out console that was mounted on the wall, and typed a short, staccato entry on its keyboard. He grunted, and shook his head. He stooped to replace the old piece of metal on his cart. And then he saw me.
I froze, sure I would be thrown out. But he only nodded politely, and went on wheeling his cart full of ancient data devices along the balcony. Every few steps, he'd stop, stoop, and restore one of the items to its assigned shelf-space. I thought of glancing into his spark just to know the kind of mech he was. But I didn't want to deal with any extra history at the moment. He was just the librarian. And he radiated contentment - a mech happy in his vocation if ever I'd seen one. I decided to trust him without snooping, and ask for his help in finding my elusive not-a-newling Mystery Mech. I looked for a way up to his level, and found an ironwork spiral staircase.
"Hello?" I called after him as I climbed up. "I'm assuming that you work here? I need help, please."
He turned toward me with the warmest smile I'd ever seen, his optics crinkled with some deep delight. "I volunteer," he said, in a deep voice which could have been intimidating, but was somehow just reassuring instead. He struck a pose and declared with some pride, "I used to be a full-time Librarian, once. I haven't forgotten much. What can I help you find?"
I opened my mouth eagerly to answer him, but my vocalizer stalled. Now that the time had come to ask it, my question seemed so silly. And it didn't help that my processor kept telling me I should recognize this mech. But how could I? I'd never even been to this city before! I shushed the inner warning bells, and tried to think of how to ask about the silver mech without sounding foolish.
The Librarian saved me with a gentle question of his own. "How long have you been online, miss?"
"Twenty-three… no, twenty-four weeks," I answered.
He chuckled, and shook his blue-helmed head. "Measuring time in weeks!" He raised a hand to hide the smile that kept pulling at the corners of his mouth. (Sirens whooped within my brain, but nothing clicked. I didn't recognize him.) He slapped his hands on his thighs, snapping me out of whatever my hangup was. "So, newling of twenty-four weeks. Have you come looking for history or philosophy?"
"Neither." I shrugged, feeling more and more awkward. "Sorry."
"One of the more difficult questions, then!" The volunteer-librarian rubbed his hands together. "My lucky day. What's your name, knowledge-seeker?"
I forced my mouth open to say my awful name. And then I froze. My processor had finally caught up. I knew this mech. "No," I moaned, falling back a step. "Oh, no..."
I knew who Optimus Prime was. Of course I did. Judging by the way people talked about him, I was pretty certain there were organisms living under rocks on the far side of the galaxy who knew who Optimus Prime was. It was generally accepted that he was the greatest thing since refined steel. But in portraits, he was always shown as this heroic red and blue and silver powerhouse. With, I might add, a faceplate covering all but his eyes. Now that faceplate was missing. And he was somehow shelving datatracks in the Archives. "You-!" I gasped.
The sham librarian smiled ruefully. "Ah well. I did enjoy it while it lasted." He held out a hand to me. "My name is Orion Pax, but you look like you know me by a different title."
I shook his hand limply. "Optimus Prime. I'm honored to meet you, Sir."
"Oh, don't let's spoil it now," he begged. "I'm still a mech like any other. And I was so much enjoying being your librarian." He stooped down to my eye-level. "Now. What's your name, little one?"
I wanted to melt down through the floor. I wanted to make up a better name. But my cortex had turned to mush. "Rainbowsparkles," I finally admitted, in a whisper only finely calibrated spyware could have caught.
That, and Optimus Prime's sharp audials. He didn't laugh, though. That was something.
He smiled at me like warm sunshine, and straightened (pressing one hand to his back, which creaked). "Well, Rainbowsparkles, I'm here till dusk. And I know almost every piece of history in this place. I'd like to help you find what you are looking for, if you'll let me."
"But why- What are you doing here?" I gabbled.
"This is where I used to work a long time ago, before I was called to my current office." The Co-Commander of Cybertron glanced at me sidelong, measuring me up. "I sometimes want a respite from being 'Optimus Prime' for a few hours. Can you understand that, Rainbowsparkles?"
I looked into his big blue optics, and deflated. I understood. Of course I understood! I mean, not the whole 'Commander of Cybertron' part. But wanting respite from being what other people wanted you to be... I understood that all too well.
I nodded. I held out my hand to him again, this time more firmly. He shook it solemnly. And then he smiled right at me, like he knew me and he liked me. Just like that, I realized that I liked him back. Despite my own embarrassment and his wannabe librarian trick, I liked Optimus Prime. (Now that I think about it, I'm not sure it's possible to dislike him. I mean, you've met him, I assume. Yeah. He puts Andromeda's charm-generator to shame!)
"Now, Rainbowsparkles, what's your not-history-or-philosophy question?" he asked. "I'm itching to go sleuthing for the answer to it!"
I sighed, and leaned back against the railing. "I want to find out more about this mech. I thought he might be a newling - someone like me - but my makers insisted there are no mech newlings. I managed to confront him once, but he refused to give his name. So..." I shrugged. "Yeah, I was just wondering about him."
Prime gave me an amused, curious smile – the same one all warborns responded with when I showed them my newling's ignorance. Usually I hated it. But somehow coming from Optimus Prime, it read as… well, as love. (Don't laugh; you know it's true.)
"You liked him, didn't you?"
I floundered. "I don't know! I didn't-"
Prime held up a hand to stop me. "Never mind; it was an inappropriate question. Try this one instead: what made you think he was a newling?"
I sighed. This question again. I still wasn't any good at answering it. "Well..." I gestured to my iridescent self. "As you can see, my own creators tend to go for flashy or unusual designs. So I associate that sort of thing with newlings. And this bot was built like no warborn I've ever seen. He had this super-fancy headsculpt..." I stopped. "No, that's not it. It wasn't just his size or mold that made him stand out. He had this… absolute confidence." Optimus Prime looked at me with such understanding and compassion. I confessed before I thought to stop myself: "I wish I could have confidence like that! I sort of wanted him to teach me."
Prime smiled, and his gaze went far away. "I had a similar experience once... when I was young and new like you. It didn't turn out well for me. Not then." He shook the somber memory away, and rubbed a hand across his chest with a small, private smile. "Never mind, little one. Let's find out who this confident mystery mech of yours is. Follow me!" He strode away along the balcony until he came to the next floor-to-ceiling truss. From it, he pulled out one of those computer-consoles from the wall. But this one looked more heavy-duty than the little one he'd used before. He shot a sidelong glance at me. "You'd recognize an ident-portrait of him, I assume?"
"Of course!" I replied, biting back an admission of how much time I'd spent going back over memory-files of this confounding mech. I clenched my fists, and slowed my ventilation. "Yes. Of course I'd recognize him."
"Great. Then let me show you how to use this. It's a registry of every bot who's ever lived. I've made sure no one got left out. These are the Archives after all." Optimus Prime seemed overjoyed at the chance to pass on some of his knowledge. He was like Sunstreaker showing me when to downshift for added power on steep hills, or Thundercracker demonstrating aerobatic loops.
The computer's complex menu intimidated me; but Prime guided me through the different steps. He asked me all kinds of questions: What colors had the mech's armor been painted? Had his faction symbol been red or purple? How tall had he been? Had I seen any clues to his alt-mode – any wheels or tank-treads or rotors? We entered each description into the computer's database, narrowing our search with each new item.
His enjoyment of fact-hunting was infectious, and slowly I forgot he was the planet's Commander. I began to see myself as a resolute detective, instead of a silly newling who could never let a question go. (That's what Prime does to people. That's why everyone loves him.)
"Anything else?" he asked for probably the hundredth time.
I shook my head. "Nope. That's all I remember."
"Then let's see what the computer gives us!" He showed me where to enter in the last command, and waited, looking alert and triumphant.
There were 122 names and portraits in the list that finally showed up on the monitor screen. But most of them had big red X's over them. Prime told me to ignore those, sounding sad. (I missed the implication at the time.) I bounced on tiptoe, so excited to finally find out the identity of my stubborn mystery mech. I scrolled down through the ident-photos, looking carefully at each one.
Not him…
Not him…
Not him…
I came to the bottom of the list without success. I should have been disappointed. But it only made me angry. My hands tightened into fists, and I growled in frustration.
"Remember," Prime suggested gently, "We live for a very long time. And despite what I might have wished, there was a war. Our bodies were damaged and rebuilt many times. We all have changed. So don't get too stuck on the details. Think of who he is. Now, try again, little one."
I did. And this time, I did not search only for that flared head-crest. I looked for someone hefty, with that squared-off, solid build. But mostly, I looked for that certain lift of chin that I remembered so clearly.
No. This one was too timid...
This one was too self-conscious…
Too downtrodden...
"There he is!" I squealed in triumph, jabbing at the tiny image.
Behind me, Prime choked on a sudden cough. "That's the mech you've been looking for?"
I grew all flustered. "Well, it's not exactly what he looked like when I saw him, but you did say things might change..."
Prime dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder, which silenced me. "Are you sure, little one?" he asked, sounding all-at-once sad and elated and amused and terrified.
"Yes." I looked down at the little picture, then back up at him. "I'm sure. I saw him first at Tessarus six months ago, and then again at the airshow in Vos a few months later. I'd know him anywhere. What's wrong? Do you know him?"
Optimus Prime laughed weakly. "Do I know him? Primus!" He fell back a step, and scrubbed a hand over his maskless face. "What are the odds?" He leaned his elbows on the balcony's railing, and waved a hand at me. "Read the biotext, Rainbowsparkles. You might be in for a shock."
I willed myself to forget that Optimus Prime was watching me read. I leaned in close to the screen, and touched the portrait I'd recognized. The mystery mech's biotext began slowly scrolling up.
Megatron of Tarn, the screen said. Finally, I had his name! (Why did it sound so unexpectedly familiar?)

-Miner, C-12 Outpost; Decommissioned for insurrection...

-Gladiator, fight-pits of Kaon...

-Rebel...

-Founder of the Decepticon Faction...

(There was a long list of names and places that looked like battles and body-counts.)

-Co-Instigator of the Ceasefire...

-Bond-Brother to Optimus Prime...

-Member Command-Triad of Cybertron...

And now you're thinking I'm an idiot. I know I sure was.
Of course I hadn't studied my Commanders! Why should I? They were a constant, like the weather or the ground beneath my feet. And like the ground beneath my feet, I took them completely for granted. So did everybody else. I mean, sometimes someone would mention one of the Command Triad by name. But mostly, they were treated like a far-off force of nature. I'd never thought of as real!
But now I had met Optimus Prime in the Archives. And I'd found out that my Mystery Mech was Megatron. At this rate, all I could hope for was that Elita-One would not pop out from behind a bookcase.
I wracked my brain for bits of info I had gleaned about the government of Cybertron. Prime had been the red-face-badge leader, and Megatron the purple-face one, right? What had Elita done? I didn't know. I'd mostly cared that she was an actual warborn femme. Weren't there only, like six of them or something, after (according to what Firestar had told me) all the rest of them had left? I knew the tripartite leadership structure was new, because Sunstreaker and Thundercracker groused about it. I'd never cared; it didn't effect me. This screen sure did, though. It upended all my starry-eyed assumptions. I expanded Megatron's infospec, and scrolled again down the lengthy bio in a daze.
The grainy picture I had recognized showed the same mech I'd seen and obsessed over. Here, though, he looked markedly less fancy. A pockmarked, industrial-gray helmet hid the gilded crest I'd seen. His finish was scarred beyond repair. His massive arm-cannon was dented. But he still bore himself with the defiant confidence and pride that I'd admired and wanted to emulate. In the picture, he held his big gun high above an angry crowd, and they cheered for him. With him. Gave him all their adoration.
Just exactly like I'd done. I turned away from the computer screen.
"All right," I said to the fill-in 'Librarian.' "You've had your fun."
"I didn't mean to tease you," he insisted.
"But you must have found my ignorance amusing. I take it that both faceplates and helmets went out of style when the Great War ended?" I was angry, and spoke sharply. Yes, to Optimus-the-Commander-of-All-Cybertron-Prime.
His optics dimmed. "I guess they did," he said. Then like an oft-repeated mantra, he explained, "We both removed key items from our bodies to remind ourselves that we could change. To keep ourselves from going back to old bad habits."
I realized I'd said something stupid; maybe even hurtful. I wished I could self-destruct on the spot. Or maybe just blast Prime into oblivion. Right then, I didn't know which I'd prefer.
"Please." Prime raised his hands to calm me like I was a gear flown off its shaft. "I wasn't trying to make fun of you. Truly. It's only... You are the first bot I've ever met in my entire life who did not recognize Megatron. And that's – yes – amusing enough to keep me smiling for a week."
Megatron had said almost the same thing. I amused them.
I went from mortification to mad, blind rage.
Actually, not blind, but seeing rage. Because I dove straight into Prime's blue spark, right back to his beginning, looking for something I could hurt the big guy with. I'm not proud of this, and I've asked for his forgiveness. But what I never did admit to anyone was just how good it felt to slice in deep, to tear down through his spark with the intent to hurt him, to humiliate as I felt I had been.
I was a villain. And it still scares me how much I enjoyed it.
Heedlessly I cut through his spark. I wanted to catch Prime out, see 'Orion Pax' at his newest and weakest. Find where he'd slipped up and show it to him. I saw mistakes in there all right. But what I saw in the core of his rich blue spark just made me angrier than ever.
Because he had a multicolored spark. A spark like mine. The blue was twined throughout with ribbons of warm ivory and deep, dark red. He was like me. He should have known better. He should have read me and known better than to tease me!
I leaped out of his bright spark, enraged. "Why didn't you tell me you can read sparks, too?" I demanded. "Is it a secret? Even so, you know better than to tease a newling for the things she hasn't learned. You remember what it was like to be young and foolish – I saw it in your spark; you can't deny it! Why didn't you tell me we were alike the second I came in? Couldn't you see how lonely I have been? How scared I was to think I was the only one?"
The librarian-pretender version of Orion Pax vanished. In his place was Optimus Prime, Commander of all Cybertron. I stepped back, anger squelched by sudden fear.
"What do you mean, you 'saw it in my spark'?" There was a tone in Prime's resonant voice that would have drawn an honest answer from a stone.
I cowered. I was not a stone; I was a newling too afraid to speak.
Prime put a light hand on my shoulder, and compelled my by sheer force of will to meet his deep blue, ancient gaze. Prime pulled words out of me as easily as if he had connected a transmission line between us. But that doesn't mean that it was nice.
"Explain yourself," he said. "How do you know what's in my spark?"
"I can see it," I whispered, blinking.
"Clarify that, please."
I shuffled. "I've always been able to see them. If I look - really Look - I can read the color and coding." I shunted my vocalizer. "I was angry and wanted to find something to humiliate you. So I looked into your spark. It's how I knew you like to protect weaker things. How I know-" I broke and dropped my gaze to the floor. "...more about you than you prob'ly wish I did."
He made a surprised sound like he'd been punched - something like "Huh."
I waited.
He waited longer.
Like the amateur I was, I filled the silence. "It's why I got so angry, see? I mean, you love everybody, and you want to take care of them. Especially anyone smaller or weaker than you. I guess… I mean, I do realize you didn't mean to trick me. I just felt so foolish! And I'm sick and tired of feeling foolish! I just-" I stamped my foot. "I'm just so mad at you right now! So mad at stinking everyone!"
I babbled to a stop. I wished I could melt into ash. I envied the floor tiles, the bookshelves, the dust-specks floating in the sunbeams between Prime and me. They had all kept their secrets.
Prime pondered what I'd said to him for what seemed like a thousand years. "Can you do this at any time?" he asked. "Read sparks, I mean."
"Sort of." I shuffled my feet. "Sometimes, if I look too long or too deep, it kind of hurts me." I shrugged and waved my hands vaguely. "Not regular hurt like a flat tire or a joint that's twisted wrong - but something…" I rubbed the knuckle of my thumb against my chest. "It just hurts, you know?" I said. "In here. And… and sometimes I pass out." I could not believe I was confessing all of this to him!
"Would it hurt you to find out what my favorite color is?" he asked.
"Probably not..." I looked in quickly. "Pink," I answered. "Because... because it's Elita-one's paint-color?"
"Hmm." He nodded. But he didn't say anything in reply. Optimus Prime is not a mech on whom time weighs much.
"You said I was like you," he went on finally. "How so?"
"The colors," I whispered. "Your spark's not only blue. It's got that red and white in it. I thought..." I couldn't say it. I was still too disappointed.
He peered down at me. His optics were so ancient and so kind that I felt lost. "Is your spark more than one color, little one?" he asked gently.
"I guess so. I mean, when I was born, I saw myself as a bright ball of dancing colors." I shrugged. "Thus the ridiculous name.
"I understand." He dropped his gaze, and let me go.
I slid down to the floor and sat with my back against the railing, drawing my knees up to my chin like I always do when life is hard and I don't want to deal with it. I was so tired all of a sudden. "I want to go home," I whispered.
Prime sat slowly down beside me. (I could hear his old joints creaking.) He looked at me for another long moment, and spoke. "I'm not like you. I can't see sparks."
"Then why..." My throat constricted. "Why do you have those other colors? Please, I have to know. If you don't know the reason, can I look for it?"
Prime put a hand across his chest in the defensive shutting-out reflex that was now so familiar to me. I sighed, and turned my head away from him. I didn't want Optimus Prime to see me cry.
"My spark is tri-colored because I have two spark-mates." Prime's voice was quiet, but it startled me. "Do you know what a spark-mate is?"
I shook my head. "Not really." (By which I meant, "Not a clue.")
Prime huffed. "It's very… private. It involves a mingling of sparks. It's permanent."
"But that would mean you'd live the memories of whoever you mingled with!" I said, surprised.
He nodded. "Yes. And that's the point, I guess. Elita's spark and Megatron's are woven into mine. Elita-One and I bonded millions of years ago. Megatron- heh." The telltale corner of his mouth quirked once again. "He and I bonded much more recently." He turned to face me, and said oh-so-gently, "I do not have anything like your ability, small one. I'm just a regular mech."
"Oh. All right then." Fresh disappointment flooded through me. If my beloved mystery mech had to be the completely unattainable Commander Megatron, couldn't I at least have discovered I was not the only spark-reading freak?
Prime must've seen some of this in my face. He opened his arms, hesitated, and asked, "May I?"
I'm Thundercracker's daughter. Hugs are what he does when I'm feeling like a piece of scrap metal. (Which happens more than I would like.) Even Sunstreaker's not above a hug now and then. So it was habit - one of the few habits I'd had the time to make. I leaned into the shelter of Prime's arms just like I did at home. It was an automatic reflex.
I will say this - Optimus Prime's hugs do sort of make the world seem like a better place. For the first time all day, I felt safe. There was no demand on me; just a gift of what comfort he could give. Being given compassion without any strings attached was so unusual, and such a massive, mind-altering relief that I don't think I have the words for the sheer wonder of it. I made a little mewl of gratitude and snuggled in against his side like I would never leave.
Prime's deep voice rumbled up from his chest. "You say you can read any spark."
I nodded.
"And it doesn't hurt you unless you look too long or too deeply."
I nodded again.
"And you've been using Megatron as a role-model all this time."
I nodded, because why deny it?
"Want a job working with him?"
I jolted upright. "What?"
"Would you like to work with me, Elita, and Megatron?"
I drew back warily. Was this a joke? "A job doing what?"
Prime ex-vented slowly. "You might have heard some rumors about disappearances?"
I nodded, because he'd made it a question. (But he didn't need to know I'd gleaned my knowledge from eavesdropping.)
"Newling femmes are getting hurt. Creators are terrified. I want to protect them. So do Elita and Megatron. But no matter how much surveillance we do-"
I must have made a face, because he looked at me more sharply. "You resent your tracker, I take it?"
I shrugged. "I don't like being spied on."
Prime's optics dimmed. "Nobody does. But not even the trackers have given us any good leads. When we backtrack to the locations visited by femmes when they go off-grid, we find nothing. It's like trying to track smoketrails. And the newlings themselves can't help – their memories have always been scrubbed."
I looked up at him, horrified. "Their memories?" This was far worse than being monitored.
He stared down at me. "Yes. And I agree that it's abominable. No one's mind should be tampered with." The power of his steady blue gaze pinned me down. "But you can read sparks, Rainbowsparkles. That's something not even our medics can do." He sighed. "You don't like to be spied on. So you're not going to like this. But I'm still going to ask you. Would you be willing to use your unique talent to spy into the sparks of bots who might tell us how to stop what's been happening to newling femmes?"
He wasn't joking. This was not a prank. I stared back at Optimus Prime. "You're right. I don't like it," I said.
He didn't answer. He just waited for me to make my decision. And I will say this for him: he didn't try to pressure me. He didn't make me feel like there would be bad repercussions if I refused him.
"You do realize what you're asking," I said.
Prime looked at me. "I'll do my best to understand exactly what I'm asking of you, little one. I'll also do my best to protect you, no matter what you choose. But you have the capacity to save many of your fellow femmes from harm. And no one else can do what you can do."
"I know. It's just-" I grimaced. "My own makers are afraid of my spark-reading. They try to pretend otherwise, but they hate that I can see into them. They see me as a mutant; a mistake."
His eyes narrowed.
"They love me! I know that. But... yeah. This thing I can do is taboo. And if even my makers are freaked-out by it – if even they resent me for it – think how mechs who've never met me would feel if they found out."
"We'd keep your secret, Rainbowsparkles."
I seriously considered following Prime back to Command Mountain or wherever his base was. I probably could save my fellow newlings from violation. But there was also a much less honorable reason for my being so tempted. Saying yes to his proposal would mean working with Megatron.
But it might also drive me mad. And it would mean becoming a sneaky, spark-invading spy.
I straightened my spinal strut, reached out, and shook his hand. "Thank you for helping me today. I'm sorry, but I can't return the favor."
He squeezed my hand in both of his. "So am I," he said gravely. "So am I."
Before he could convince me to do otherwise, I pulled my hand free, and walked away from Optimus Prime.
Firestar found me waiting for her out in the sunshine by the Archives' entrance.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

XII

I don't remember much from the drive home. I was so tired, I could barely keep up with Firestar's taillights. The low-slung shape of our apartment had never looked so welcoming as it did when we returned.
I remember half-heard whispers between Firestar to my makers. I remember someone plunking an entire cube of white energon in front of me, with the order to "Drink up." I remember Thundercracker half-carrying me to my recharge chamber. I remember how, when I rebooted the following morning, I found that every inch of me was shining – and Sunstreaker never once chastised me for the scuffs I'd put into my plating. It was as if my whole trip to the Archives never happened.
But it had. And I was different.
I studied every day for hours now, with purpose. This wasn't just a hope to impress Firestar when my turn came around again. This was for me. I was done being ignorant.
I read voraciously: everything from history and literature to language and philosophy, trying to understand the ancient culture I'd been forged into. I returned to the broken highway where Sunstreaker had first shared his love of stunt-driving with me; and there I practiced, trying to dodge and leap and climb with something like Firestar's ability. I asked Windchaser for tips, then flew as far as Thundercracker would allow, attempting every crazy trick she had suggested. I asked questions till my makers clapped their hands over their audials, and begged me to leave them in peace.
I'd stagger into my recharge chamber at each day's end with my servos shaking from long use, my cortex dizzy from downloading input. Then I'd lie down on my berth, lace my fingers behind my head, shut down my optics, and listen to Megatron reading his poetry.

I'd stumbled on the rare recordings in my study of pre-War literature.
At first, I'd balked. My obsession with Megatron had brought me nothing but embarrassment; so hearing him was painful. But I listened to a few verses (hey, how could I resist?), and secretly hoped they'd be junk.
On the surface, his poems were easy: images of simple, daily things. He sounded like he had felt out-of-place, controlled by forces he resented, at odds with people he'd hoped to respect – and these were things I understood too well. But running through the sparse words, I heard a complex, gut-deep protest that I felt down to my core, but did not understand at all.
I'd listened on that first day with my mouth open. This was as close to meeting newling Megatron as I could get. I combed the datanet for more recordings.
I never told my makers, though. I worried they'd be jealous if I said that someone else's words were my favorite companion. Besides, the poems had been marked "Private." So I was probably snooping into places where I had no right – spying on newling Megatron just as Command now spied on me through my tracker. It felt wrong. But I could no more have stopped listening than I could have stopped transforming. His voice – a little smoother way back then, but still magnetic; low and dark like a black hole at the edge of the universe – it sucked me in. And every day, his old words haunted me like stolen property I could never return.
Young Megatron railed nightly in my audials: his short, staccato stanzas crying out against those who held power, but refused to use it to help others. His words bored into my brain. I started wondering if my refusal to be Prime's spark-spy had been correct, or merely selfish. Megatron hated weakness – both his own and that of others. I was weak, all right. Vulnerable to other people's memories. And that weakness made me shrink in fear from reading sparks.
But there was one important thing I'd learned in these past weeks of preparation for Firestar's next visit. I had learned that I could change. Very well then. I'd change. Just as I'd honed my physical abilities, I would work on my spark-reading. I would study. I would practice. I would arm myself against those old, dead memories, and become someone who could use her power to help.

I studied the nature and mystery of sparks, gleaning everything I could from old medical journals. I searched the datanet for something more, but there was nothing on spark-reading. I convinced Sunstreaker to drive with me to Iacon, where I could check the Archives once again. But there was no record of any other transformer who could do what I did (and no Prime to help me find it, though I doubt I would have told him what I was looking for had he been there).
Finally, I confided in Thundercracker. I told him how I was afraid this talent might curse me for life. Told him I wanted to learn how to ride the currents, instead of drowning in the undertow of others' sparks. I told him how hard it had been to refuse Blot, after everything I'd seen in his spark. "I've got no armor, Dad," I said. "You think I'm penetrating where I have no business being; but it gets inside me, too." I sighed. "I want to learn how to protect myself."
He took my hands and looked at me for a long time. "Sunstreaker would throw a rod," he said. Dropping his gaze, he squeezed my fingers and let go. "So we won't tell him." He rose, and started pacing back and forth across the room. "I'll help you practice. But you have to promise you will follow my instructions, and look only where I give you permission." He stopped, and stared hard at me. "Do you promise, sweetheart?"
I nodded, surprised. "I'll do my best, Dad. Controlling where I look is the whole point."

We waited till Sunstreaker left to oversee a reconstruction project way over in Simfur. Thundercracker waved him off as usual, but then he shut and locked the door. I hovered nearby, waiting, trying to look busy while Thundercracker slumped in his favorite chair and stared at nothing. He wouldn't speak or look at me for over an hour. I was polishing Sunstreaker's award-shelf for the fourth time, when Thundercracker raised world-weary optics to my face, and spoke. "Ten seconds. If your eyes don't go from white to yellow when I give the signal, I will turn your head away myself. Agreed?"
I dropped the dusting-cloth, and tiptoed silently to stand in front of him, like he was some wild turbofox and might run any second. "Agreed," I whispered, vocalizer too keyed-up to do more than a squeak. (I was scared too, now that it had come down to it!)
"Ten seconds," he repeated sternly. I waited, while my maker searched he memories for several minutes. "Look for my first flights, 'Bow," he said at last. "I don't remember much before the War, but those ought to be safe enough."
I gulped an inhalation of cool air, and looked. I followed down and in and back, looking for sky and joy and speed. I sought delight...

...And felt the wind slicing apart against my wings. The hungry power of my engines drove me forward, up and out. I felt the exultation of real freedom in an unpolluted sky. I shouted (in Thundercracker's voice), and flew a coil of joyful loops across a pristine, eye-bright blue...

"Time," Thundercracker called from far away. His voice was old and cracked and tired. I felt a hand over my optics, stumbled forward. He caught me. I cycled air: in, out, and in again.
"You were so happy!" I whispered. "What happened?"
"The War happened. Now let's deal with today's problems. For instance, reading's left you weak. You almost fell."
"Only because I knew you'd catch me." I tried to make light of it. But he was right. I had to do better.
"Let me try again, Dad," I begged. "Please."
He looked at me, his mouth pressed tight. "All right. Go in again. Same subject. 15 seconds. If you collapse on your return, we'll stop."
I pulled myself together. Then, I looked...
...and saw the new-made world through Thundercracker's young, unjaded optics. This Cybertron was shiny, new, and free; and it was his. It was so different from the world I lived in. This Cybertron was full of people. No one wore any badges; so nobody looked sideways at anybody else for wearing the wrong color. But I didn't care much about that after I noticed all the femmes. They were everywhere! Hundreds of them! I strained to see, but Thundercracker hadn't cared enough about them way back then to look at them more closely. He was flying, and the femmes would always be there when he landed...
"Time."

I dug in, scrambling to hold onto this vision from the past. Here were other femmes like me…!

"Time, Rainbow. Come on out now." I felt strong hands turning me around, and I was booted out of Thundercracker's spark.
I shook off my maker's hands, and turned to face him with no trace of weakness in my knees. (I was too angry.) "Dad! The old femmes! There were hundreds! Maybe thousands!"
"Calm down, Rainbow."
"But Dad!"
"No buts. They left us. Didn't care enough about us mechs to stay."
I looked at him: an old and battered mech so unlike the young version I'd just seen. I hugged him tight. "I'm here now, Dad."
"I know, sweetling. I know."
"Dad, Firestar told me the femmes left here a long time ago. But do you think they might come back to Cybertron someday?"
Thundercracker shook his head firmly. "Rainbow, I had to stop hoping that a couple million years ago."
I didn't say anything back, honest. But Thundercracker must have read my feelings on my face. "Drop it, Rainbow!" he ordered sharply. "Each bot repairs his own wounds. It's what I was taught, and it's what I'm teaching you today. No matter what you see in someone's spark, leave them to deal with their own slag! Don't try to take their problems on yourself."
I looked down at my maker – the mech who'd just let me look into his pale spark, so that perhaps in time, my talent wouldn't hurt me. And I knew what he'd said was wrong. "But Dad. You and Sunstreaker never leave me to heal my own wounds. I mean, you're helping me right now."
He slumped, the wide wings drooping on his back. "Oh, sweetheart. I made you. I care about you too much to let you fend for yourself."
I reached out, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I care about you too, Dad. I want to help you, just like you help me."
He huffed. "That's not your job, 'Bow."
But I knew one thing I could do. "Here" I said. "Let me show you something." I unspooled the transfer-cord out from my wrist. He looked up at me mutely. "Take it," I ordered. He plugged the thin cord into his wrist-port. I transferred to him everything I had experienced during those short seconds in his spark – the wild joy and freedom he had felt so long ago when he was new.
His slumped wings lifted just a little. He smiled at me – just a little one, and crooked, but a smile. "Hundreds of femmes, huh?"
I gave an embarrassed shrug. "Aw, come on, Dad. Of course I was interested in other bots like me." I grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "Come on. The sun is warm, and there'll be updrafts by the Manganese Mountains. Let's do some flying."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

XIII

Five weeks, three days, and seventeen hours after our first meeting, Firestar shook me awake from a deep recharge cycle. "Up an' at 'em, 'Sparky. The shuttle leaves for Kaon in 30 minutes. Get fueled-up. I have a job offer for you."
I lay there a few moments, stunned. (Where were Sunstreaker and Thundercracker? Who had let Firestar in here?) Then my cortex snapped into overdrive, and I scrambled blearily after my mentor.
Sunstreaker almost made us late when he insisted that I run through the washracks before I left. "Take care of her!" he pleaded, as we transformed in the driveway. "Not a scratch on her, do you hear me?" Firestar gave him her solemn promise that she'd do her best, and we raced away. We hurried aboard a big construction-transport shuttle, moments before it took off. (This one was mostly full of steel siding-sheets.) Firestar and I drew stares from the half-dozen other mechs catching a ride, but no one spoke to us.
Kaon is almost on the opposite side of the planet from Tessarus. But we were lucky; this shuttle was a speedy one. Before things could get seriously uncomfortable with our fellow passengers, we touched down on Kaon's outskirts. ("It's too jumbled in there for a full-sized docking bay," Firestar explained.) We then drove into a city that would have had Sunstreaker in fits.
And I'd thought Iacon a mess! "What's with this place?" I asked. "It looks like a forgotten garbage dump!"
Firestar drove like she expected the soot-streaked walls to cave in on her. "Kaon was never a planned city. Just a shantytown of outcasts, druggies, and anyone else who couldn't pay the rent on a real apartment. It grew up almost overnight as things went sour between the factions." Firestar downshifted, and I had to speed up to catch her. "The squatters here built walls, of a sort, when the War started in earnest. Barricades made out of broken hovels and the corpses of the slain." She missed a gear-change, and her engine growled. "After the rest of the femmes left, I holed up in a corrugated lean-to on the South wall. It was years before Elita-One found me." Her wheels skidded on a turn.
I slewed round the corner close behind, trying to keep up with the taillights of her red truck-alt. "But I thought you said you lived in Iacon?"
She snorted. "I'm eleven million years old, Rainbow. I've lived pretty much everywhere on this planet at one time or another. But this place..." Again, her gears ground roughly. "Not my most pleasant memory. If I had half a Shanix for each time I've wished I'd left with Strika and the others..."
She wrenched the wheel, as if to drag herself out of the past. "A certain mech who holds your interest also made this place his home," she remarked archly. "Megatron came up through the illegal gladatorial gambling circuit here.
"Who told you I was interested in Megatron?" I demanded.
"I report everything I do with all the newling femmes to the High Command Trine." She skidded around another corner. "Sometimes they report things back to me."
I felt betrayed. First Megatron, now Prime. I was starting to think the High Command existed to embarrass me. If this was how things went with them, I hoped I never met Elita-One.
We were passing a massive, rusted-out old stadium, its roof caved in and all its seating full of crumbled slag, when Firestar said, "Megatron made this place powerful. It was a wicked power, but it was recognized by everyone. His influence went deep here, in the tunnels and the refuse-heaps. Its hold slowly spread over the planet. Like a cancerous growth, some people said, but no one could stop it..."
"It's better now, though, right?" I squeaked.
"Everyone says so." Firestar revved her engines. "Come on. We're not there yet."
We did not stop at any of the old fight pits, though we drove by several more sinkhole-like stadiums. We did not visit the place where Megatron had first openly declared Decepticon rebellion, although Firestar pointed out its direction as we crossed an intersection. And I never found out where Firestar had propped her lean-to, all that time ago. We skipped all relics of the past, and drove straight into a sudden blinding blaze of colored lights.
Kaon was huge; and most of it was still post-cataclysm slag. But somewhere near the center, the city ceased to be a corpse-like husk, and morphed into a raucous, neon-lit, unruly, neverending street-party.
"Are you sure we're still in Kaon?" I asked Firestar in a daze.
Firestar had to shout over the sound of horns, curses, competing types of music, and drunken laughter. "Yup. This quadrant here is mostly Spangle's doing." She braked to a stop, and transformed. "There," she pointed. I also transformed, and stared up at a huge lump of a building with more neon on it than I'd ever thought was possible. It looked like someone had dumped out a city's weight of broken party favors, then tried to make a mound-fortress out of it. "The Hub," Firestar explained. "It's pretty much the opposite of every other place you've visited."
I gaped. The whole place was kind of amazing in its brazen ugliness. (Sunstreaker would have exploded and died.) "What is it?" I asked weakly.
"Neutral ground," Firestar said, hand on her hip. "And believe me, that's quite an achievement, even nowadays. But more than that – the Hub is everything we never did in war." She started walking toward the huge, excrescent hulk. "Come on. No substitute for experience. Stick close to me, and you'll be fine."
Once again, Firestar was telling me to do things I was pretty sure my makers would forbid in horror. I stiffened my backstrut, and followed Firestar.
As we approached the neon-lit monstrosity, I detected a rhythmic pulse beneath my feet. Nearer, and it resolved into music – music like I'd never heard or felt before. Music that overpowered all the rest of the noise-tapestry around us. My spark-pulse quickened to synch with the thudding beat. I think if I had been offline or dead, I still could not have stopped the growing frenzy of excitement rising up inside my chest.
Firestar knocked at an unimpressive sliding cargo door a little way down a narrow sidestreet. Like the rough cast-iron walls around it, it was covered with fluorescent graffiti. This was obviously not the main entrance; but a wall-mounted camera swiveled to scan over us. Out of a crackling wall-mounted speaker, a rich female voice asked, "Who've ya got for me this time, Firestar?"
"Let us in Spangle," she replied. "This one is shy."
With clangs and squeals, the door slowly rolled open to receive us, and the music swallowed me alive.

I grabbed hard onto Firestar's hand, and followed her through a kaleidoscopic maze of light, color, and sound, to a nondescript little door I didn't notice till we were right next to it. We entered; it hissed shut behind us; and all sound abruptly ceased. Much later, I was impressed by such soundproof walls (and hoped my makers never put them on my room.) Right then, though, I just stood there, with my audials still ringing.
Firestar did some quick little hand-gesture I was too dizzy to catch, and greeted the thickset femme sitting there, behind a massive desk-station. "Hello, Spangle."
The big femme nodded. "Nice to see you again, Firestar. As always. Have a seat."
The new femme – in whose sanctum I guessed we were standing – was like nobody I'd ever seen. She was brazen. She was broad. She was an optic-searing combo of magenta, pink, and teal. I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. "Who's this sweet young thing then?" she asked, pointing at me.
"This is Rainbowsparkles," Firestar answered. "She's the last of Sunstreaker and Thundercracker's making."
I had a sudden sinking feeling. "This isn't the 'job offer,' is it?" I pleaded.
Spangle laughed. Deep, full-throated, and completely free from embarrassment. "Oh honey. Most all newlin's end up workin' with me for a spell. Bartendin', waitressin', clearin' tables, settin' things up backstage for the performers. But this ain't a place you work at for the rest o' your life. Nah… You'll high-tail it outta here the moment you get yourself figured out. But it's as good a place as any to learn how to navigate the slippery ways of mechs and femmes on this here planet." She reached over the huge desk to pat my hand. "The mechs is just as confused as we are, child. I've built us a practicin' ground. Thought maybe we'd need it. There's sure-enough bots willing to practice warring. But nobody thought to practice makin' friends." She winked at Firestar. (How did she get away with that?) "So far, it's workin'. I got me a few big bruisers to throw out anyone who takes it into their fool head to do somethin' stupid. But most bots just come here to socialize, have a few drinks, listen to music, dance… It all works out.'
"Dance?"
"Yup! Ain't you learned yet?"
"I don't think so, no. I'm not sure I even know what it is..."
"Heh. You'll find out soon enough, sugar. And mayhaps you'll even like it!"
I was bewildered. "Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm Spangle. Didn'cha hear ol' Firestar here call me by name?"
"Yes. But-" I shook my head. "I've never heard of you. You're not in the datanet's list of surviving pre-War femmes. What planet did you come from?"
Spangle fell back in her half-sprung chair, and laughed till I thought she'd break something. Even Firestar chuckled. "I'm from this planet right here, sweetie. I woke up in the Chamber just like the rest o' y'all did, but there was no one there to meet me. Not sure if I disappointed my makers, or intimidated 'em. But whatever it was, I've not seen bolt nor brisket of 'em. Kinda made it easier to do my own thing, I reckon."
"When?" I asked, spellbound. "When did you come online?"
"Long about ten years ago I reckon. Maybe fifteen. Before the Cataclysm, anyway. Don't keep track o' the old chronometer these days – too busy! Ain't got time to spare for yesterday, when today's filled up to burstin'."
Firestar turned to me, and I recognized her lecture mode. "The Hub's a kind of halfway house for newlings: it's a step somewhere between living at home with your creators, and complete autonomy out in the world. Spangle makes sure you're safe, but that's about all she does. The rest you'll have to work out for yourself. Is that something you'd be interested in doing for a while?"
I looked at Spangle. She was a heavy-duty hauler. No sign of fancy gimmicks. No hint of makers' intent on her frame. No one had tried to make her into anything; she'd made herself. She had that same self-confidence I'd so admired in Megatron; but unlike him, she was a newling like me. "Yes!" I said. "I want to work with you!"
Spangle smiled like she knew me. "Wonderful," she said, drawing the word out into a whole paragraph of sound. "When do you want to start, darlin'?"
"Oh! Um…" Second thoughts crashed into my cortex. "I'm not sure. There's not always a shuttle traveling from Tessarus to Kaon, and the flight's several hours long." I sighed. "I might have to say no after all. It's too far away from home."
Again, Spangle gave me that knowing smile. "Most femmes alternate between weeks at home and weeks workin' for me," she said. "It's easier. An' it gives you a taste of independence, without cuttin' the cord entirely. Here's my hailin' frequency-" From a light in her fingertip, she shone a series of numbers onto the desk's smooth surface. I committed the image to memory.
Spangle rose ponderously. "Call me when you decide you're ready, hun," she said, patting me heavily on one shoulder. "Now, I got lots o' work to do, so if you'll please excuse me-"
Firestar rose quickly. "Is Roadbuster working today?" she asked, in tight voice I had never heard before.
Spangle gave her a very knowing look. "Why yes, he is. How's about you two gals find yourselves a table, order up a couple drinks, and I'll send him over to check on ya."
"Thanks," Firestar said stiffly. Then she added, "If he's not too busy."
"No one's started throwin' chairs yet, hun. So he's most likely standin' in a corner, bored to death." Spangle's expression softened. "I'm sure he'll be right happy to see ya, Firestar."

It was midday, when most bots worked on whatever projects they had going. So there were plenty of empty tables. Firestar chose one in an out-of-the-way corner, next to a mirrored wall which let her watch the bots around us without seeming to do so. I wondered what we were hiding from, and how worried I should be. But no one bothered us. None of the other mechs even spoke to us. Once we sat down, the few mechs nearest us rose in unison, and moved away. It was as if we had some kind of horrible disease, and they didn't want to risk infection.
"What's up with everybody?" I asked Firestar in a whisper. "Is there something wrong with us?"
"No, Rainbow," she sighed. "We're just femmes. You'll understand eventually. For now, let's get some fuel. They have some tasty new distillates here." She touched the table to illuminate the menu. "What looks good?"
She was right. I didn't understand. So I was scared. I darted glances into the sparks of the mechs around the room, looking for threat. I read them as they talked behind their hands, trying to look and not to look at us. Every spark pulsed with hard emotions – Desire, Regret, Self-Loathing, Guilt, Worship. And all their focus was on us. "I'm sorry," I asked Firestar shakily, "What did you say?"
"What do you want to drink?" she repeated.
"Oh–" I tried to read the menu and gave up. "Just regular, I guess. Do they have basic energon?"
"Distracted?" Firestar asked.
I nodded, hunching in. "What should we do?"
"Ignore them," Firestar said shortly. "It's something all of us have to get used to."
Ignore them? How? How could Firestar be so unfeeling? For an instant, I hated her for her hard heart. Then I thought, why not? and looked into her spark as well.

Firestar had long ago forgotten what it felt like not to be stared at with hunger in the street. Her every move was shadowed by the grasping, hopeless wish of a society forever bleeding from the loss of one-third of its members. She was a single remnant from the balancing third faction in society's triangle. It had been strong once, so long ago that no one could remember. But the femmes had left Cybertron. And society had collapsed.

Although Elita-One and the few rebel femme remainders formed a tight sisterhood, it could never be the same. Not with every mech on the planet acting like a desperate amputee around them. It was hard to remember how to be a femme, when everyone around you was a mech...

I shook myself free of her. Free of the hopelessness of what I'd seen in her. I thought about the other newling femmes. (Always femmes; never mechs.)
"Just press a button," said Firestar impatiently. "It doesn't really matter; all of Spangle's drinks are good."
"What?"
Just then, a massively-built brown-orange-and-green mech strolled toward us. He was carrying a pitcher of some glowing yellow fuel. He poured it into three cubes, not two, then stood awkwardly, waiting. Around us, every other mech's spark-emotion swung hard to Jealousy, and all their optics locked on him.
"Rainbowsparkles, this is Roadbuster," Firestar said, and handed me a drink. She gave a little hesitating glance up at the big bot, and then added, "He's my friend."
"Hullo," said the mech gravely.
"Hello," I waved back, suddenly shy.
"Have a seat, if you'd like." Firestar indicated the stool beside her.
"All right." The big mech sat down cautiously, grabbed the third drink-cube, and took a hasty pull from it. He choked.
"You OK?" asked Firestar. She was sitting painfully upright. So was he. But the air vibrated between them. I might as well have not been there.
"Yeah," he said. "You?"
"I'm OK too," she said.
We sat in profound silence for an agonizing minute. No one in the room said anything.
Roadbuster finished his drink in a final, desperate gulp. "Well, gotta run." He stood. "Nice to see you, Firestar."
"You too," she whispered. For a split second, she reached out and touched him. It looked like an accident. But I fully expected the very air to crack.
Roadbuster froze, rocking back on his heels at her touch. Then he walked off into the dark recesses of the Hub. Firestar drained her cube, I drained mine, and we followed the floor-lighting paths down to the main doors and out into the bright afternoon sunshine.
I had a million new questions for Firestar. But I knew better than to ask any one of them.

We drove in silence. I was grateful to be out of the all the neon and the noise. The sun was slanting lower now, casting dark shadows out across our path. Firestar drove distractedly, and more than once we had to double back. According to my handy map, we were returning to the transport shuttle depot; but Firestar kept hesitating as we passed through every intersection. Finally, she turned a corner. "I just need to make a quick stop," she explained. "It won't take long. And we've still got plenty of time before the shuttle leaves."
I followed her. But I was getting tired of new things. I hoped wherever she was going, it would be boring and uncomplicated.
My first thought when she stopped was that we'd gotten lost. But she transformed, so I knew this was it. Whatever "it" was.
"There's nothing here," I said, still in alt-mode, my engine idling. "Nothing still standing, anyway."
"Still standing doesn't matter," she said curtly. "That's not the point of this place."
We'd stopped beside the broken curve of a large, once-white cylinder of metal. It lay half-buried on the ground, streaked with the rust and grime of ages. It was a ruin among other crumbled ruins, but it felt separated from the chaos all around it. It was a dirty white, for one thing. (Up to now, Kaon had been all black and gray, if you discounted the eye-burn neon around the Hub). And it was quiet. No one spoke above a whisper. No one revved their engines loudly. I began to get that uncomfortable feeling ancient places give me – that unwanted, out-of-place feeling. Firestar was no help; she left without another word and went to join the twenty or so bots milling around the place. Twenty bots, but not one of them acknowledged any other's existence. Their optics were all turned inward.
So Firestar refused to tell me what this was about. But I had learned how to get answers on my own. So I tucked myself into a corner where I could see Firestar clearly, but be mostly unobserved, brought out the portable datapad Sunstreaker had recently given me (probably because he was sick of my answering my questions) and accessed the datanet. I made one last check to make sure no one was paying attention to me (Firestar was walking silently down narrow, hand-cut steps into a sunken area beside the once-white cylinder's curved wall) And then I tapped the screen online.
I found a map of Kaon, and traced our route in and out. Sure enough, there was a little icon at the place where we were stopped. I touched it to see what this place was called.
Fallen Spire, said the datanet. Ruin of the first Temple of Peace. Original pre-Cataclysm site.
I sat, and hunched my knees around the datapad. Anything listed in its "Original Site" was always a bad sign for me. The level of too-old-for-me oppressiveness had just leapt up several notches.
I found a picture of the place before it had been bombed. There was only the one, and it was colorless and grainy. So far, in all my digging, I'd found that the older something was, the more corrupted the data about it. This dim picture was another bad sign. But despite the poor image, I recognized the white tower now lying in the dust in front of me.
There was a single journal from pre-War times that looked like it might give me more information. But like the photograph, it too was age-corrupted. And the author was unknown.

In the beginning, we believed the fighting would last at most a vorn or two. No more. Longer than that smacked of insanity. We'd seen the horror of true death for the first time. Our Medics [...] unable to rebuild some of those injured in the fighting. Their sparks went out. The trauma of that permanence hit all of us. […] When the first hold was called, we built the Peace Temple as a sign of our promise to confront our differences without murder. Both Autobots and Decepticons – and Neutrals too; there were a lot of us back then – helped with the work. For a while, it seemed […] But 
our mistake was in building only one temple. Bots on the northern hemisphere – where most of the Autobot sympathizers clustered – had to travel into the heart of Decepticon territory to visit the Temple of Peace. Vows of non-violence made here were seldom renewed. And in the growing resentment of faction-against-faction, they began to be forgotten.

I looked up. I watched as Firestar reached out to touch the wall, but hesitated, stopped, and let her hand fall back. I read the final, heartbreaking line in the old record: Our people are oath-breakers. I myself have broken all my vows. I will deserve it if true-death takes me.
This place had nothing to do with me. And I was probably not allowed. But I was curious. So I stood up, and tiptoed after Firestar down into the sunken ground beside the fallen spire. One or two mechs frowned at me; but most never even lifted up their darkened optics. Careful not to disrupt anyone, I sidled closer to Firestar.
I stood only a foot away from the pockmarked, pale surface now. I did not recognize the material – I'd have to find a way to ask Sunstreaker what it was. Its whiteness was so long corroded that to call it white was more a charitable lie than honest truth. Rust-orange ran all down its slope in streaks. Greenish mold grew up from the bottom. And the whole thing looked like it would crumble any second. This close, I could see that each one of its uncounted cracks and fissures had been stuffed with data-sticks, bits of inscribed metal, memory-slugs, and even carved in tiny, delicate graffiti. Was this all some kind of ad-hoc mortar? I didn't see how that would work.
Between Firestar and me, a short, purple and yellow mech with smokestacks and a dour expression touched his helm delicately to the encrusted wall, and muttered something that I couldn't hear. He took out a tiny communicube, and shoved it into the nearest crevice. Then he turned, and shuffled off as if he bore a hundred-ton weight on his back.
But as he left, the cube he'd left fell out of the overstuffed crack. I almost called out after him, but stopped myself. This place was not for shouting. So instead, I reached down for the cube, intending to replace it where he'd left it.
When I touched it, everything went dark.
And in that silent place, I heard myself begin to scream.
"No!" Firestar knocked the datacube from my hands, hefted me across her shoulders, and half-ran up the crumbling stairs and away from the temple-spire. We were almost back at me hidden corner, when she dropped me. "Did you see anything?" she demanded, shaking me by the shoulders.
"I don't understand what I saw," I choked, "But it was horrible." I groped for words. My tanks churned. I felt sick. "There was a mech. Tied to a table. Some other mechs were asking the same questions over and over… And they – they cut him when he didn't answer..." I held down a rising surge of bile, but just barely. "He couldn't talk, Firestar! He tried to answer, but he couldn't talk! If they'd just scanned his vocalizer-!" I shook my head, but the images stayed. "It was awful! What was that?"
Firestar sighed sharply, and flopped down on the ground beside me with her back against a safe, black wall of regular old scrap. "It's irresponsible to leave touch-transfer cubes," she said. "But I imagine bots who leave a cube like that aren't thinking about much beyond the leaving."
I looked back at the mechs gathered beside the fallen spire. Firestar was right; although a few glanced dully over at us, none had followed us to offer help. This was so different from the way mechs usually treated femmes that I assumed something was wrong with all of them. But I was too scarred by what I'd just seen to try peeking in any of their sparks.
Firestar swore to herself in a whisper. "Slag. Her makers are gonna kill me." She glanced down at me warily. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"I think so." My spark fluttered in my chest, and my vents were faster than usual. But otherwise, I was OK. I wasn't sure what I'd escaped, but I was glad I'd gotten out of it so quickly. "What- " I stopped, and started over. "Why do people leave communicubes here, touch-transfer or otherwise?"
Firestar let out another long, deep sigh. "We come to leave the memories we can no longer carry," she explained. "We download the root file into a cube, or record it onto a data-stick-"
"Or carve it in tiny grafitti," I suggested, remembering what I had seen.
"Sometimes, during the worst days of the War, yes," Firestar agreed. "We download the memory, and we leave it here. It's not a good idea to lose a memory. But some bots have too many bad memories to process-"
"-Like Sunstreaker and Thundercracker, and their visits to that scary gray building," I put in.
"Yes. But for some bots, the scary gray building's not enough. Not even Prime's new Matrix can heal everyone's old pain."
Firestar stood up. "Come on. The shuttle's leaving in a few minutes. We'd better be on it or your makers will be even less likely to let me take you anywhere."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XIV-

That night, not even Megatron's poems would stop the nightmares.
I onlined with a rush of panic in the dark, as a scream that wasn't my own echoed in my memory. They'd kept cutting, cutting, never realizing that his vocalizer was so damaged that he couldn't tell them where the base was even if he'd wanted to. And oh, he'd wanted to... I wished I'd never seen that blasted communicube.
I knocked tentatively at Thundercracker's door, with the night full of horrors pressing in behind me.
"I expected you," he said sadly.
"I didn't even tell you anything!" I protested, trying to hide my shaking.
Thundercracker drew me in and hugged me. "Oh sweetheart. We know all about nightmares."
Footsteps pounded down the hall, and Sunstreaker burst in. "Is she-?"
Thundercracker acknowledged him, but didn't loose his hold on me. "You were right." He grimaced. "...Unfortunately."
Sunstreaker plunked down beside us, huffed something I couldn't hear, and patted my back awkwardly. "I recognized it from your walk," he told me. "Sideswipe used to come in from a bad fight looking exactly like you did."
"We'll both stay with you tonight," said Thundercracker; and he raised a hand to stop me from protesting. "We'll regulate your charger's output levels to keep your processor from fluxing.
I looked up at him, surprised. "You know how to do that?"
Sunstreaker huffed. "Trust me. A few million years of war-fallout will give you lots of practice. We always took care of one another on and off the battlefield." He drew himself up with pride. "It's the Autobot way."
Thundercracker snorted. "It's the Decepticon way too, you idiot. None of us wanted battle-maddened crazies at our backs."
"Am I crazy?" I asked, in rising panic. (Would I have to visit that scary gray building? Would I have to face Prime – or some unknown medic – like they had?)
"No, little one." Sunstreaker's vocals were rough with emotion. "Everyone has fluxes now and then. Tonight's just-" (he muttered something about Firestar in an undertone) "...a mistake. Something bad got in past our protection. We failed you." He drew a new polish-cloth from his subspace, and began nervously running the rag over my plating.
"Thanks for trying to protect me," I murmured into Thundercracker's chest.
"Always," they said, in unison.
I was carried back to my room. There Thundercracker held me in his arms and hummed a tuneless, comfortable drone while Sunstreaker's soft cloth smoothed out the many rough spots in my soul. I slept, while my two makers kept me safe from any nightmares.

Over the next several weeks, the memories from the datacube lost much of their sharpness. I never had another flux as bad as that first night's had been. But my good dreams – those traveling adventures alone or with a certain gray mech who shall go unnamed – those dreams were stagnating, as well. I'd replayed them so often, they were emptied out of meaning. I'd have to choose: go out and make new memories (go out and find new dreams); or stay protected in my makers' home forever, and let things like dreams subside.
It never was much of a question.
When I'd gone a week without dreaming at all, I gathered up my courage, and called Spangle on the frequency she'd shown me.
After three more weeks (and several planning-session phone calls with Firestar as intermediary), I told Sunstreaker and Thundercracker it was time for me to try my luck at Spangle's. They took it no better (but no worse) than I'd expected.
"I'm coming back," I reassured them. "You're not losing me forever!" But I knew that if I took this step, my life would never be the same.
I had prepared as best I could. But I had no idea what I was in for.

"I'm startin' you out as a table busser." Spangle keyed open a hidden door marked 'Staff Only,' and bustled down the narrow hall behind, her shoulders scraping in well-worn grooves along its sides. "You'll be cleanin' up the messes left by customers," she called back, "...mostly spills and empty drink-cubes..." She opened a small closet, and pulled out a dented old bucket full of sloshing solvent, and some rags. "On occasion," she said, turning back to me, "bots'll get overcharged, and leave their personal belongings here. Kibblings like souvenirs or datacubes." (I gave an involuntary shudder.) Spangle plunked the rags and bucket in my hands, and stared down at me sternly. "I don't tolerate thievery. You will always bring lost items back to me for safekeeping, until they can be returned. Take anything as ain't yours, and you're out. We clear?"
I gripped the bucket-handle tight, and tried not to drop any rags. "Yes ma'am."
She snorted. "Call me Spangle. I ain't one o' those old warborn femmes. I ain't above you. But I am your boss. Got it?"
I nodded. "Yes m- Spangle."
She smiled. "Good." She gestured to the rag and bucket. "Now, this ain't a classy job. But it's the one as gets you the least notice. And trust me hun, you'll wanna be invisible at first. Overcharged mechs can take some gettin' used to."
She walked me back out to the main floor. It was a massive, dark-walled circle filled with little booths and tables clustered around the central glow of a big energon distillery. There were three or four smaller antechambers dug into the outer walls, in which bots could huddle away from the all mayhem of the bar. But there was no place any bot could hide. The dim lights promised intimacy; mirrored walls and neon flashes promised anonymity; but I could still see clearly across the entire open space.
"How can I be invisible in here?" I hissed, gesturing with an outflung arm like I was trying some old semaphore with rags.
Spangle nudged the bucket till it sloshed worryingly. (I thought of Sunstreaker's reaction if I got this solvent on my finish.) "This bucket here? It's magic. No one'll look at you, for fear this job is catching."
"I'll have to take your word for it, Spangle. I'm feeling pretty visible right now."
She laughed, and smacked me on the shoulder. "Then you'd best get yourself polished up; we're openin' in half an hour. Yer the new gal, but that ain't no reason to look like you crawled out of the gutter."
I dropped my bucket. "Gutter? Excuse me?"
Spangle raised an eyebrow. "Not 'gutter,' then – I see your makers love you dearly. But you ain't armed all your weapons yet, my gal."
"What weapons? I don't have any. You must mean Aries with her cannon, or-"
Spangle stopped me with a hand. "A gal like you who's always watching people shoulda picked up on the power all femmes have on mechs by now."
I shook my head, not wanting to admit it.
Spangle sighed. "Just go wash up. Trust me – you'll be glad you did. And tonight, pay attention. Watch Road Rage and Roulette, especially. It ain't hard. And it can be... quite useful." She shook her head and chuckled at my flabbergasted face. "Don't worry, hun. It comes natural enough. Just give it time."

She was right; it did come to me eventually. I never flirted as outrageously as Roulette, nor wound mechs around my finger just to see how far they'd bend, like Road Rage did. But even on my first night cleaning tables, I learned much about the power femmes held in a world of mechs. It wasn't the highgrade-infused atmosphere that brought bots to Spangle's place, nor the elaborate concerts that made The Hub the most popular party-spot on Cybertron. It was us: the newling femmes who'd come to Spangle to learn how to navigate the world. We were bringing shanix by the thousands into her coffers. This was no charity work she was doing.
Spangle would flirt like all the others, when it served the situation best. (She called it 'using all the tools at her disposal.') But if flirting didn't work, she'd use her strength and size and sometimes fists to demand what she wanted. She had an empire to protect, and would do whatever it took to keep it safe and running smoothly. Everyone, both mechs and femmes, treated her with respect – and just a little bit of awe.
But working for her wasn't easy. I spent each night surrounded by hundreds of mechs, all with their most deep-seated wants brought to the surface by the pumping music, the strong drinks, the dancing; and of course, us girls. Their memories and their aches tugged on me constantly; their sparks brightened and intensified whenever I drew near. Halfway through my first night, I fled, and collapsed in a weeping heap in the supply closet where Spangle kept my rags and bucket. When she came to chew me out for neglecting my work, I was blubbering too much to give her all the details of my plight. But she took my stammered explanations without comment; then sent me to a much less crowded floor with the instruction to work up my tolerance.
In the green pre-dawn light I fell onto my charge berth feeling like a frayed-out, useless wreck. I was sure I would never be able to survive on my own.
But the next night, when Spangle called, I did it all again.

Spangle was a demanding taskmistress. She accepted no laziness or complaint, and came down like a ton of pig-iron on anyone who used being a newling femme as an excuse for weakness. She dropped me head-first into the Hub's maelstrom of emotions, then told me I'd get a bonus for each mech who said I was his favorite server. Well. I am Sunstreaker's daughter. I have pride. So I learned quickly how to bob along atop the sea of spark-currents, and use what I saw there to be a little of what each mech at my tables wanted me to be. I learned to give them just enough to make a difference, but not so much it flattened me. On my second week, Spangle upgraded me to waitress. And when Road Rage accused me of taking all her best customers, I realized that I was becoming a favorite at The Hub. When Spangle paid up on her promise, I felt I had won the challenge unfairly. But it still was gratifying.
I'd been working there for three months, two weeks, and four days, when early one morning (when the place was at its most-deserted) Blot came in and asked for me by name. My full name, which I never used, and begged Spangle to keep secret. Wringing his hands and cringing from the blow that always came, Blot knocked at the main entrance, and asked to see Rainbowsparkles.
I thought about lying. Considered asking Spangle to say she had never heard of me. But she would have seen that as weakness. And to be honest, so would I. I didn't want to be the kind of femme who'd choose the easy, sneaky, struttless way out of a difficult encounter.
So I sighed, and told her that I knew him.
Spangle's expressive brows shot up until they disappeared under her helm. She looked at me like knowing Blot might be contagious, and stepped back a pace.
Again, I thought about refusing to see him. But then I'd have been no better than the million other mechs who'd cast him out. And I did not want to be like all the bots I'd seen in Blot's spark-memories.
"I'll go down and see what he wants," I said, swinging my legs over my berth and putting my dataslate back on its nightstand. (Megatron had written more than one poem about forgotten bots whom nobody respected. And he made them sound like grandly tragic figures.)
"Have it your way," Spangle said. "But keep 'im outside around back. I ain't havin' that slime on my floors.
Blot leaked a new gout of blackish fluid when he saw me at the door, and sobbed noisily when I reached for his hand in greeting. He looked ready to fall to his knees, but Spangle stopped him with a sharp word. She gave Blot a long, appraising look; then sighed, defeated. "One drink. Fifteen minutes. Go through the alley to the back porch, and keep outta sight, fer Pit's sake. Don't want you scarin' off my customers." She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and stormed off, leaving me alone with him.
I scrambled to the bar and grabbed a largish cube of puregrade white. I didn't know what Blot would like, so I got him my own favorite – the drink that most reminded me of home. Roadbuster was running the distillery this morning, and nodded to me solemnly. "I like that you didn't throw him to the Smelter. But remember you're not obligated to him, either."
This was quite a long speech from Roadbuster. "Thanks," I told him. "I'll, uh... yeah. Thanks." I carried the drink out to the rickety iron table that had been left out by the kitchen backdoor. (It was too unsightly to be used inside, but still too useful to throw away yet.)
Blot was waiting when I arrived, cringing in the far corner of the small porch. He flinched when I offered him a seat at the old table. His eyes went wide when he saw the white energon. "Is that..." he shivered. "Is that what I think it is?"
"This is the cheapest thing we have," I explained, then realized too late just how insulting that sounded. I babbled on, trying to cover my mistake. "White energon is everywhere these days, so everybody says – one of the new, post-Cataclysm things. It's what most bots order for starters. So... I got you one?" I set the cube in front of him, and rocked back on my heels, feeling ill-prepared and awkward. "That'll be 2 Shanix," I said, trying not to gag too obviously on his smell.
Blot shuffled uncomfortably. He accessed several subspace pockets, and pulled out bits of small change in the form of dripping, goo-encrusted coins. He slid them across the table toward me, leaving a purplish, oily smear. "Here," he said shyly. "Is this enough? I don't add so good."
I wasn't about to touch the coins to count them. But they looked like they might roughly equal 2 Shanix. I used my ever-present spill-cloth to wrap up the coins and keep the goop from getting on me. That stuff looked like it could corrode even gold.
I sat down gingerly on the far side of the table from him, tucking my feet and scooting my chair out as much as I thought I could get away with. "Blot," I began hesitantly, "How have you been?"
He looked like he might cry again. "It's so nice hearing you say my name!" he wheezed. "Especially a femme as beautiful and kind as you. Meeting you was the best day of my life!"
I knew every bit of this was true. And that was tragic.
"Tell me more about yourself," I tried again.
"I'd rather not," he gurgled. "Tell me about your life instead. Please!" He grasped his energon cube in both hands, and took a tentative sip. His optics went nearly white in ecstasy. "So that's what it tastes like," he whispered.
I shifted uncomfortably. I had listened to the other femmes brag and gossip about their conquests. Of course I'd sometimes wondered what it might be like to have some mech adore me like that. But I'd never dreamed of being worshiped by a simpleminded hunchback mech who oozed foul-smelling gunk. "What do you want to hear about?" I asked weakly.
"Anything, Rainbowsparkles! Anything. Just as long as it's about you."
I wracked my brain for something a bot like this might want to hear about, and came up with nothing. I couldn't see his symbol under all that oil, so I wasn't even sure which team he rooted for. There was one thing we had in common, though. Neither of us fit seamlessly into society.
"I'm taking lessons," I began. "I'm learning how to get along with people. I'm too young to understand most of what everybody takes for granted; so I've been trawling the datanet to learn about your history."
"My history?" Blot squeaked.
I backpedaled. "No- I mean everybody's. Cybertron's. The whole War-thing." Inspiration struck at last. "I've visited Iacon and Kaon. Did you? Ever visit those cities, I mean. Or maybe live there?"
Blot snorted. He took a long pull from his drink, and slumped back a little in his chair. He was either already getting drunk, or the energon was loosening some of the terror he hunched under every day. "I never live anyplace long," he said. "I get kicked out. But yeah, I been to both those cities." He took another long, deep drink, and smiled like he'd just glimpsed paradise.
"I only saw Iacon a few times," Blot reminisced, his eyes unfocused. "This was back at the beginning of the War. I was in the third reserve army under Shockwave. Made it past the outer orbit-wall once. We were hammering the place, but I remember it was pretty – all bronze domes and things like that. Everything had curly patterns carved in it." His optics went dark for a klik, then snapped on. "Not like Kaon. Nothing like Kolkular. Decepticons aren't much for pretty. 'S why I joined up - figured they wouldn't care what I smelled like or how sticky my plating was, long as I chomped on a few Autobots in every battle."
I listened, fascinated in spite of the smell. Talk of the War always gave me a kind of nervous thrill. I couldn't compute a fight that had lasted millions of years. To me, with a life measurable in months, even one year seemed like forever. But Blot (and Thundercracker and Sunstreaker and Firestar and every single other bot I met) talked of eons like they were the space between an intake and an ex-vent.
"Did you travel many other places?" I asked, just to break the silence.
Blot shrugged. "Sorta. Back then, there wasn't ever enough energon, see? So maybe I got taken places, but I didn't get to see 'em. Always falling into stasis-lock 'cause I was starving." Blot took another long pull at his drink, shuddered, and let his head fall back in ecstasy. "This white stuff's the best fuel I've ever put into my tanks. I mean, there's not much competition – I'm used to scrounging recycled sludge scraped from dead bodies; or sometimes we got some nasty synth-cocktail that Shockwave or-" (he shuddered) "-Mixmaster brewed up for us cannon-fodder." He stared into the bright cube, still half-full of glowing energon. "I never want to finish this," he whispered. "I'll probably never taste anything this good again."
I mean. How was I supposed to respond to all of that?
"You can come back next week and have another one," I said. I figured after a whole week, I might have forgotten some of the smell, some of the way my tanks roiled at the sight of the foul gloop dripping from him, some of the way his very shape offended my Sunstreaker-trained aesthetic sensibilities. After a week, (still a long time to me, remember) I might be able to endure Blot's company again. "I'll buy you another cube next week. For now, though, I need to go back to work. So please do finish your drink; I need to get the cube back to Spangle."
Blot leaned in, and whispered from behind a dripping hand, "Spangle scares me."
I smiled just a little bit in spite of everything. "Sometimes she scares me too, Blot."
He drank off the rest of the white energon, smiling so wide the glowing liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth. When the cube was empty, Blot wiped a grimed finger all around the inside of the glass, and stuck the finger in his mouth.
I reached out with my trusty cleaning rag, and took the beslimed cup out of his hands. I wrapped it tightly with the coins, and fled. I gave the entire bundle to Roadbuster with a warning that it was contaminated. He just nodded, and threw the whole mess into the sterilizer. I'd been standing under steaming solvent in the washracks for ten minutes, trying to rid myself of the smell, before I realized I'd left Blot without even a cursory word of farewell.
But still, Blot came to visit me every week through the rest of my tenure at Spangle's.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XV-

It was my fifth month working at The Hub, when the Ceasefire Anniversary hit.
All five floors of the Hub were packed to standing-room-only. Only two hours into my shift, I was already wobbling on my feet. I'd learned to handle the high-pressure thudding of the music, flare of ever-shifting lights, and constant roar of conversations yelled above the beat. I could just about manage the input I got from the quick glimpses I took into my customers' sparks – the peeks I risked in order to avoid repeating things like Ratbat's relapse, Guzzle's gun-display, or Bluestreak's three-hour info-dump. But tonight there was a whole new level of intensity. Every mech there was buzzing with an energy I was afraid to examine too closely, because even from the surface I could tell that it was strong and complicated. I was dizzy, my engine kept overheating, and somebody was always, always, always calling after me.
"Yo, Sparkles! Can we get another engex for my pal here? Ol' Blitzy's not cut out for gov'ment work. 'E needs replesh- r'pleshiment!" Astrotrain pounded a fist on their table, causing his own half-filled drink to fall over and slosh across it. From the corner of my eye, I saw Broadside and Tankor (the third floor's two silent bouncers) stiffen. But I shook my head at them, and flicked out my stained towel with a sigh.
"You paid for that, you know," I said. "It seems a shame to waste it."
"Waste it?!" Blitzwing and Astrotrain – two lowbrow purple-badge guys who'd come in here eight nights running – looked up at me like I'd just spoken in Human. "Whole point o' comin' in here, little lady," Blitzwing declared with full drunken solemnity. "To get wasted!"
I shook my head, and threaded my way back between the crowded tables to the bar on this side of the stage. "Another engex for Blitzwing," I called. (My vocalizer crackled, showing signs of strain.) "I think this had better be his last one."
"Got it." Blurr, a handsome blue mech who smiled easily and was one of my favorite bartenders, started mixing up the drink. I leaned on the corner of the bar and watched him, thankful for the brief respite. (I'd been afraid of him at first; he'd been the one who'd heckled my makers to let him see me on the day of my ignition. But that first impression was proved wrong. His spark was one of the easier ones to be around. He had a lot of good memories.)
"Rainbowsparkles!"
I cringed, embarrassed because Blurr had heard my full name. But I recognized the voice. It was female. Blurr noticed my reaction, and threw me a wink. "Friends of yours?" he asked brightly. "Or enemies?"
"Both," I admitted with a grimace. "They're my family." I delivered the engex drink to the Drunkticons, and threaded my way over to my sister's table.
"How's it going, Sparklypants?" Andromeda called loudly. "Oh – where are my manners? She rose, and swept an arm around the table. "Skywarp, Mirage, and Sixshot: meet Rainbowsparkles, my youngest sibling."
There were greetings, but they were mostly drowned out by the room's overall noise level. From my customary quick spark-glance, I saw these mechs were well-intentioned, and surprisingly sober. "What can I get you?" I asked with relief.
"Oh stay a while and visit," said Andromeda. "Ol' Spangle can spare you a couple nanokliks. I want to hear how you're surviving! Anybody tried to kidnap you yet?"
As always, Andromeda's charm-field only made me feel resentful. "No," I told her. "Everything is fine."
"Of course it's 'fine.'" Andromeda crooked her fingers into huge, dramatic air-quotes. "But come on, Rainbow, dish the dirt: Who's the most useless newling here? What's the worst thing some drunk mech's said to you?" She elbowed the mechs on either side. "Is there anybody we should pound into the scrap-pile for you?"
"No…" I floundered, embarrassed. "Like I said, I'm fine. Everything's fine." I shrugged apologetically to the three mechs watching this. (What had their names been?) I couldn't concentrate; I was thinking of all the other tables I should be attending to right now.
"If you're too boring to make any interesting enemies..." Andromeda winked, "...Is there anyone you've taken a shine to? Come on, Sister! Spill it!"
Six months ago, I would not have had a clue what she was talking about. But working at a bar, you see things. Not all bots were as reserved in their partnerships as our makers were. (Yesterday I had almost fallen over two bots cuddling in an out-of-the-way corner.) "I'm not- I'm not ready for that sort of thing yet," I protested.
One of the mechs beside my sister – the blue and white ground-racer called (to the best of my taxed memory) Mirage – spoke up. "Leave her alone, Andromeda. She's newly-manufactured!"
I knew I should have been grateful to him for taking my side. But somehow I felt insulted instead. Perhaps it was the word 'manufactured.' I planted my hands on their table, and leaned in. "I've waited on 35 tables tonight so far, and I only messed up two drink orders. I have not gotten lost in here since last week. I'm learning all the verses to 'A Lonely Cybertronian' – whether or not I want to." I straightened and faced the table. "How's that for a report?"
The black and purple jetformer (Skywarp, I thought) grinned widly. "You're doing great. And don't worry – next week some other song'll be played over and over till you want to shoot out the speakers. We're still getting used to having – and making – new music. So sometimes, we get obsessed. It'll pass."
"Sparkles!" I heard my nickname called. It was Blitzwing again. I looked around, and saw three other tables also had their call-globes lit. I was falling behind, badly. Spangle's displeasure wasn't something I wanted to risk.
"Sorry," I yelped. "I have to go!"
"Go on then, Sparkles. Knock 'em dead." Andromeda shoved me lightly by way of farewell. The three mechs at her table raised their energon in mock salute.
I scurried back to the bar with a sense of relief. I gave Blurr the list of orders I had taken on my way: three plates of energon goodies, two Propex Pounders, three highgrade spritzers, a white engex, and one ridiculously massive Underbase cocktail. I was balancing a heavy tray of faintly-glowing fuel-cubes, and threading through the crowd, when a sudden commotion at my sister's table stopped me cold.
There was a purple edge-of-vision flash, a *VOP*, and for an instant all the sound seemed sucked out of the room. It made my head feel hollow, and I almost dropped my tray. But I saw Skywarp disappear out of his seat beside Andromeda, and reappear a few paces away. He clamped thick stasis cuffs onto a tallish purple and gray mech I did not know, and dragged him back to Andromeda's table.
The drinks on my tray wobbled dangerously. How had Skywarp done that disappearing trick? He wasn't a femme or a newling! (At least, not that I knew of...)
"Octane, you slag-sucking idiot!" (I heard this, because all the tables had gone quiet.) "You're lucky it was me that caught you, and not Spangle. The worst we'll do is take you to jail." Skywarp grunted as the captive bot stomped on his foot, and barked back at Andromeda, "Don't touch your drink. It's poison."
Andromeda's hand jerked back from her cocktail. "How? What's going on, Skywarp?"
The newly-cuffed mech protested. "You think I spiked her drink, SkyDork? You're blind as well as stupid."
"I don't 'think'; I saw you do it," the black jet-former retorted.
I plunked down the rest of my drinks with barely a glance at my customers. (My rude delivery wasn't noticed – every head in our quadrant was craned to stare at the events unfolding at my sister's table.) I tucked the empty tray under one arm, and shoved my way back toward Andromeda.
Skywarp had gripped his struggling captive with one hand, and was now rummaging around his midsection. "Oi! Oi! Watch it!" the prisoner yelped. "Personal subspace!"
Skywarp brought out a mid-sized vial of glowing red liquid, and thrust it toward the slim speedster. "Ain't personal if you're carryin' drugs. Take this before I drop it, 'Raj."
"Let's not disturb Spangle's other guests," Mirage admonished in a modulated whisper. "Octane, you're coming with us to the nearest Detox quickly and quietly."
Octane flung his head back in a raucous laugh. "Go ahead. Take me in. I've done nothing against your precious rules. So what if I was carryin' a few liters of Synth-En? You won't find any traces of the old Juice in my system." He leered at Mirage. "How long's it been since you last took a hit of it?"
Skywarp slapped the prisoner hard. "Shut up!" he growled, planting himself in front of Mirage.
"Ooh! I must've hit a nerve! Well thanks to your abstinence program, it's the only kind of 'hit' anyone gets!" Octane smacked the back of two fingers against Skywarp's chest, and I gasped. It was a gesture so rude I'd only heard of it.
The third mech at my sister's table rose. Taller than any other bot in the whole Hub, and possessed of a deadly calm, he stilled the captive with a look.
"It's unrefined, Sixshot. When you test it, you'll see." Octane was panting and afraid, but defiant. "I was using it in scientific experiments. Last I checked, that was still allowed."
Sixshot didn't move a micfron.
"Call Swindle! He'll vouch for me."
Sixshot just pointed to the exit as if Octane hadn't spoken. "Outside," he ordered. "Now." He picked up Andromeda's drink, looked around, and settled on me. (This was terrifying.) He held the half-full cube up. "We're taking this back with us for testing. If Skywarp's right, this oil-stain tried to drug your sister."
The whole place had gone eerily quiet. (When had the music stopped?) Somehow an aisle opened up, giving my sister's three friends and their captive a clear path to the exit.
Only when the big door closed behind them did I remember to cycle air through my poor smothered engine.

Andromeda looked up at me with fear-filled wide, pink eyes.
"Um… I'll get you a new drink?" I offered lamely.
"I… Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
I headed back toward the bar, my mind brimming with questions. And that's when I noticed the femme cowering beneath a nearby table.
The attention-deflection shield she had was so strong no one else had noticed her. On any other night, I might also have looked right past her. But I was scared; so I was watching sparks. And I saw hers.
It was awful.
I forgot everything else. My drink-tray fell with a clatter to the floor. I crouched down, and touched the newling femme's arm gently. "Please – how can I help you?"
She jumped like I'd branded her with molten iron. "You can see me?"
No one else was even looking at us. They were all still talking about Octane. I nodded. "I did notice you, yes. But I'm not – I'm not normal. Don't worry; you're safe here. Let me take you to Spangle."
A shudder ran down her entire body. "Please don't tell anyone you saw me!" She grabbed my arm like a vice, her eyes darting wildly. "Promise! Please! They'll take me back-"
"Who'll take you back?"
But the newling femme scrambled away from me, jumped up, and ran, shouldering through a crowd of mechs who seemed oblivious to her presence. "Wait!" I called after her. "I only wanted to help you!" But her spark-light disappeared in the dense crowd.
I sent the three-letter code that would summon the nearest bouncer to me. In a moment, Roadbuster was at my elbow.
"She went that way," I pointed, feeling my spark trembling inside my chest.
"Who went that way?"
"A newling femme..." I looked. The crowd of bots still milled around as if nothing had happened. There was no trace left of the fleeing femme, either by spark or sight. She'd disappeared.
"What color was she?" asked Roadbuster. "Ground or flight alt-mode?"
"I don't – I didn't really..." The harder I tried to remember, the more the memories washed away like road-dust running down the drain. "Gray?" I attempted. "Maybe white? I don't know anything about her alt-mode." I banged a fist against my head. "Roadbuster, you might not believe me. But there was a femme here. I think she did something to my memory. And I know that she was scared."
Roadbuster steadied me with a massive hand. "I believe you, Sparkles. I'll call it in." He raised his wrist-comm, and barked, "Prowl! It's Roadbuster. An unidentified femme just fled from The Hub. Possibly gray or white. May have attention deflectors or use memory modification."
Now Spangle's voice cracked sharply down my commlink, startling me again. "What's going on up there, Rainbowsparkles?"
I forced my scream into a whisper, so the bots standing around might not hear everything I said. "I don't know! Three mechs just dragged off a bot called Octane who was carrying Synth-En. They said he'd tried to poison my sister. Right after that, I found a newling femme under a table looking terrified; but when I spoke to her, she ran off through the crowd and nobody noticed!" I cycled a couple desperate vents. "She did something to me, Spangle. I can't remember anything about her, and she was sitting here less than a minute ago."
"Perception filters are one of the reasons we have cameras around here," Spangle rumbled sagely. "Have Roadbuster bring you to my office."
I waved her words off, forgetting she couldn't see me. "I know how to get there. Just please – that femme was terrified. She said- she said someone wanted to take her back, whatever that means. We have to save her somehow." I clicked off the comm, and looked into Roadbuster's masked and visored face. I pointed to Andromeda. "That's my sister. If Octane really did try to poison her drink, she's in some danger too. Please have someone escort her home."
Roadbuster nodded gravely. "Will do," he said.
I looked down at my dented tray, still lying where I'd dropped it on the floor. Roadbuster pushed me gently toward the stairway-door. "Go, Sparkles. Tankor 'n I will handle this."
I left my tray, and headed straight for Spangle's office.

She was staring at a whole array of video relays, rewinding and rewatching the last fifteen minutes from a dozen angles.
I pushed in the moment she unlocked the door. "What's happening, Spangle? Tell me you understand all this!"
Spangle didn't take her optics from the screens. "Octane'll get what's comin' to him, and be grateful it wern't me that caught 'im. Detox squad'll have him well in hand by now. I thought, what with you bein' Thundercracker's daughter an' all, you'd know all about that sorta thing."
Thundercracker's daughter? I stepped back, thrown off balance. "What?"
Spangle's shoulders slumped. "Can't say I blame 'im if he didn't tell ya. But ain't like he was the only one. Most o' the warborn Decepticon's was addicted, and a lot o' the Autobots. Skywarp an' Mirage is tryin' ta get everyone clean." Finally she looked up at me. "I won't allow that kinda thing in my place. Everyone knows that."
I shook my head, trying to clear a million new questions. They'd have to wait. "Octane's not what's bothering me, Spangle. It's the newling femme. I've never seen her here before. I'm scared for her. What can we do?"
Spangle leaned forward, elbows on her desk. "She said someone was trying to take her?"
I sighed, feeling frustrated and useless. "Like I said, I can't recall details. But her spark was full of fear – it's the one thing I can't forget. I got scared, just talking to her!"
Spangle gave me a hard and searching look. "I think it's time you explained all your sensitivities more fully, young missie. But right now..." she reached across her desk, and hit a button. "I'm calling Megatron."
"What? Why?" I leaped to my feet. "No!"
Spangle raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Got a problem with your daddy's Commander?"
"Not as such, it's just..." I flopped back into the chair, and clunked my head against the wall. "It's complicated."
"Really."
Roadbuster burst in without knocking. "No sign of her. I called the local Watch in, and we checked everywhere. She's gone. But Streetwise put out a bulletin." He took my arm. "Your sister's safe. Road Rage and Roulette are staying with her."
Spangle nodded grimly. But she wasn't really looking at Roadbuster. She was staring at a massive freestanding block in the left corner of the room. I hadn't paid any attention to it before now; maybe it had some of those same attention deflector-things. But now it started glowing a bright eye-melt green, and humming a crescendo that made my audials hurt. I'd decided it was going to explode and kill us, when one side of it hissed open, and a massive mech stepped out in a white cloud of ozone-smelling steam.
The mech had a familiar head-crest. It was raised.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XVI-

"Megatron, we've had contact with an unregistered newling," said Spangle, like it was nothing to have Megatron stashed in her closet.
Roadbuster was even more stunned than I was. "What-? How?" He gestured to the still-smoking cupboard. "We have ground-bridges in operation now?"
Megatron – it was really him – smacked a hand on Roadbuster's hefty shoulder. "You don't think the Constructicons sit around all day doing nothing, now that the War's over? Slag, even Wheeljack comes up with the occasional useful item these days." He smiled toothily at Roadbuster, and I swear I saw him wink. "We don't advertise every new invention, but we make good use of them." He turned to Spangle, and all trace of humor vanished. "Show me."
But Spangle gestured toward me. "Rainbow, you were the witness. Tell us everything you saw, and I will run the feeds here from my desk."
Megatron's optics narrowed. "I've seen you before," he said.
I mentally cursed Primacron for igniting my spark. But this was not the time to rage against life's little daggers. That newling was in danger. I could help her, if I kept my head. So I ignored everyone in the room. Even Megatron. And as the holovid unfolded above Spangle's desk, I told them what had happened.
"I was- rewind it a bit Spangle, thanks- I was working on the main floor, here." I pointed. (It was weird to see myself from outside. I seemed so much smaller, so gawky. And I'd never realized how funny my wheel looked, hiked up on my back like that.) "My sister called me over to her table, and introduced me to her friends." I watched as the holo-me threaded between the tables to Andromeda, and was introduced to Skywarp, Sixshot, and Mirage. It all seemed like ages ago. "There was this flash, and Skywarp disappeared. Like, gone. Instantly. There. See it?" There was a tiny purple firework in the holo where Skywarp had been. I pointed, but nobody seemed impressed at all. I sighed. Fine. I'd continue being the ignorant newling. But I had a job to do. "Skywarp reappeared here, behind this other mech, Octane." I pointed again. "He put stasis cuffs on, and dragged him back to my sister's table, where he said Octane had poisoned Andromeda's drink. Octane had a vial of this red liquid that I guess is something bad?
I glanced up. "Go on," Megatron prompted.
"That's it. They left. Sixshot took Andromeda's drink to analyze, and everybody left."
"Octane, you never learn." Megatron grumbled. To himself, he muttered, "How can I make them stop this madness?"
"You're missing the reason I called you here," Spangle said sharply. "Look at the monitor, Megatron."
Tiny holo-me had noticed the newling femme hiding under the table. I pointed her out to the others in the room, and Spangle switched the main screen to a lower-angle camera. (I vowed to scour my small private quarters for hidden cameras when I got off shift tonight. This was creepy.) The femme's attention-deflectors might have blunted my recall, but hadn't fooled Spangle's cameras. We all bent in close to look. I knew I should continue to explain what I had seen. But my throat closed off at the memory of the terror in her spark. "Just watch," I whispered.
The cowering femme was unpainted: a brushed all-over silver-gray. She had wings – we could see them folded on her back – but something was wrong with them. I gasped as I realized that their tips had been sawn off. Behind me, Megatron hissed sharply. "Wing-clipping," he muttered. "I wish I'd never taught them that."
I watched holo-me crawl in beside the femme, and touch her arm. Even from here, we all could see her flinch.
"Can I help you?" I heard myself say.
"You can see me?" The holo-vid made everyone's voices sound tinny, but hers would have been thin even on a sound-stage with a mic. I felt the warmth of running engines as Spangle, Megatron, and Roadbuster all leaned in to listen. "Please don't tell anyone you saw me!" squeaked the femme. "Promise! Please! They'll take me back-"
"Who'll take you?"
I knew what was coming, but it sickened me just the same. We watched as the unknown femme broke away, and raced through the mass of bots. They heeded her less than they would have noticed an unwelcome draft of air.
"Perception filters," said Roadbuster knowingly.
We scanned all the outdoor cameras, but found nothing. She had burst out the door and lost herself in the neon-lit streets of Kaon.
"I hope she's OK," I whispered.
Megatron turned his stern gaze on me. "Why did you see her when no one else could?" he asked. "Are you immune to attention deflectors?" I shot a brief glance at Spangle – would she want me working for her after she found out exactly how deep my perception went? I heaved a heavy sigh, and bade all my daydreams farewell.
"Deflectors work just fine on me. Ask Roadbuster. If they didn't, maybe I could have given him a better description of that poor femme, and we she'd be with us right now. Safe." I shunted my vocalizer, awash in sudden self-hatred. Why couldn't I have been given a more useful ability? I clenched my fists, and said the last, irretrievable words: "I can see sparks."
No one reacted. "Go on," Megatron ordered.
I shrugged. "When I'm working, I often pay more attention to a bot's spark than I do to a their altmode or paintwork. It's better information than what's on the surface, and it tells me what I need to know to serve them best.
Spangle snorted. "So that's how you advanced so quickly when I gave you that challenge. An' here I thought I was just a good teacher."
"You were surrounded by sparks. What made hers stand out?" asked Megatron.
"I noticed her spark because it was so constricted." I shuddered, and wrapped my arms tight across my chest. "I hope I never see another spark as terrified as hers again."
I waited.
No one spoke. Roadbuster wouldn't look at me.
Megatron took a step forward. (I flinched back a bit.) "So, you're the one Prime met in the Archives, then. He said you were feisty."
"I'll bet he didn't use that word. It's not like him."
Megatron blinked. "You're right. He didn't. He said you were brave."
"That's more in his vocabulary," I agreed.
Megatron cocked his head to one side. "I've met you before as well. I'm sure of it."
I slumped. "I hoped you had forgotten."
Megatron snapped his fingers. "Hah! The Vosian Airshow. You dropped out of the sky and asked me what my name was." He chuckled, low and husky in his throat. "I would have called you feisty," he declared.
I wished the scary ground-bridge closet-thing would eat him. Or eat me – that would probably have been OK, too. Embarrassment burned into rage, and I let it consume me. I'd learned nothing from my encounter with Optimus Prime. All that training with Thundercracker was for naught. Because I dove straight into the dark swirl of Megatron's red spark. I told myself it was to get a sense of his real character. But I've sworn that I'd be honest in this record. So I'll tell you the simple truth. The night's events had thrown me in so far over my head that I wanted to bring him down there with me. In other words, I was being petty again.
But Megatron was deeper than I was prepared for. I'd forgotten Thundercracker's practice sessions – I'd not exercised restraint. And so, like other mechs that I have loved, Megatron almost killed me. I sank down into his spark, and drowned in millions of years worth of memories.

Hatred fueled him. Hatred gnawed him. Hatred flamed a black raging fire in his red spark. It was what drove his fist into the faces of both friend and foe alike. It was what drove him to crush everyone and everything beneath his feet. Megatron was an avatar of hatred, consumed and consuming by it.

I thrashed, and beat, and floundered as the light of sanity receded. He was ancient. He was evil. I was only a newling. My own small rainbow-colored spark flickered and guttered in his night.

I saw through his eyes, felt his evil grin as my heroic mystery mech cupped a black hand against some shuddering jetformer's cheek; then grabbed his throat and crushed it. I felt his dark gratification in the other's surprised look of hurt and humiliation. I felt how no amount of torture could quite fill the ache of want.

I felt the give and crumple of an armored chestplate, saw the light fade from the optics of a mech in the arena. I felt my beloved poet's surge of sawtoothed pride as the crowd in the stands came roaring to its feet. I knew his soul as he raised his fluid-spattered gilt headcrest in triumph – and self-loathing.

I felt the hatred sing along his limbs as he stood atop the ruins of an unrecognizable city. He didn't care what it was called. He only cared about killing. Conquering. Grinding others underneath his treads. Casually, he stooped, and crushed the spark of some poor soul trapped in the wreckage at his feet. It felt good. But it didn't stop his ache.

For the first time, I understood a four-million-year war.

Red lightening stabbed into my cortex, striking again and again. Behind the lightening, I heard voices; but I hurt too much to care.
Spangle: "Support her head! She's spasming!"
Megatron: "Of course she is. She looked into my spark, the little fool!"
Roadbuster: "Where's Ratchet? Can he ride your freaky ground-bridge thing, Spangle?"
Spangle: "First-Aid's only a few blocks-"
Megatron: "First-Aid's an idiot! Get Ratchet. If she dies, it will be on my head. I don't need another murder on my tally."
I wished I could die, and forget all the evil things I'd seen in that red spark. Forget that the big mech I'd hung my hopes on was a monster.

Some voices I could recognize; some I could not. A gruff, no-nonsense medic gave a lot of orders, and they were obeyed. A flash of pain and regret surged across my spark when I heard my two makers by my bedside: shouting, begging, pleading, saying something about home. The medic told them it would be too dangerous to move me. I faded in and out of consciousness, and cared nothing for myself or for living.
My body was strapped firmly into some soft foamy substance, so that all my shaking might cause me less damage. I moaned and writhed, but was held fast. I think if my hands had been free, I would have ripped my optics out. I never wanted to see in another spark again.
There was another conversation I remember clearly from that time. It was between Megatron (of course!) and Optimus Prime (I thought back to the peaceful strength of his blue spark, and wished I could curl up in it forever).
"You know the first time I saw her, she didn't realize who I was?" Megatron's voice was tight and clipped and low. But I heard him. I'm good at eavesdropping. "I loved that about her. No fear. She had no idea of the things I've done. She thought I was something better. May Primus smelt me for a fool, I thought maybe I could be something better. Someone kinder. But of course I hurt her. Starscream's right. I can't change." There came a low growl from his engine, but it could not quite obscure the whispered words, "Sometimes I wish you'd let me fire my gun that day, Orion. This world doesn't need me. I only hurt things."
Optimus Prime spoke, and I leaned into his deep, strong voice. "I need you, Megatron."
"Don't go all mushy on me, Prime. You know better than anyone the monster I have been."
"I do."
"Then why-?!"
For the first time, I dared to unshutter my optics just a slit. I saw their two tall silhouettes framed in my doorway. One pressed a hand against the other's chest. Megatron vented a short, sharp breath, and hung his head.
"I know you, Megatron," said Prime, his steadying hand still pressed against gray armor. "I know you can be kind. I've seen it every single day, from the moment of our bond till now. You give me... you give me such hope, old man." He slumped, and let his head fall thunk against Megatron's brow. "Show this femmling there's more to you than what she saw inside your spark. Everyone else sees it. She will as well. Just give it time."
"I don't have time. She likes me, Prime. You heard what Thundercracker told us, how she ran out of their sky-box when she saw me at that little airshow. I was too busy enjoying her ignorance of who I was; I paid no attention to how she must've felt. I'm a selfish piece of slag, Orion."
"Yes. But not always. I catch glimpses, when you think nobody's looking."
"Slag off! This is serious!"
"I'm not joking, Megatron. Selfishness is something you learned over millions of years. Unlearning it's going to take a lot of time as well. But remember, you weren't born as an evil glitchface."
Through slitted optics I saw Megatron's dark shadow raise a fist... then slump it weakly against Prime's tall bulk. When he spoke, it was just a whisper. (I was good at hearing whispers.)
"What if I can't change, Orion?"
"I'd still love you, you old rust-bucket. My love won't fix anything for you. But it's what I've got to give."
Megatron huffed. "Does Elita have to put up with this kind of pious scrap?"
Prime chuckled. "Every day, I'm afraid." He put an arm around Megatron's shoulders. "Come on. Standing over her berth won't make her heal any faster."
Their footsteps faded and the door swished shut behind them. I was left alone, to think about what I'd just heard. Prime was crazy to trust – to say he loved – a mech like I'd seen Megatron to be. But I had seen Prime's deep blue spark. That bot could find a way to love a rusty bolt if he had to. So no, Prime's care for Megatron did not surprise me. It was Megatron who surprised me. He'd been so honest and trusting. So vulnerable. And most of all, he'd seemed to care about how he'd affected me!
But all this was more than I could process with a partially-melted cortex. So I told myself I'd pick it apart later, and fell back into the blessed quiet nothingness of recharge.

I woke in orange evening light to see an unfamiliar face above me. I felt no fear. The white and red face was kind.
"I'm leaving now. The only thing you need to do is rest."
I recognized the voice – it was the stern Medic from earlier. "Thank you," I said. I didn't know what all he'd done for me, but I was sure I owed him. I tried to sit up; he pushed me back, shaking his head.
"Rest," he said firmly. "From what I hear, you've been trying to cram eleven million years' worth of Megatron's memories into your eleven-month-old cortex. That kind of thing made Prime himself ill. So to say you're asking a lot of your brand-new processor is putting it laughably lightly. I've kept you offline for a week, and patched up all the wires I could. The rest is up to you. As your Medic, I'm giving you an order: shut down for at least three more days. Let your brain module catch up with what you just force-fed it.
"Did I break anything? Will I be back to normal eventually?"
He smiled. "Yes little one, you broke a lot of things. But luckily, I'm a damn good mechanic. You'll be fine. Now get some rest."
A memory from the real world shot through my spark like a bullet. I heaved up on an elbow and grabbed for the Medic's arm. "The newling femme?" I gasped. "The one with the attention protectors?"
He smiled, but this time there was less joy in it. "Deflectors, you mean."
"Yes. Did anybody ever find her? Is she safe?"
The Medic sadly shook his head. "I wish I had a better answer for you, little one."
I lay back then, and let the darkness take me. But I wasn't sure that I deserved this respite. If I'd been less petty – if I'd kept my prying optics out of Megatron's red spark – the search for the unknown femme could have proceeded without distraction. I wondered if she was still hiding somewhere out there unprotected. I wondered if she was still so afraid. I wondered if it was my fault.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XVII-

Next time I woke, it was to a knock in the morning.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. When I say 'morning,' I mean a dust-gray predawn limning the slit of a window where my wall and ceiling met. Oh, and when I say 'knock,' well…

Whump...

Whump...

Whump...

It was the deadest thing I'd ever heard. The hopeless thudding pressed against my spark, dimming its light with each dull impact.
I rolled over and checked my chronometer. I'd been offline for 2.5 of Ratchet's prescribed 3 days. The knocking had woken me early. Let me tell you, it was a Pit of a thing to wake up to.
I was familiar by now with The Hub's 'employees-only' passageways, so I recognized the little room where I'd been stashed away for my recovery. I guessed that when Ratchet had told my makers sleep was more important than getting me home, Spangle had found this quiet, out-of-the-way hole to stow me and my charge-berth in for a few days. Nobody ever came to this back-basement section of the Hub. So it was luck – sheer happenstance – that I could hear the knocking. Because whoever it was had come not to the main doorway, but to a barely-used delivery entrance off a trash-strewn alley.
Sometimes I wonder if there's such thing as luck or happenstance.
I hunched up on my narrow slab and waited, hoping that persistent, lifeless thump would go away. Hoping Spangle would put a stop to it. But it kept up its leaden, hopeless thud, and no one else came down to deal with it. So when I couldn't stand it any longer, I sat up. I dragged myself from my berth, opened my door, and followed the green phosphorescent floorlights down the dark, rough, narrow hall because I couldn't find the lightswitch.
Would I have acted as I did, if I'd known what would come of it? I'd like to think so, but I honestly don't know. This was the moment when I stopped being an eavesdropper, and became an active participant in all the scary things people kept hinting at.
I opened the door to stop the knocking. A pale- no, a colorless femme collapsed against me. I stifled a scream as her weight toppled us both to the floor.
"It's you," she whispered. And I knew her. She was the newling I'd found underneath the table. "Please," she whispered. "Hide me. They're coming." Her optics flickered dark and she collapsed – like so much lifeless steel and empty wiring.
Now I did scream. "Spangle! Spangle! SPANGLE!" Belatedly, I activated the emergency transponder she gave all of us on our first day. At last I heard footsteps: Spangle's heavy, hurried tread, and another even heavier one with her. I hoped she'd brought Roadbuster or Tankor.
She'd brought Megatron. Why was he still here? I watched his optics flare red as he took in the whole scene.
"It's the same femme," I told them. "From the night I—" (I could not meet Megatron's optics, and did not know how to finish the sentence.) But fear snapped me out of my self-absorption. "She said something about people coming for her, Spangle. She asked me to hide her..."
From behind me, Spangle swore.
I looked out through the open door, into the foggy gray murk outside. At any other time, even this narrow alleyway would have been lit by countless flashing neon lights. But now the whole passage was dark. In the predawn halflight, two figures out there cast huge shadows up into the fog. I heard the clumsy scrape of someone heavy trying to be stealthy, and a whispered curse as someone else tripped over a pile of refuse. The unknown femme in my arms shuddered, and let out a wordless moan.
"Shut the door!" Spangle shouted, snapping me out of my frozen horror. "Rainbow, shut that goddamn door!"
But I was tangled with the unconscious gray femme, and couldn't seem to manage even so simple a task. When I didn't move fast enough, Spangle practically vaulted over both me and the fallen femme, and shouldered the door shut. The locks clicked home. "That oughta hold 'em," she said weakly. "Now, what do we do with-"
Something hit the door, and hit it hard. It was a reinforced-steel utility door, built to withstand the impact of a careless delivery driver. But the blow buckled it inward. Just outside, a rough voice growled, "You've got somethin' of ours in there, Spangle. We've come to take it back." The door clanged again, and its hinges squealed. The lock gave an ominous creak.
Megatron's eyes were like two burning cinders. He strode forward, stepped over me and the gray femme, and shoved us both back up the hall behind him. He firmly pointed Spangle back as well; and she obeyed. Then he wrenched the door wide open. I was much too terrified to scream.
"Oh Pit," one of the marauders gasped. "it's Megatron!"
"How'd he get here?"
Megatron looked at each of them, and spoke with terrifying calm. "Turmoil. Clench. You have five seconds to convince me not to crush your half-grammed brains to slag. Five. Four. Thr-"
A blinding-hot flash seared behind me up the hall. Spangle cried out. Megatron grunted, and collapsed against the doorframe. The invaders transformed with a frantic grinding of T-cogs, and fled off in two clouds of badly-tuned engine smoke.
I noted wildly that it had begun to rain.
Megatron was a wet, black silhouette. His left side had a big chunk missing where one of the mechs had shot him. I stared in uncomprehending horror as his torn insides spat gouts of oil, loose wires flashed sparks, and overheated lines glowed molten red. He fell to one knee, hissed in pain, and heaved his black arm-cannon up. Dawn's gray light glinted on sharp dentae in his terrifying grin. His cannon spat two rapid bursts of purple fire. It wasn't loud, but it was powerful. Even behind him, we could feel the air compress.
Megatron stared into the rain. "That's hobbled them," he growled. Then his cydraulics gave way; and he fell back, landing almost in my lap.
I yipped, and pulled the still-unconscious femme away. Right then, I was just as afraid of Megatron as I was of the two mechs outside.
Megatron grimaced, as something else burst inside him with a gush of yellow steam. "Ultra Magnus!" he barked into his wrist communicator, "Turmoil and Clench just tried to break into Spangle's backdoor. I shot 'em. Wounded, not killed, so don't get your color-coded cables in a twist. Come pick 'em up, and bring a Medic – Flatline or Hook, not one of these gentleman Autobot doctors. These two deserve uncomfortable repairs. They were chasing a newling femme. She's not in the registry, Magnus. I'm shot, so it's up to you. Come get these slag-lickers, and by Unicron's hand, make 'em tell us what's going on!" He wheezed, and let his broken body slacken on the floor. "Primusdammit, that hurts!" he mumbled.
I realized that my mouth was hanging open. I shut it. Rain fell in through the open door, and ran across the floor in rivulets, with oily little rainbows on the puddles from whatever was leaking from Megatron. I scrambled up, hauled Megatron's big feet inside, and shoved the dented door shut. Spangle hurried up beside me, grabbed a long steel bar that had been hanging on the wall, and slammed it into place across the damaged door. I'd never been so glad to hear the solid clunk of metal against metal in my life.
Megatron rolled onto his side, clutching his torn midsection and venting in short, sharp gasps. "How is she?" he asked, looking up at me.
"I don't know." I coughed, and rubbed a singed shoulder. (Sunstreaker was going to kill me for getting into the line of fire.) "I don't know anything about her."
Spangle knelt down and lifted the femme's chin gently. She touched two fingers to the cluster of power lines at her neck. "Spark's still pulsing," she announced. "Weak, though. Poor little thing. I'll go get the toolkit, and call Ratchet..." Spangle looked down again at the gray femme, and frowned "...or whichever medic can get here the fastest." She rose, her mouth tightening, and jerked her chin at the pool of corroding energon leaking out of Megatron's wound. "I'll get a patch for that side o' yours too, Sir."
Spangle ran. And I was left alone in a dark, narrow hallway, with an offline newling and a mech who had killed millions.
We stared down at the unmoving gray femme. No sound was coming from her engine, and her biolines had all gone dim. I didn't need to have a million years of war behind me to know this din't look good. I felt Megatron turn his optics on me. I did not meet them. They were still too bright to look at, and their fire was not comforting.
"Seven newlings have disappeared in recent months," he said, seemingly out of nowhere. "Most have come back. But they all came back changed. We've kept it quiet, so as not to start a panic. But it's eating at us. It's eating at me."
At any other time, I would have absorbed this new information like highgrade. As it was, though, I hardly heard him.
Megatron grimaced, and stared down at the gray femme. His eyes darkened into two black holes; his mouth hardened to a gash. It was the first time I had ever seen him ugly. I watched him hesitate, then put a hand on the unconscious newling's dented helm and stroke a thumb across her cheek. I shuddered, remembering things I'd seen in his dark spark. But there was only sorrow in the gesture, nothing more.
"I am a self-serving slagger," he said, not looking at me. "I ask more than anyone can give. You need to know and understand this." He lifted his dark gaze from the unresponsive form on the floor, to me. "The kidnappers do something to their processors. When the lost femmes return, they have no memory of being held captive. But this femme almost certainly knows who did this to her. There is little time – if she had other captors, they may already be in flight. If we wait and hope for Magnus to get some sort of confession out of Turmoil and Clench, it will be far too late to catch the ones who sent them after her. But I know you can read her spark. You can get information from it even if she cannot speak – information that has not been tampered with. So I'm asking. Will you read her spark and tell us where to find her captors?"
I stared at him flatly. "Do you understand what you are asking of me?"
He stared right back, just as flatly. "I do."
I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes tight. I was dizzy and confused and felt a little like I might vomit. How could he ask this? Hadn't he seen what spark-reading could do to me? (Was I recovered enough to even try something like this?)
I looked down at the newling on the floor. I remembered clearly how afraid she'd been. I thought about my sisters. Myself. Whatever had happened to this femme, I didn't want it to happen to anybody else again. I looked at Megatron. His red gaze wavered.
I opened my wrist-port, and held it out to him. "If I do this, I don't want to carry her awful memories alone. So help me. Talk me through it. Share the burden. From what I've seen of your spark, you might not even notice a difference."
Megatron winced like I had hit him, but he nodded. "I'll do it. Pass the things you see directly to me, and bypass your long-term memory. Then you'll be left only with fuzzy general impressions." He hauled himself upright to sit beside the fallen femme. He leaned his back against the wall, let his legs slide out in front of him, and shut down his optics for a moment. (Even that small movement had pained him visibly.) Then he offered his arm to me.
I could have told him I did not know how to bypass long-term memory. Could have made him show me how to do it. But whoever this femme was, she had come to me. I owed it to her not to flinch. Trying to hold off rising apprehension, I focused on Megatron's extended wrist. I drew myself together, and sat down beside him. I inhaled the sharp ozone stink from his sparking, spitting wound. I felt his engine's radiating heat against my metal skin. I stared across at that proud head, at that face which, now I saw it this close, was obviously ancient. I'd seen his spark, and it held evil. But this offer, the way he'd protected all of us tonight – these were something different. I reached forward, and plugged my transfer-line into his wrist. This wasn't about me or him. This was for the femme lying on the floor.
I didn't bypass my memory. I will tell you what I saw.

There were empty spots in her spark. Its faded color was all wrong. It was not meant to be this poor bleached white. There were cracks, missing pieces in the coding of her being. Something had been cut out of her, some once-key element of her bright personality. In its place, alien components had been grafted in by force. I didn't know the concept of blasphemy then. But this was wrong. I felt my tanks heave at the outrage of it.

She had once heard the great Voice, just as I had. She had chosen the name Flashpoint – a much better name than mine. But there our similarities ended. Because Flashpoint had woken up on an assembly line, and been rushed off to a white room with a bright, blinding spotlight, and the cold, shivering tingle of tools tinkering inside her frame. Her first full memory was of the teeth-grinding scraping they had made. Flashpoint remembered looking down at a dark cavity where her chest armor should had been. Remembered fingers in her spark. Remembered how it had flared out in protest.

I whimpered, wishing I could vomit out this horrible, unwelcome knowledge.
"Send it to me! Don't keep it!" Megatron whispered hoarsely in my audial. I jumped. But his gruff voice reminded me of the real world, and of his presence in it. I hunched in against Megatron's too-hot armor, and held his wrist in a death-grip. He drew back from me, at first, but I held on. He might be evil, but he'd shown he was a powerful protector.

In a tunnel underground somewhere, there was a workshop. Like my makers' workshop, it had shelves of rich materials. But it also had rows of half-complete torsos, legs, and arms arranged across several worktables. No love went into the work here. This was a factory. And at the factory's center was a horrible machine.

It humped out from the wall like the huge worm-creatures I'd seen on some old history vid. Its ringed surface bulged and sagged as it sucked from a thick vein of white energon. Into one end of the machine went lifeless bodies: assemblages of legs and arms and heads. Out the other came newling femmes with stolen sparks freshly inserted. They were all taken to a second room where they were 'customized' in the same way Flashpoint had been. I thought of the living planet I'd seen up on the bridge with Firestar – thought of the love and power I had felt, and cringed. Someone was stealing Primacon's children, and mangling them for unknown, selfish ends. This was the real kidnapping. This was an abomination.

"Stay with me... almost done here." Through the transfer-line, Megatron was seeing everything I did, and he sure wasn't enjoying it. I heard his anger in the rising rumble of his engine at my side. It was the rage I'd seen and felt inside him as he used it to destroy. I was afraid of him. But his voice was nothing like the rage I'd seen. It was my voice – the one that was so terribly familiar. I thought of all the nights I'd fallen into recharge to the comfortable sound of him reading his poems. What had happened to that Megatron to turn him into the monster I had seen? I gripped his arm, so solid there, and dove back into the gray newling's spark.

The acid-etched gray she wore now was punishment for all the times she'd run away. Memories of the red, orange, and white she'd been forged with would sometimes hit her with a blurring pang of loss. And sometimes, when they drugged her, for an aching instant she'd know how it felt to fly, and maybe dream about the open sky she'd never seen.

She'd fought them. Fiercely at first, then less so as they filed off more of her personality. It grew harder and harder to resist. She wasn't sure what she'd hoped for, when she'd run from her guards this last time. All she had left was the resolute imperative to escape.

I looked and looked for some clue as to who had done this to her. But all I saw in her memories were black silhouettes behind a harsh white light. I looked for signs that might tell us where she'd been hidden. But there were no clues. I was doing this for nothing.

Then I heard Megatron's voice in my ear. "Follow her memory," he suggested. "Trace her route backwards from when you first saw her at the Hub. Find out where they were hiding her that way."
I tightened my grip on his arm (later he'd tell me I'd left dents, and that his fingers were too stiff to move for hours afterward). I looked.

I saw the Hub. It was streaked in the memory, like an image left out too long in the rain. And yet it beckoned with forgotten dreams of freedom.

I looked backwards in her scattershot timeline. All her memories were corrupted. In quick, dark bursts I saw several crooked alleys blocked with refuse. I saw a glimpse of bright neon; but Flashpoint had flinched back from it. She'd hidden always in the dark and in the junk. I felt her crawling from an oozing sewer-pipe, green with the luminescence of decay. I saw her heaving herself up a fissure in the under-dark, and felt the hopelessness of enervated limbs. Then I saw only blinding white, and cried out at remembered pain.

I shut my optics down, and pushed away from Megatron. I heaved, and vomited bright orange on the floor. Beside the bleached gray femme – beside Flashpoint – such color shocked me. I collapsed on her unresponding, cut-down, too-slim frame, and cried. Her spark pulsed weakly and sporadically against my own.
Behind me, I heard Megatron give a great shudder. Then he flipped up his communicator. "Orion, someone's making femmes and tampering with their personalities. We've found one of them who escaped. She's in bad shape. That newling who can read sparks is here with me now, and she got what she could out of the escaped femme's memories. Magnus is bringing in the scum who chased her here, but it's your turn now. I'm transmitting coordinates to where I believe she was held captive. I'm shot, so I'm worthless. Conscript anyone – whoever's closest – and send them in fully armed. Send those scumbags to the Pit for me, Brother. Believe me, they deserve it."
He went to flip the comm closed, but his contact was still talking. "Of course I'm all right!" Megatron snapped. "When you feel my spark go out, that's when you should worry. Not before. Now get going! If you're too late to catch these Unmaker-spawn because you spent time bothering with me, I'll kill you myself! Megatron out."
He slammed the commlink closed, and growled, "Prime's gonna want to show them mercy, I just know it. I hope someone comes along to dissuade him."
I couldn't care less what Megatron wanted. I could not stop Flashpoint's memories – all those horrible, indellible memories – from replaying in my head. I was shaking. And Flashpoint was dying. Already she felt cold and dead against me in my arms. A great, racking, full-body clatter rolled throughout my servos. This was a nightmare; but I could not wake. A sound came out of my throat that was nothing like my voice.
"What in the Pit-?" Megatron pulled me roughly off Flashpoint's cold form, and held me tight against the radiating warmth his wounded chest was giving off. "I told you to bypass your long-term memory!" he growled.
"But she deserves to be remembered!" I retorted, my teeth chattering.
"Not specifically by you! I told you, let me handle this!"
I pushed away from him. "You're not a femme. And as we've firmly established, you're not a newling. She's like me. I'm like her. If anybody's going to remember what happened to her, it should be me – if nothing else, so I can avoid getting captured and having them cut my soul up just like they did in hers!" I collapsed back against him as another racking shudder made me weak.
I felt him tense, ready to fight. But then he loosened his hold on me, and sighed. This time he truly sounded weary. "You have to let it go, little one. At least enough to go on functioning. Keep the most important parts if you believe you must. But send the bulk of it to me. Delete it from your hard drive. You don't have to carry all of it."
"I don't... I don't know how," I admitted.
Megatron paused. Then he let out a bitter laugh. "And I don't know how to teach you. We are alike, you and I. Other bots leave their bad memories at the Fallen Spire, but not Megatron. I don't believe I have the right to forget anything I've done."
I huddled, shivering, against his heat.
He sighed. "Do you trust me?"
I thought about it. "I'm not sure," I answered honestly.
Megatron took a long and painful inhale. "Prime sometimes does this thing for me when – when I'm having trouble letting go."
Trust Megatron? I wasn't sure he'd earned it. But I did trust Prime. Moss-beings on some unevolved marsh planet all trust Prime – I know because I saw it on a history-vid. "If it's... from Prime... I guess... I'll trust you." I chattered, helpless as yet another massive shudder wracked my frame.
Megatron lifted me so that our optics were inches apart. "If this hurts, I'm doing it wrong," he said. "So tell me if it does, and I will stop."
I nodded. "OK."
Megatron inhaled again, and pressed his lips tight. Then he hooked a thumb under the armor at my neck. He must have pinched some duct or other. It tingled. He let go, and immediately, I felt coolant flush throughout my system. It was wonderful. Calming and cleansing all in one. I felt my whole body relax, and slumped against him gratefully.
Just then, Spangle skidded back down the hall. It felt like several lifetimes since she'd left to fetch her repair kit; but I realized it could only have been a few minutes. I looked up gratefully to greet her – she'd know what to do for Flashpoint – but Megatron flinched like she'd just caught him doing something naughty. He jerked his hand from my neck without warning, leaving me alone and cold. Spangle took the scene in, and reeled like she'd been struck. The flexi-metal patch she'd brought for Megatron slipped to the floor.
"What are you doing to her?" she demanded, her mouth ugly with outrage. "You know the rules. You helped write them! Don't take what's not given!"
I didn't understand Spangle's reaction. It startled me. I felt embarrassed, but did not understand why. Heat rushed throughout my systems, nullifying some of Megatron's good work. He let me slip out of his arms (but gently), and addressed Spangle directly. "It was only a coolant flush. I swear it on my spark. She was severely overclocked, and that was all I knew to do to help."
Spangle huffed, but relaxed a little. She looked at me searchingly for confirmation (not that I knew which response I should give her). But there was no time for argument. Because then Flashpoint started twitching. Spangle dropped to her haunches, opened the toolkit with a clang, and burst into a flurry of motion. "We're losing her!" she shouted, as one of the little boxes she'd attached to Flashpoint's arm started wailing.
Megatron lunged forward, and winced. "Does she need a jump-start?" he asked. "I'll do it-"
"No." Spangle's optics were pale with rage, but now it wasn't just at Megatron. "It's a reaction to the drugs they gave her. Withdrawal. Catastrophic. Smelt that slag-licker Octane! If he'd brought that nasty stuff in here today, I could have used it to save her! As it is, I have nothing. I've kept this place too damn clean."
She raised her wrist and barked over the open line. "I need a medic here yesterday. We've got a newling femme in withdrawal. A bad case. She's been on Juice for who knows how long, and she's cut off cold. Skywarp, teleport your black aft in here, and bring a vial of the stuff with you. A newling is about to die, people!"
But no one responded. I remembered with a sinking heart that Ratchet had left Kaon when he'd put me down for my long sleep. The other medic, Flatline, was repairing the two prisoners who'd just attacked us. (And Megatron muttered something to Spangle about Flatline being clueless where femmes were concerned.)
"Come on!" Spangle shouted into her comm. "Is there any other medic in this hemisphere?"
There came that flash of purple light, a *VOP* that sucked all sound out of the room. Skywarp, the black and purple jet, appeared beside us. He held a vial of the sickly reddish syrup. Spangle reached out for it, but winced, as if it were something disgusting.
"Let me," said Skywarp gently. And he sounded sad. With hands that even I could tell were well-practiced at this, he yanked a duct loose from Flashpoint's wrist, and began dripping the syrup-stuff into the open end of it.
This time, it was Megatron who shuddered.
Spangle is big. She's tough. She's hard. But Spangle laid her useless tools carefully back into her box, and put her hands up to her face, and cried.
No one spoke now. No medic came. Megatron wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my shoulder. This time he was the one who needed comfort; this time he was the one shaking. "Look away, little one," he begged. "Please look away!" But I could not.
I did the only thing I could for Flashpoint as she lay there dying, with that red sludge dripping into her to stop the shaking. I bore witness to her spark's last valiant fight. I watched it flash and flare and struggle, always just a little smaller. I watched Spangle as drew the mutilated, violated body up into her lap, and rocked it, humming something soothing deep within her throat. I felt Megatron's hot engine hitch against my back, and saw the fiery reflection of his optics running red along my armor. I watched Skywarp's hand begin to shake as he let the last drops of the red syrup fall into Flashpoint's wrist. We all watched together, as her soul flickered, rallied, and then went out for the final time. The bleached gray body faded to a lifeless cinder-dark.
She'd only been a few months older than I was.
Skywarp shouted a violent curse, and hurled the empty glass jar shatter-hard against the wall.
Megatron made a choking sound I'd never thought to hear out of the mech who'd been my paragon of aloofness and poise. He hugged me till his wounded side gave way. He was no longer a fortress. Now he was broken.
I felt completely hollowed-out inside. Flashpoint had been created by mechs, just like I was. Only they'd done to her what Sunstreaker had once threatened to do to me – they'd reprogrammed her mind, and more. They'd done it to who knew how many other newling femmes. Right then, clasped tight in Megatron's shuddering arms, I came as close to hating mechs as I have ever come.
Megatron's comm buzzed, and he jumped. "Did you get them?" he barked hoarsely.
I could not hear what was said, but I felt his shoulders slump.
"Not even one? Then search again! Look inside all the piping! Pry the floor up! Flashpoint managed to hide herself, maybe some of the others-"
Another pause. More weakening of Megatron's once-solid form. "At least tell me you destroyed that accursed mass-production machine." He listened. "There's always a trail! Don't lose it! Call Steeljaw in to sniff out-" Beside me, his fist spasmodically clenched and unclenched. "He is? And he can't trace anything? Dammit, these Autobot cassettes are worthless!" His head slumped as somebody spoke to him for several seconds. Then he stiffened angrily. "Don't talk to me about more time! We've had time, Prime. We're failing them."
The conversation lasted another minute or so. But I don't remember much else of it. All that mattered was that we'd failed. Even after all I had done, they'd gotten away and taken the other newlings with them.
Megatron slammed his commlink closed, and smashed his fist into the floor. For a long time, none of us spoke. We stayed there motionless: Spangle, Megatron, Skywarp, and I, looking down at the dead femme we'd failed to save. Finally, Skywarp put a hand on Spangle's shoulder, muttered something regretful, and vanished with another, somehow lesser *VOP.*
I pushed free of Megatron's arms, and hauled myself up to my feet. I felt unutterably heavy. I touched Spangle on the shoulder. "Thank you for everything you've taught me. Now I think it's time for me to go." She reached up and squeezed my hand, but did not raise her head to look at me. She nodded once, and I knew she agreed.
I kept my back to Megatron, and spoke, each word a leaden lump I had to force out of my mouth. "I will do what Prime asked of me. I will be your little spark-spy. Come get me when you want to leave. You'll find me in the washracks. I'll be trying to feel clean."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XVIII-

I'd spent long enough under the solvent spray to wonder if it might start bleaching out my armor (but not long enough to care whether it did) when Roadbuster came in.
"I heard you're leaving."
"Yup." I nodded, but did not shut down the spray. (Was this how Blot felt all the time? This sense of deep, spark-level filth? I felt I'd never wash away the things I'd seen.)
"Sparkles." Roadbuster reached behind me, and turned off the solvent.
I finally looked up at him. "Yeah?"
"Spangle told us all what happened."
I was too worn-thin to feel betrayed. "So?"
Roadbuster shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Look, you're clean already. Inside and outside." He grabbed a random bottle of polish off the communal shelf (knocking over several others in the process). "Here." He thrust the bottle into my hand, then grabbed a cloth. "Take this too."
Numbly, I complied. My body settled into the familiar push and pull of polishing.
Roadbuster sat down on the bench beside me. (It creaked. He was heavy.)
Neither of us spoke for several minutes. But the slow, deep rumble of his engine was comforting. And the quiet hiss of his long intakes and ex-vents seeped into my own rhythms, till my ventilation also slowed, and my engines ceased their useless revving.
"It happens sooner than you think," he said. "You'll go out one day, and realize you're happy." He turned to me, and held my gaze. "And that's OK. You're not letting her down if you feel happy."
I looked down at the white cloth in my hand. It seemed so strange that I was sitting here, whole and complete, while Flashpoint lay dead just downstairs.
"I know about these things," Roadbuster said.
I looked at him. I dared not try to read his spark, but I could guess some of what I might find in there. The same kinds of things all warborns had. The same kind of thing I'd seen in that datacube at the Fallen Spire. And yet Roadbuster still functioned. Still cared about femmlings like me, enough to come up here to try and give me hope.
I rose, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you, Roadbuster."
He just shrugged.
"Promise me one thing."
He looked up at me.
I looked back at him with optics that had seen a newling die. "Call Firestar. Stop wasting time."
He hissed out a sharp breath.
"Promise me."
Roadbuster rose abruptly, and walked to the door. But there he stopped. He waited for a long, long time. Then he half-turned, and nodded quickly once.
It would have to be promise enough.

I said goodbye to Tankor and the other bouncer-mechs. I said goodbye to Road Rage and Roulette, although we'd never really hit it off. I left bright, breezy messages for some of my favorite regulars. My one regret is that I never thought to leave a farewell note for Blot.
Spangle led me down to the shuttle-bay. The magical teleport-closet had been used to transport Flashpoint's body, and was still on cooldown – whatever that meant. So Megatron and I would travel the old-fashioned way: we were borrowing Spangle's shuttle.
"Thank you," was all I thought to say to her.
"Good luck," was her only reply.
But as I left her standing in the doorway (with her bulk filling most of the passage), she moved her hand in a rapid, benedictory gesture. "May Primacron protect you," she whispered. Then she turned, and strode away back up the hallway.
I never worked for Spangle again.

Megatron barely nodded when I joined him in the little shuttle bay. He raised an eyebrow just a bit when I walked in, all washed and polished; but he never made a comment, and for that I was grateful. From the ugly patch of base metal riveted to his wounded side, I gathered he was not one to care much for wax and polish. He started up the boarding ramp with strides so long I had to jog to catch up to him. I realized with a start that my makers knew nothing of recent events. They would have no idea where I was going. For that matter, come to think of it, neither did I.
But I couldn't face telling Sunstreaker and Thundercracker everything that had happened. I hoped Spangle would fill them in, if they asked where I was and why.
"Springer's team followed your directions, and found an underground complex," Megatron said, not looking at me. "I wouldn't let 'em leave until they'd torn the place apart. They found a single femme newling squeezed into a vent-duct. Alive. One of the ones who'd gone missing, not one of the... others like Flashpoint. Ratchet's attending to her now." He glanced across at me, and shrugged. "Thought you should know you did save one."
"But where have all the others gone? What's happened to them?"
"How should I know? I can't read sparks!" He inhaled, let his optics go dark for a moment, and went on. "They weren't there when Springer burst in. And now the trail's gone cold." He threw himself into the pilot's seat, leaving a dent. (Spangle would have sharp words with him about that later.) "I should have gone after them right away, and damn my busted side. I might have gotten there in time."
I couldn't muster a response to this. I mean, who did I think I was, to be strapping in alongside one of the Commanders of Cybertron? Who did I think I was to believe that I could actually help him?
"Where are we headed?" I asked hesitantly.
"Pax Cybertronia." He reached across and tugged on my harness to make sure I was securely fastened in my seat, grunted approval, and impatiently went through a complicated startup sequence. I felt the engines give a push, and we were off. Our contrail was a brilliant orange spume in the setting sun's light. The Hub's neon lights were soon swallowed in the spreading darkness of Kaon.

I wanted to stare at Megatron's profile as he sat there not three feet from me. To try and accept the reality of him. But instead I looked out the window. I missed the mystery mech that I had lionized, and felt the fresh loss of the world-wise older brother I had wanted him to be. I missed the easy self-delusion of not knowing him for real. I missed the easy life I'd led with Sunstreaker and Thundercracker. And to be completely honest, I missed being idolized myself. I told myself to let all those things go. They were not real. I wasn't sure what was real any more.
Megatron gripped the steering controls like he was trying to strangle them. I knew not everyone dealt with revelations like Flashpoint's by spending an hour in the washracks, so I kept quiet. But it was scary, seeing him so agitated. I did not know this Megatron at all.
"Where are we going?" I asked finally (hating myself when my voice squeaked).
"We're headed for the Citadel," he said. "We'll meet with Prime and Elita there. Should get to Pax Cybertronia in about five hours."
"OK." This wasn't much to go on. But I was too intimidated to ask more. So I just stared out the window. And warily watched Megatron's reflection in it. (Watched his fists tightening spasmodically on the controls.)
The sun set. We passed over a third city. And all the while he refused to look at me. I began to wonder if it was me he was mad at. But why? Wasn't I here doing the very thing he wanted from me? I wished I weren't too cowardly to look into his spark.
"Why did you do it?" he asked suddenly after three hours of flight. (The question startled me so much I clattered.) "Why'd you have to look?"
"I looked because you asked me to!" I squeaked. "It was your idea, remember?"
"Not that!" He thumped the helm in frustration. "Not Flashpoint. Why'd you have to look into my spark?"
"Oh." How was I to answer this? A simple 'Sorry' wouldn't be enough for either of us. I sucked in a full intake, and tried, "If it's any consolation, I wish I had never done it."
"So do I!" he thundered. I heard the servos in his jaw complaining as he tightened up his mouth a little more. "You were the only person I had met in eons who did not know me as a monster. And then you had to go and ruin it."
"No, Megatron. You ruined it yourself," I whispered, "Long before I ever looked."
Megatron acted like he hadn't heard me. But I saw him flinch away from what I'd said.
I looked out of the window, so I wouldn't have to face him. But I'd started talking now, and couldn't stop. "You were supposed to be the hero I needed." I crossed my arms tight, but that gave me no protection. "You turned out to be a monster."
"The Autobots don't trust me. The Decepticons think I betrayed them. The datanet is bursting with stories of my atrocities. So tell me, Rainbowsparkles: how in the Pit did you get the idea I was someone you should look up to?"
I shut my eyes. "You'll laugh," I said. "I don't think I can handle that right now."
"Humor me. It's a long flight."
I hugged my knees up to my chest, feeling my shoulders pull against the safety harness.
"I won't laugh. On my honor as a lying, murderous wretch." Megatron opened a compartment in the control panel, and drew out the small pistol hidden there. "Here. If I laugh, you blow a hole through my head. Deal?"
I looked at him. He was serious. He held the gun out to me on his open palm. I hesitated. Then I took it.
"I saw you." I whispered, not looking at him. "I was five days old." I fiddled with the gun in my hands: such a fearful little thing. "The crest on your head fooled me – it's not a warborn kind of thing to have." I shrugged, but the words forced themselves out. "I assumed you were a newling. Someone like me. But you had so much more confidence. I wanted to be like you. You were my role model."
I looked up at him then. His face was ancient, scarred, and nothing like the newling prince I had imagined him to be.
"I must have been a massive disappointment then," he said.
I nodded. "Your spark was the biggest disappointment of my life."
He turned away, and stared out into the dark night ahead. His hands were firm on the controls. But now his shoulders slumped, and all the strength had gone out of his bearing. "Dammit, why'd you have to look?"
I didn't have a happy answer for that question. So I handed back the gun. "You didn't laugh," I said. "Thank you."
He tucked it back in its compartment. "Sorta wish I had," he snorted. "But the safety was on."
My comm's hail-chime startled both of us. I said a word that would have gotten me in trouble back at home. I looked down at the ident-code. It was my makers.
"Hi Dad." It was pointless to whisper; Megatron was right next to me. I let the call broadcast through my speakers, so that he could hear.

We can see by your tracker that you're moving. What's going on? Are you all right?

Once again, the foolishness of this whole enterprise hit me. "I'm... not kidnapped or anything, if that's what you're afraid of," I began.
"She's with me," Megatron broke in.
Megatron? Both my makers spoke at once. (They knew him? By his voice? I kept forgetting everyone knew everyone on this planet.)
"It's all right," I repeated. "I'm just going-" I broke off, and tried again. "When Firestar took me to Iacon, we met Optimus Prime; and he-" I stopped. How much should I tell them? How much did I want them to know about what I had done – and what I was planning to do?
"It's a new citizenship program," Megatron broke in smoothly. (His tone, though rough as always, revealed nothing of his current emotion.) "Firestar suggested that we get the newlings more involved in government. Give them a chance to learn about the world from a global perspective. Rainbowsparkles volunteered to be the first. Did she forget to tell you?"
I stared at him. On the one hand, this let me off the hook nicely. On the other hand, though, how dare he?

Sweetheart, is this true?

I almost broke when Thundercracker asked it.
Megatron shrugged, and left the choice to me.
I ducked my head. "I did forget to tell you, Dad. I'm sorry. I'll be with Command for a while, helping them set up the program." I hoped my makers couldn't hear the tightness in my throat. "I'm sure I'll have lots of new stories when I come home!" I lied brightly. "I'll be safe; don't you worry. What could happen while the Command Triad's looking out for me?"
There was a long, long silence on the commline. Then Sunstreaker spoke, sounding sullen. Congratulations, I guess. Call us weekly, all right?
"Yes, Dad," I said, fighting back a sob.
We'll miss you. But we know it's time you tried your wings. Thundercracker's voice broke on the last word.
"I love you!" I burst out, not caring what Megatron saw or heard. "I love you both!"

We love you too, Rainbow. You are our light. Take care of yourself!

Don't forget us!

And with that, the line went dead.
I turned my face back to the window, so Megatron wouldn't see me crying. I watched circle-cities pass beneath us. I had nothing left to say. Not even any questions.

We touched down on the dark side of the planet, on a small landing pad at the base of a skyscraping, three-sided tower. Everything was brand-new here – no sign of old things reused and respected. But I did not get a chance to take in The Citadel; because the second we landed, our ship was swarmed by a big crowd of shouting mechs all holding up scrawled placards like the ones I'd seen on the day Megatron had walked into my life.
"Stop the cover-up!" came a squeaky, desperate-brave cry from the crowd. "No more disappearances!" The protesters massed between us and the entrance to the gleaming tower, holding up their badly-lettered signs to form a wall. I wanted to walk tall and straight like Megatron, to imitate his disregard for the mob pressing in on us. But I was scared. I didn't need spark-reading to know these mechs were one wrong move from violence. I wished someone I knew and trusted could have been there to protect me. But they weren't. So I edged in behind Megatron like a coward.
A blue and white mech, obviously the leader of this ragtag group, stepped forward. "Tell us the truth!" He pointed a finger at Megatron. "You've posted new guards everywhere. But still newlings are disappearing. So I find myself wondering, Decepticon Commander… are you the one who's taken them?" He shot an arm in my direction. "Who does this pretty little thing belong to, eh? Who'd you take her from?"
That was enough to bring me out of Megatron's shadow all right. "I belong to nobody!" I shouted (or, let's face it, squeaked). My fists were clenched in pointless defiance.
Megatron quirked an amused eyebrow at me. But then he looked back at the mech accusing him, and at the angry crowd... and seemed to forget I was there.
"Breakdown, it's worse than you or I suspected." This was not the opening line I'd hoped for. (And not what the crowd had expected either.) "We lost a newling today. She escaped from her captors, only to die from what they'd done to her." Megatron showed his hastily-patched side, and added sadly, "I failed to protect her."
Silence met this announcement. I could hear engines of the bots around us revving like the angry buzz of hacksaws. We were going to be ripped apart...
"We discovered an underground base, where newling femmes were being mass-produced in secret," Megatron continued. The crowd leaned in to hear him. (I felt suffocated.) "Whoever's doing this had fled when we arrived. But we did find one femmling who escaped. One of the lost ones. She's being tended to by Ratchet now. Her makers will have her back before morning."
Fifty vocoders powered up to shout, but Megatron quelled them with a gesture. "From this first failure, we have learned that they must tap into a vein of Matrix-grade white energon to ignite sparks in all their poor creations. We don't understand the connection to the femmes who've gone missing, but we do have our first real clue to where to find these mad creators next. But we need all your eyes and ears. We have to scour the entire planet, or there will be more deaths. More newlings lost. So join us now."
The crowd was mesmerized. "Harness your anger!" Megatron roared. (And they roared back with him.) "Forge yourselves into a corps of rescuers!" He pointed at the entrance to the Citadel. "Go to the second floor. Intelligence Division. Tell Prowl I sent you, and he'll give you your assignments. Then recruit your friends. If you help us – if we all work together – we can end this ugliness for good."
Instead of blocking us, the crowd now surged us forward like a wave. Megatron had taken a violent, aimless mob, and made it into his own army. It had taken him mere moments. To say I was impressed would be a planet-sized understatement.

I held my chin high in the elevator, as bots famous enough that even I recognized them nodded to Megatron and glanced curiously at me. It was a long, long ride in a small box.
My fuel was curdling in my tanks when we stepped out onto the top floor of the Citadel. I'd clenched my fists so hard my knuckle-joints were sore. This was all much too big for me. I was so out of place, it was ridiculous. Sunstreaker liked to say that we're all cogs in the machine; but I'd just probably gum up the mechanism!
We walked down a curved hallway lined on one side by tall windows looking out to the glittering night; and by evenly-spaced golden wall-lamps and occasional closed doors on the other. Our footsteps were muffled by deep sunset-colored carpeting. Megatron stopped to key a lockpad, and a beautiful, intaglio-etched copper door slid open to reveal a surprisingly small, well-appointed chamber. Warm golden light fell on bright colors: red and blue and pink... And there they were, the other members of the High Command Triad: Optimus Prime and Elita-One, holding hands.
"Elita." Megatron's tone was deferential. "Come meet the spark-reader. This is Rainbowsparkles."
I ducked my head in quick salute (I'd practiced in my mind on the way up). "Elita-One. It's an honor to meet you."
She nodded, but did not approach. In fact, she didn't even speak to me. I wondered if she resented the way I'd jumped into Command business like this. But a very cautious quick-skim of her spark revealed that if she was angry, it wasn't with me.
Prime stepped forward to shake my hand, and smiled at me just like he had back in the Archives. "I'm glad you've come. I'd hoped you would. Thank you. I know this wasn't an easy decision."
Elita's frown deepened. "I'm not glad, though of course I welcome you. I'd hoped we could keep you out of all this."
Megatron glanced at her sharply. "You're not siding with Prime then?"
"No." Elita waved a hand at me. "Look at her. She's less than a single year from her ignition. And you want her delving into the sparks of mechs who've lived millions of years of war? You want her seeing what we've done to one another? What we're still doing?" She shook her head forcefully. "We have no right to ask this of her."
"But I chose-" I heard the squeak in my voice again, and stopped to recalibrate it. I would speak up for myself, even if it broke some sort of protocol. "I chose to come here, ma'am. Nobody made me."
Elita let go of Prime's hand, and moved toward me now. We were the same height, but she made me feel so small. I tried bravely to meet her eyes that were, for once, so like my own. Reflected in their thoughtful stare I saw myself helpless, out of my depth, and foolish. I let my gaze fall, surrendering.
"Please," I whispered, not looking at Elita. "If you'd been there. If you'd seen what I saw in Flashpoint's spark, you'd understand. I have to do this. I owe it to her, and to the others like her. I'm not strong or important. But I can do this one thing. And if that one thing is important – if it saves a single femme – I don't think you should throw it out because it comes from scared newling."
No one spoke. I was sure I was in big trouble.
Then Elita took my face between her hands, and forced me to meet her blue optics. "Rainbowsparkles." Her mouth quirked a little; but when Elita said my name in her contralto voice, it somehow didn't sound so silly. "Rainbowsparkles, you are important. But it has nothing to do with your spark-reading. It has everything to do with what you are."
I sighed. Not this again. I had expected better from her. "Important because I'm a femme, or because I'm a newling?"
Her smile faded. "Both. You'll understand it someday." Elita put her strong hands on my shoulders. "Rainbowsparkles, I accept your gracious offer to help us rescue your sister newlings. And now..." she drew herself together with a long vent-intake, "… now I'd like to give you something in return.
She opened a compartment in her chest, and drew out a small key. I didn't know to be impressed, till Prime and Megatron both gasped. "Um, what is it?" I asked her, now uneasy.
She gave me that enigmatic smile that I'm sure you've seen if you've ever met her. "It's a key."
"I can see that. But-" I indicated the other two mechs, who were hovering over Elita's shoulder now, and staring at the shining crystal key, their mouths agape. "I don't have to read sparks to realize there's more to that key than opening some storage-locker."
Elita chuckled. "I'm starting to like you, Rainbowsparkles."
I rolled my optics. Couldn't help it. Too many repetitions of my name. "Shorten it. Please," I begged. "To anything, really."
Elita quirked a teasing eyebrow. "Anything?"
"For Pit's sake! Call her 'Spark. It's fitting. What are you going to do with that key? Have you worked out what it does, then?" Megatron was clearly impatient.
"I think I have." Elita put her hands on my shoulders and spoke, claiming my undivided attention. "When this world was reformed after the Cataclysm, we three were given gifts by Primacron. Orion – Optimus, that is – received a new Matrix in place of the one that was lost. It connects him to every soul on Cybertron. He's learning to use the knowledge it gives him to help us each to overcome our legacies of war."
Prime shrugged. "I'm trying. It's not easy."
I looked up at him, and was suddenly reminded of a dark night beside a gray building back home in Tessarus. "My makers were relieved to find you when they went for their appointments," I told Prime. "They came out lighter. So you must be doing something good."
His optics brightened. "Thank you for telling me that, 'Spark. It's good to hear. And... should I call you 'Spark now?"
"'Spark's fine," I answered shortly. My eyes were still fastened on Elita's key. "Go on, please."
Elita pursed her lips, clearly annoyed at the interruption. Then she resumed. "Megatron was given an emblem of leadership. I'm not sure what it does..."
"It slagging tries to tell me what to do!" Megatron burst out. "It's the reason I was still at The Hub when Flashpoint came knocking."
"Really?" Elita was distracted now.
"It doesn't matter." Megatron was practically bouncing on his toes. "What's your key do?"
Elita sighed. She held the key between us, and the crystal seemed to dance and glow ever so slightly in her hand. I wondered if it was alive. "Primacron gave me this," she said, "but didn't explain what it did."
"Primacron's not much for explanations," Megatron muttered.
Elita laughed, but softly, to herself. She looked down at the bright key in her hand. "It hums," she said. "Sometimes, it hums. Can you hear it?"
I listened. We all listened. I heard nothing.
Elita shrugged. "I think it unlocks innate power," she explained. "Don't ask me how I know that; I just do. I'd like to use it to strengthen your spark-reading ability, if I may. And if I have any say in the matter, it will also arm you somewhat, so the things you'll see when we ask you to read sparks won't leave any of their rust in yours." She looked at me, her optics old as stars. "Do you trust me enough to let me try?"
"I'm not sure I trust Primacron," I answered honestly. "He let me choose this ridiculous name, and didn't warn me." I looked into Elita's face, so focused and so solemn. I turned to Prime, and saw the softness in his optics as he watched her. There was no doubt or hesitation there; he trusted Elita completely. I turned to Megatron. He watched Elita with more of amazement than of love, but he also showed no unease about what she proposed. I didn't trust Primacron, and had not learned whether I should trust Elita. But I knew these two mechs – knew them to their sparks. And they trusted Elita. "Do it," I told her. "I need all the strength and armor I can get!"
Unconsciously in tandem, the two mechs each put a bracing hand on her shoulders. Elita held the crystal key out toward me, her brow furrowed now in concentration. The air grew thick, somehow, and buzzy. Elita squeezed her optics shut, and grabbed her wrist with her free hand – the key had become difficult to hold. She touched my chestplate with it.
Nothing happened for an instant of spark-freezing eternity.
Then I felt something like a warm, bright light flare up inside my spark, and rush out to suffuse my body from my fingers to my feet. Elita staggered back. "There!" she said, gasping a little. "First time for everything!" She tucked the strange key back in its little compartment, and grinned like a week-old newling. "I did it!"
Prime grabbed her in his arms and held her tight. He rubbed a thumb across her cheek; and it came away wet. "You've leaked a bit, dear one. Do you feel all right?"
"I think I'm fine. But I'll let Ratchet check me over, just in case." Elita grinned again. "I'll sit on the exam-slab next to Megatron, and hold his hand for comfort while the meanie doctor welds his shot-up side together."
"Why you-!" Megatron stopped, and bit back his retort. "She's right, Optimus. We should all get to the Medbay. I for one want to see how his current patient's doing."
Prime sobered. "Better than when she was brought in, Ratchet tells me. But yes. It's time. Come on, dearest." He took Elita's arm in his, and they walked out together, step-for-step in perfect synchrony.
They left Megatron and me to fend for ourselves without so much as a backward glance.
Megatron made a face as the door closed behind Prime's back, rolled his optics with a muttered "Unmaker beneath us!" and finally glanced sidelong at the newling femme he'd brought here with him. Then he offered his arm formally to me. "Shall we proceed down to the Medbay, 'Spark?"
For a tiny, tiny instant, with the golden light upon him, he was the mech in my dreams. I shrugged, and took his arm, and we walked out to find our next adventure.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XIX-

I know we took the elevator down to the Medbay on the second floor. But I remember almost nothing of the trip. I kept tucking my head to hide the unstoppable grin that kept on pulling at my mouth. This was surreal. I wondered what Windchaser would do, if she saw me walking arm-in arm with Megatron behind the other two Commanders. We met several other bots along the way, including Chromia and Ironhide; and let me tell you, their expressions were worth archiving forever.
The Medbay floor looked nothing like the Citadel's top story. It was mostly gray, hard-wearing stuff, no decoration anywhere except for orange running lights along the midpoint of the walls, and clear signs showing the way to rooms like "Electrical," "Life-Support," and "Mechanical Supplies".
We stopped in a high-ceilinged foyer. Through slit-windows at the sides of a massive gray gate (pulled shut, and barred), I glimpsed the shadows of two huge mechs with equally huge guns guarding the steep ramp up to this second-floor entrance.
Inside, on the opposite wall, there was a reinforced red door (also large, also shut) with the word MEDBAY stenciled across it. Beside it were two more armed guards, who saluted crisply before staring at me like I was the most beautiful bomb they'd ever seen, and might go off at any point. The fun began leaking out of this excursion.
"At ease," Prime told the guards kindly. He saw how they were looking at me, and said, "She's with us. She has clearance for tonight. Ratchet will confirm."
He bent to a keypad beside the Medbay door, punched in a code, and spoke into the mic beside it: "We're here, Ratchet. All four of us. Authorization Command-1"
"Ol' Piston-Breath's going to chew a new hole in me, I'll bet," Megatron grumbled. "He loves doing that."
"Ol' Piston-Breath can hear you," said a tinny voice from the keypad's speaker. "Watch your language or I'll power-wash your mouth."
"Have you never listened to yourself?" Megatron huffed.
Prime rolled his eyes, and waved a hand for quiet. "Hurry, Ratchet. Elita needs a checkup too. We'll explain everything inside."
The door slid open. Ratchet stood there, arms crossed, in the entrance to his domain.
I had no full, clear memory of the planet's Chief Medical Officer from when I'd been knocked out by Megatron's spark, and he'd been called in to repair me. But I knew his hands had been gentle, and that he'd murmured kind encouragements into my semi-conscious mind. So when he turned out to be a stocky, shortish, red-and-white bot with a semi-permanent scowl on his face, I was surprised. He hurried us inside, shot a glance out into the foyer as if daring invisible enemies to spring, then pulled the red door shut behind us and dropped a thick bar across it.
"Sit," he told Megatron, pointing one of the repair bay cubicles. "You'll get to see the rescued femmling soon enough. Elita, tell me why you need a checkup while I put this slagheap back together. Rainbowsparkles, you did not take the full three days of recharge which I prescribed to you, and don't think you can hide it. Prime, your spark doesn't like it when you try to carry everyone's worries; so dial back your magical connection a few ticks. You're all getting a once-over before you leave here."
Ratchet gave orders in the same clipped tone Sunstreaker used with the crane crews who helped him set up his big sculpture shows. It shocked me when the Command Triad all obeyed him without protest.
Elita explained about the key, insisting she felt fine. (Prime mentioned the leakage he'd felt, and restated his worry.) Ratchet asked pointed questions of everyone, including me. And all the while, his fingers flew. Tools appeared and disappeared from his hands. One moment, I'd be blinded by a welding-torch; next moment I'd be wincing from the screel of a saw cutting off dead metal. The gash in Megatron's side seemed to repair and re-close itself before our optics. But Ratchet also found scant nanoseconds (while a weld was curing or a solder cooling) to look into Elita's optics and declare that she was strained, but whole; to clock Prime's engine and give it a blister-fast tune-up; and to aim a spark-periscope at my chest and hmph with a small smile, then pipe in a solution he said would fortify my neural ducts against overheating. My head was still spinning when Ratchet slapped Megatron's shiny new side with satisfaction, and told all of us we ought to get some rest.
The whole process took maybe ten minutes.
Ratchet sighed, stretched a crick out of his backstrut, and began replacing all his tools neatly in drawers and cupboards. I found myself sitting on an upturned bucket, between Prime (on a supply crate) and Megatron, still on the repair-slab above me. Elita sat on the floor between Prime's knees – he was massaging all the exposed cables at her neck and arm-joints. It had only been ten minutes, like I said; but those minutes had been Ratchet-time, and everyone was tired.
Ratchet pulled a dented rolling stool from under the counter, and plunked down on it, elbows on his knees. I was surprised when it was me he spoke to first. "Well kid, there's someone here who'd like to meet you very much. Are you sure you're ready?"
I gulped. Was I? What could I say to this femme they had found? (Would I be able to handle another Flashpoint?)
"I'm not sure. Do you think I am?"
Ratchet's face broke into a pleased grin. "See?" he said to Megatron. "Respect."
Megatron snorted something inaudible. But he added, "I'd like to see her too, please."
Before my doubts could get the better of me, I said, "Yes. Take us to her."
Ratchet grunted, and pulled back the fan-fold metal curtain of the next cubicle over. Inside it was a repair berth, a wheeled tray with instruments still scattered across it, a tall wheeled toolbox with a lot of drawers (several of which were standing open), and an energon drip-line leading into a green-and-silver femme sitting bolt-upright on the berth.
I gaped. All this time, she'd been listening to us! I wondered if my makers felt this way when they found out I'd spied on them.
Ratchet hurried over to the femme, and checked some rivets on her scuffed green shoulder-plate. He nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Are you ready for this, sweetheart?" he asked her in an undertone.
She nodded. Emphatically.
"Take it easy," Ratchet ordered. To us he added, "Don't tire her out before her makers get here."
It was like meeting a new sister. (This rescued femme even looked a little bit like Arclight.) I met her frank blue gaze with trepidation. What could I possibly say to a newling who'd been through what she'd probably been through?
She spoke up first. Her voice was dusty, as from lack of use. But it was clear. "Ratchet told me it you who showed them where to find us?"
"It wasn't- All I did was-" I shuddered, trying not to remember. "What's your name?"
"Starlight." She leaned forward. "Was it you? Please. I have to know who I should thank." She rubbed a hand over her silver throat, as if to smooth the rasping in her voice.
I shrugged stiffly. "I guess. Flashpoint's memories were blurry, but-" I broke off. "Did you know Flashpoint? The one they were chasing? The one who… I guess… got away?"
Starlight looked down, and gave a little shudder. "Ratchet told me she didn't make it."
I surged across the floor to her; took both her hands in mine. "She did make it, Starlight. She was free. You have to believe that. I have to believe it…" Suddenly I was clinging to this femme I'd barely met, hiccuping with suppressed sobs, and feeling like worthless slag. How dare I need comfort from her?
Starlight patted me awkwardly. "I wanted to be brave like Flashpoint was," she whispered.
"You were brave, little one." Megatron's glass-on-cinders voice is not something you want to hear behind you when you don't expect it. But despite all their roughness, his words were gentle and soothing. (This may have been just my bias, though...) "Listen, Starlight," he said gravely. "You kept your head, and you survived. Survival is bravery, too." His optics flashed their deep, dark red. "It has to be. Or what's the point?"
The newling bowed her head, but whether she accepted or rejected Megatron's words, no one knew. And I wasn't about to try and find out from her spark. Not yet.
"How did you escape from your captors?" asked Elita.
Starlight gave an embarrassed shrug. "Flashpoint was gone longer than usual. I was- I was hoping she had made it out for good this time. While our guards were out looking for her, I managed to work my cuffs loose." (She looked down at her mangled hands; they were a mass of scrapes and dents) "The guards never came back though. Instead, two new mechs charged in, bots I'd never seen down there before." She shook her head slowly, like there was something broken in it. "I think they put a virus in my memory. I want to tell you more, but when I try to describe any of my captors, things get fuzzy and I feel a little sick."
"Don't try then," said Elita kindly. "Tell us only what you can without discomfort."
Starlight's blue eyes went dim. "I got scared when they started throwing everything into the shuttle. I thought they'd probably kill us. So when no one was looking, I squeezed into the white energon conduit. They'd drained it, which was another bad sign – they'd never shut down production before. So, yeah. I hid. They left without me. When your team arrived, I thought they were some kind of sweeper crew, there to destroy all traces. So I hid... till they found me."
She was holding my hands so tightly it hurt. "It's all right," I said. "You'll be safe now."
She smirked bitterly. "All the others won't. I was a coward. I should have tried to save more of them."
"That kind of thinking won't help them or you," said Prime. "But the information you've brought us can. Do you feel up to answering a few more questions?"
Starlight straightened up at the sound of Prime's deep voice. His very words were fortified with strength. She looked at him with awe and love. "Of course, sir."
But it was Elita who came forward and began. Her modulated voice was just as compelling as Prime's, in its own way. "Tell us everything you can remember. A tiny detail might turn out to be the key." Elita glanced sideways at me, and whispered meaningfully, "Keep your optics open."
I was terrified of looking in another spark. What if Starlight's memories hurt me as much as Flashpoint's had done? But this was the job I'd signed up for...
"You probably know they took me from the Acrolight Arcade," Starlight began, hesitantly.
"We do. But no one saw it happen. And the security cameras were conveniently disabled."
Starlight shivered. "They shut me down, somehow. And after that, I woke up in darkness." Her voice was pinched and shaky, but she pushed the words out anyway. "It was like being in a dream. I never saw my captors clearly, and their voices were distorted. All I ever seemed to want to do was sleep. But they were constantly poking at me." She winced, and hunched her shoulders in. "Sometimes... sometimes I think they took something from me."
"What did they take?" Prime asked, concern in every syllable. "What are you missing, little one?"
"I don't know," Starlight whispered. "I can't make myself remember."
Her mind might not remember; but her spark would know it. Resolute, I opened myself up to her blue spark, and searched. "She could change eye-color at will," I burst out. "She can't do it any more." I looked up and met Starlight's soft blue optics. They were the same color as her spark. And now, they always would be.
"I'm sorry!" I whispered.
"How did you know?" she asked.
I suppressed an involuntary shudder. "Never mind."
"Why do they kidnap other newlings, if they've got their own assembly operation?" Prime asked Starlight. "Can you give us any insight into that?"
Starlight clapped a hand to her mouth, like she might vomit up the contents of her tank. Ratchet dropped what he was doing, and rushed to her side. "Head down," he barked. He pressed a thumb into the cords at her neck (a move I recognized and remembered), and Starlight took in a long, shuddering vent.
"Thanks," she whispered.
"Don't mention it." Ratchet turned to the four of us. "Finish up here," he ordered. "She's earned a rest."
Starlight straightened, and gripped the edges of her berth. "No, I can do this," she said firmly. "I want to help somehow." She looked at Prime. Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know why they took me. Or why they took Double-A. Or Thundervolt. But I think it must have something to do with... what they do to us in the white room." She stopped, shut down her optics, and shivered. Her delicate fingers were slowly crumpling the edge of Ratchet's medberth. "They copied Thundervolt's design – I saw how some of the forged frames looked like hers. I don't know what they took from Double-A."
She swayed, and might have fallen, but Ratchet supported her. He looked at Megatron, and frowned. "You're not gonna like this bit, Megs. Gotta give her a few drops of Devil's Due. It's what they're hooking them on down there to maintain control. You saw this morning what happens if they're cut off too abruptly. You might wanna turn away now..."
Ratchet brought over a small bag of reddish fluid. "Tell me again what you're going to do once Hoist and Grapple take you home," he ordered Starlight sternly, as he hooked a thin line from the bag to Starlight's wrist intake.
She numbly ticked the points off on her fingers, reciting like he'd made her do this many times before. "One: Drink eight cubes of puregrade White every day. Two: Call Mirage and Skywarp and start their detox protocol. Three..." Starlight looked down and away, and I could see she was ashamed.
"Three: Let your family and friends help you." Ratchet unhooked the line of red stuff. "You're gonna need help. This slag's the Pit to get free of." Starlight hitched her intakes, and pitifully reached for more. But Ratchet put both his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down so that they were face to face. "It's not easy, but you can do this. Half the mechs you'll meet have had to wean themselves off some form of this sludge. You'll be all right, Starlight. You'll make it."
She gave him a shaky nod. "Am I done now?"
Ratchet answered before any of the Commanders got a chance: "Yes. You are done. Go home and rest. You've earned it. You'll make Grapple and Hoist the happiest they've been in two dark months."
Starlight clasped her hands together tightly. "My makers," she whispered.
I stiffened, thinking of what Sunstreaker had suggested once about making me stay with them. "Starlight," I asked her carefully, "Do you… want to go back to your makers?"
She laughed. It wasn't happy laughter. It was scary.
"Do I want to go back with them?" She was almost crying now. "I've thought of nothing else for 59-and-a-half days! I want to be loved and cared-for again! I want to be kept safe again! I want to be as fearless as I used to be..." she sighed. "But that's not going to happen." She shuddered. "I should never have taken that drive alone."
I was relieved that she felt safe with her makers. But it chilled me how dependent she was on them now. Megatron looked at me, and I could tell he felt the same unease.
His rough voice crackled in my radio. Did you get anything? Send it to me along this frequency

How did you get my comm-?

Asked Thundercracker for it. Send me everything you saw in her spark, little one. And this time, try not to hold onto it!

All right.

I gathered all the images I'd seen in Starlight's spark. (There weren't many.) I bundled them up neatly in a file. And I sent the file across to Megatron. But I did not delete the copy in my cortex.
[img/vid 243-79 Starlight]

Red liquid flowing through thin plastic tubes, into the offline femmes hanging from rods in rows along the sides of the tunnel.

A massive black mech like a walking, well-armed mountain, saying, "This'll keep 'em docile."

Another slightly shorter mech, gloating, "And it'll keep 'em coming back." He turns, and I catch the red glow on neon colors against his mostly-black frame. "That stuff's good though," he mumbles, "Wish the big bosses would give us some."

The larger mech cuffs his companion. "Clench, you're a moron. They have too much leverage over us already; but you're begging for the chance to give them more!"

[ ]
I saw Megatron's optics go dark as he downloaded it.
"Recognize them?" I asked him in a whisper. But I'd recognized the name I'd heard early this morning, a lifetime ago.
"Clench and Turmoil," he growled to himself. "I should've killed 'em."
We all jumped to our feet as an alarm went off, and every light switched to a flashing red. The heavy Medbay door squealed as a squared-off yellow mech wrenched it open. He burst through, followed closely by his tubby green companion. They thundered toward us, and fell on Starlight like she was… well, like she was their beloved daughter.
Ratchet swore, and shut down all the alarms. "It's all right!" he assured the panicked guards (who'd scrambled frantically in after the invaders). "They're approved. I'll make them build me a replacement door before they leave. Call Stock-Transport, and start the shipment coming."
So these were her makers, then. But I had lost some of my unquestioning trust that all makers were decent. What I'd seen in Starlight's spark had further weakened my faith in my fellow-mechs. So I strode over to Megatron, and grabbed his wrist before I could talk myself out of doing what I planned. "Anchor me," I ordered. Then I looked. Looked fast and deep. In Grapple's blueish-green and Hoist's orange spark, I searched for the name 'Starlight.'
Coils of wonder, jagged lines of loss and pain, and now explosions of rejoicing: Starlight was embedded throughout every single strain of code. And everywhere beside her name was love. Not the possessive kind I'd been afraid of. Just a steady, fervent, sustaining commitment. The kind that would not change no matter how much time and distance came between the three of them. The kind that would not tarnish in response to what had happened to her in those tunnels. I let go of Megatron's wrist, feeling relieved and ashamed.
"I've done my eavesdropping," I whispered. "Can we get out of here now?"
We left. I don't think Starlight or her makers ever noticed we had gone.
Ratchet did. He followed us out. In the hallway he shone a fingertip-light into my optics, felt my spark-pulse, and stared at me critically. "Don't push her too hard too fast," he warned the three Commanders. "Remember the 'new' in 'newling'. Rainbowsparkles is processing every moment for the first time. She'll need lots of rest and recharge time." He was talking about me like I was furniture, but I was suddenly too tired to care.
Ratchet clapped me on the shoulder, pressed a warm cube of distilled energon into my hand, and smiled. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "I'm glad all of you newlings are here." He gave my arm a pat, and turned away. "You have no idea how glad."
"Thanks and all," I said. "But I think I'm gonna throw up now."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XX-

I rode back up the elevator with the Command Triad, clutching my cube of warm energon in one hand, and an old bucket in the other. ("In case it happens again," Ratchet had said when he handed it to me.) It was the same bucket I'd been sitting on a half-hour earlier, when we'd been introduced to Starlight.
"Does everything always happen this fast?" I asked them plaintively. "How did you survive millions of years of it?"
Prime chuckled. "Life is often dull and boring, I assure you." A chime dinged, and we arrived back at the top floor of the Citadel.
Elita looked me over, sighed, and walked to a small door between two of the high windows. She beckoned me to follow, and held the door open for me. "I like to come here when I need a rest," she said simply. We stepped out onto a little balcony, and were hit by the force of the pre-dawn wind.
The abrupt change from quiet interior to wide, windy world triggered another eruption from my foaming tanks, and I had to make use of the bucket. What in the name of Primacron had I been thinking? Coming to High Command. Looking in people's sparks on purpose. Getting involved in kidnappings and soul-stealing. Who exactly did I think I was?
"Take as much time as you need, 'Spark," Elita said gently.
Too late, I turned and mumbled something grateful. But she'd left. I hooked the emergency bucket over my elbow so that it wouldn't blow away, sank wearily onto the deck, dangled my feet over the edge, and flopped against the lower railing. I gave one bleary look out at the too-big world spread out below me. Then I plunked my head down on my arms, and let my optics go offline.
A sudden gust of wind slapped me alert. I didn't know how long I'd been idling; but the stars had moved, and there was light on the horizon. On the wind came the sharp scents of sulfur and of nitroglycerin: the now-familiar tang of Megatron. I raised my head, and saw him leaning out over the topmost rail, letting the wind whip at his face. His optics were mere slits. But he was smiling.
That smile started an odd fluttering inside me, so I looked away quickly. I was as high up as I'd been on my first flight with Thundercracker. But even here, the wind could not blow loose the tightness in my chest.
"Need to talk?" Megatron asked, still leaning out into the wind and looking younger than I'd ever seen.
"No thanks."
I stared down into a liquid golden sunrise as it welled up from the curve of the planet, and realized I'd stayed up all night for the first time in my life. The last stars flickered at the top of the dark sky. I wondered idly what might lie beyond those stars, and if it might be simpler there. I willed my spark to stop its frantic spinning.
"Where did Elita go?" I asked. "We're in her spot, I think."
"She went to Prime."
"Oh." I turned away, embarrassed for some reason.
We watched the sun's ascent in silence for a good long while. The moons were drowning in a molten sea. The towers of the city's outer ring stood black against the morning, each one edged with liquid gold. It was as beautiful as anything Sunstreaker'd ever made.
My spark twinged at the memory of my makers. I supposed they might be recharging now, though they seemed to need far less charge-time than I did. Did it mean I was maturing, that I'd stayed online all night and still had half a charge? If so, I wished this newfound adulthood would bring me the clarity I'd always assumed it would. But I felt just as confused now as I had been when I'd walked out from the Matrix Chamber, and seen Cybertron for the first time. The more I learned, the more I saw the world was complicated.
"Why are you here?" I asked Megatron finally. "Don't you have something important to be doing?"
He lumbered over and sat down beside me, big feet out over the edge and all. His elbows weren't quite touching mine, but we both leaned over the railing and stared down at the sun-gilded city spreading out a mile below our feet. "Elita lets me come here sometimes. This is her balcony, really." He sighed. "When the world feels too big to manage, I find that it helps to look at the things from a distance."
The world was hard for Megatron to manage? And here I'd thought I'd achieved some grand new level of adulthood, just because I hadn't needed recharge yet!
I watched Megatron following the flight of some jet-former dashing in and out between the lower towers, its wings flashing fire in the early morning light. I watched his face slowly change in a way that I couldn't understand. He looked both sad and deeply angry. He let out a ragged sigh; scrambled away from me and got back on his feet. "Then again, sometimes distance only shows me how far I still have to go." He slapped the railing. "Don't get comfortable with me, 'Spark," he growled. "People who do regret it."
The sun was fully risen now; and its warmth on my armor should have been a welcome comfort. But Megatron was standing only a few feet from me, and he was radiating chill that froze my spark. What had I done? What had brought on this change?
Both our comms buzzed, and I almost fell off the tower. "Hello?" I quavered.
It was Prime. I didn't bother asking how he'd gotten my comm-frequency. Magnus has brought Turmoil and Clench here for questioning. Are you ready for another round yet, Rainbowsparkles?
"Call me Spark. Please. I like it better." I turned away from Megatron. "And yes. I think I'm ready for another round." I wasn't. But I wanted to save the other newling femmes I'd seen in Starlight's spark more than I wanted rest. More than I wanted… something I did not know the name for, but that somehow now included Megatron.
I caught him looking at me with an odd expression on his face. I think he'd noticed I was using his suggested nickname. "Know where you're going?" he asked.
"Going?" I repeated dumbly. (That strange fluttering was back.)
He huffed impatiently. "Do you know where Turmoil and Clench are being held?"
"Oh!" I ducked my head. "Um, actually, no. Should have asked Prime, I guess..."
Megatron offered me his hand. I hesitated for an instant, then allowed him to pull me up to my feet. "Come with me," he grumbled more than said. "I'll take you there."

We didn't go back to that warm little reception chamber where I'd first been introduced to Elita. (Megatron walked right by that closed door.) Instead, he led me to a giant open work-space filled with desks and hologenerator tables. The morning sky was a pale green through tall windows on every side and skylights on the roof. We were in the very top of the Citadel.
It wasn't only the Command Triad working here, either. I was rapidly introduced to Prowl, Shockwave, and Red Alert – who all seemed preoccupied, and didn't pay me much attention. Astrotrain and Blitzwing's greetings were a little awkward – the last time I'd seen them, they'd both been sloshed out of their minds at Spangle's bar.
Prime looked up from a holo-map of Kaon he'd been studying. "The shot through Clench's chest just missed his spark," he said to Megatron. "And you destroyed Turmoil's right leg."
"You'll notice that I didn't kill them," Megatron said darkly.
"Then you'll be overjoyed to hear that Flatline put them back together well enough to walk," Prime quipped.
Megatron chuffed. "I'm ecstatic."
Prime turned to me. "This is your last chance to back out, 'Spark. If you do, all of us will understand. What's your decision?"
I looked up into his deep blue optics, and thought about the femmes still missing. "I'm not backing out," I told him.
Prime nodded. And although his face was youthful without the famous faceplate, his optics held an ancient sadness. I was here for him as much as I was here for anyone, I realized. I had fallen under the Prime-spell. I wanted to prove worthy of his trust. "We'll ask the questions, and rely on you to signal to us if either one is lying. Use my comm-frequency. Or Megatron's, if you still have it."
I nodded.
"Good. Make sure we don't miss anything important."
I raised my chin. "I'm ready." But my weak knees wobbled, and betrayed me.
Prime saw it. His mouth tightened. "Not quite. Can you keep fuel down yet?"
I thought about it, and realized that I was starving. "I think I'm done purging, for the moment."
"Follow me. We've got a dispenser."
I followed him to a wall-mounted spigot, where he drew me a fresh cube of white. Elita joined us, drew her own cube of distilled highgrade, and led me to an empty workstation where we'd be out of everybody's way while we refueled. I thought my makers would be pleased to see I was being given such high-grade fuel here. But I felt self-conscious drinking it in front of Elita. I missed the comfortable breakfast-nook at home. I missed the old familiar boredom.
"I'm not like you, Rainbowsparkles. But I think I understand you."
I felt my shoulders droop. "Because you're a femme?"
Elita snorted. "Primus, no! I'm a warborn; you're a newling – being a femme is nothing when compared to that difference."
I blinked, a little stung.
Elita saw it, and twitched with impatience. "Look. I spent four million years in a bunker while Shockwave killed the bots I'd stayed on Cybertron to protect. I thought my sparkmate had left me and died. So I don't always have a lot of polish when it comes to conversation."
"Oh."
"But I can read the energy of bots around me. And yours, frankly, is a mess."
I wilted. "Is it that obvious? I'm trying to keep it together..."
Elita waved a hand to shut me down. "We're asking too much of you. Maybe I should put my foot down."
"No! I can do this. Please let me do this. I can save them."
Elita sighed and shook her head. "You and Orion will be best friends soon, no doubt."
I thought, but didn't say, how I'd much rather be best friends with a completely different mech...
"The bots whose sparks you read. Do you love them?"
I choked. The question shocked me out of my daydream. We were planning to question two hired thugs who'd hunted Flashpoint to her death, and Elita was talking about love?
"You do, don't you?" she said. "I can imagine it must come with the territory. Spark-reading equals knowing equals love."
I gulped the last of my energon. "No! Of course not. How can you think-?"
"Spangle told me to watch out for you. She said you're easily overwhelmed by the desires of others."
"Spangle should learn to keep her mouth shut," I muttered, hoping Elita wouldn't hear me.
"So you see them and you love them, and you try to give them what they want. That's your problem."
Prime and Megatron returned as I was wondering what punishment I'd get, if I punched the Femme-Commander in the face. "They're ready," he said gravely. "Time to go."
Elita leaned in close to whisper. "Love's your strength, too, Rainbowsparkles. Use it."
I gaped after her. But she was already walking off with Prime.
I shook myself. I had a job to do. So I followed Optimus Prime (who'd held me after I'd spied on his spark and cried), and his bondmate Elita (who saw more in me than I was comfortable with), while behind me came Megatron, my Mystery-Mech turned evil nightmare turned confusion and a flutter in my spark.
Prime tapped a passcode in beside another thick gray door flanked by two heavyset guards. The door slid open. The room on the other side was dark, so I saw nothing for the first few milliseconds while my optics readjusted. We walked in. The door shut almost-silently behind us.

Two big black mechs were lying on repair slabs which were angled up to face us. Their every joint and limb was clamped and bolted to the slabs. Scars crisscrossed their dented bodies; and their paint was badly chipped. Turmoil and Clench were both the kind of burly, broad-shouldered types who would have fit right in with Spangle's other bouncers at the Hub. But I could not imagine these two hanging out with Roadbuster or Tankor.
Their optics glowed redly in the dim light. They looked at me. I looked at them. And my spark froze up in my chest. These were the mechs who'd hunted Flashpoint to her death. Who'd tried to break in to The Hub and take her. One of them had shot a hole in Megatron. How could I look into such sparks as these? I fell back a step, ready to run, to flee this too-small, too-dark room.
But that's when I backed into the familiar steadfast warmth of Megatron. Gone was that unexplained frost of earlier. He was my fortress and my exemplar again. I felt his hands steadying me, and heard his gravel-grinding voice in my receiver: Hold on, 'Sparky. If you do this, you won't have to do it on your own.
I shook myself. I looked away from the two mechs whose sparks I'd come to spy on, and instead stared down at Megatron's black hand on my ridiculously iridescent shoulder. I put my own hand up to take his wrist, and clicked my relay cable into it.
Remember what you came to do, he whispered.

Thanks; I'll try.

But I ignored his well-meant, meaningless suggestion. What I recalled instead was that first glimpse of him, when I was three days old. As I so often had when I felt fearful, I recalled how Megatron had moved with such a purpose. I remember, I repeated. I stepped forward, pulling him with me, and as a unit we faced the two prisoners on the slabs.

Turmoil, the massive dull-black one with the huge gun for a right arm, had the first black spark I had ever seen. It wasn't really black of course – all sparks are lit within. But around its dark-glowing purple core, his spark was a thick tangle of black threads. He stared impassively beyond us, his masked face without expression, his mammoth bulk like an ingot of unforged iron. I only glimpsed the surface, but I didn't think I could get a good reading on Turmoil's shrouded spark, and survive sane enough to tell the tale. I thought once again of backing out... And then I turned to check the second prisoner.
Clench was thinner than Turmoil, but that didn't make him small. He twitched against his bonds, nervous and jumpy. His paintwork was a shiny black, with accents of fluorescent pink and green. He was fiercely intimidating, with a head that was all sharp-angled, outspread flanges. His poisonous green spark gave off sudden livid flashes of magenta. The color change did not excite me like it once would have, however. It meant only that Clench did not know himself, and that his ever-burning fire was uncontained.
It would be risky to navigate in such a violent spark. But of the two, I still thought Clench would be the easiest to read.
I'm watching Clench, I radioed to Megatron. Tell Prime to ask his questions.
But once again it was Elita who began. (Was she the questioner because she had her own ways of observing things unspoken?) She stood taut, her hands clutching her elbows, her brow furrowed and her chin down. It did not take spark-reading to see that she was in pain. I recalled what she'd said about being sensitive to energy, and winced. She couldn't look away like I could – she was in the room with these two mechs, and everything they radiated. But Elita did not back down. That was the moment when I started to admire her. "What do you know about the gray femme you were chasing back at Spangle's?" she demanded.
Clench looked to Turmoil for his cue. But Turmoil acted like no one had spoken. So Clench flashed out a whiplash lie, his voice distorted by the filter-vent that was his mouth. "We wanted to invite her to a party. Yeah. A party. At the Hub. And Megatron shot us up for it. Nice work, Boss." He winked past me up at Megatron.
"Try again," ordered Elita. "And this time, be truthful."
Optimus Prime stepped up behind Elita, so that their armor just touched. When she leaned into him gratefully, he wrapped Elita's tightly-balled-up fists in his own big hands, and pulled her close into the circle of his arms. I realized with a start that Megatron and I were standing in much the same way. I pulled away, embarrassed; but it left me too exposed, so I fell back against his warmth.
"What do you know about the gray femme you were chasing back at Spangle's?" Elita repeated.
I did not want to look deeper into Clench's spark. Not after what he'd done. But I did anyway. And this time, I sent a file-copy straight to Megatron.

Guard duty was a bore. A disappointment. Sure, they'd been offered some big promises if they kept their optics open, their weapons primed, and their mouths firmly shut. But Clench was getting restless. He was a mech of the Pit Fights. A real gladiator champion; not some slag-eating gun-for-hire. So what if all that fame had been a long, long time ago? He was better than this. He deserved better than this.

He was happy when one femmling started causing trouble. It gave him something to do. Something to chase.

I heard Clench give a snort of disdain. "Gray femme? What femme would you be referring to, Miss?"
Elita lunged forward, clenching a fist. But Prime stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. "Keep back, please!" he whispered. "Don't give them a chance to hurt you." To Clench, he spoke in a voice like a coiled steel spring: "You will address her as 'Commander' from now on. And this is your final warning. Tell us the truth, or you'll be silenced."
Turmoil's voice was as dark as his body-paint. Dark as his spark. "He can't tell you anything, Prime. That's the point of the system. We were hired via a text-only contract. We never saw who we were working for."
Surprised by his forthrightness, I looked into Turmoil's spark without thinking. And it was dark. But it was true.

The call had come, with promises of something better than the boredom of peacetime. Turmoil liked covert ops. He liked them best when nicely-laid-out plans went all to slag, and he got to blast his way out through the wreckage. So he'd said yes. And the next time he'd woken from recharge, he'd been in some deep tunnel, in front of a big door with those unusual, persistent sounds behind it. And he'd been told to make sure that it stayed closed.

That was all he'd ever been told.

Until that strange gray femme started trying to sneak out past them. Over and over and over, no matter how many times they snatched her up and sent her back...

"I only found out we were under Kaon, when that obstinate femme actually made it to the surface," Turmoil finished. (Had he been speaking?)
Clench asked curiously, "Where've you got her stashed now?"
I tensed, sickened. But Megatron's heavy hand kept me silent. Remember, try to be invisible, he commed me. We're all hoping you can have a normal life when this is over. He growled, "Her name was Flashpoint, not 'that femme.' I thought I'd trained my Decepticon soldiers to give complete, honest reports on their failed missions. You two are trying my patience." I felt his engines revving at my back, but still his voice was steely-cool.
Clench shrugged. "I never tried to learn their names. Most of 'em looked exactly the same; so why bother?"
But Turmoil was quicker on the uptake. "'Was. So she didn't make it. That's too bad." (To my surprise, a small contraction in his spark showed that he meant it.)
Elita spoke stiffly, her arms crossed tight over her spark. "You say you were hired. You took an offered job that sounded promising. But once you found out what was happening in the tunnels, what could possibly persuade you to remain?"
"We were promised a femmling each if we kept our part of the contract," Clench replied carelessly. "I had my eye on the second model, the jet one. They were programming those to be sassy, but loyal. My idea of the perfect companion. I was gonna get mine painted engex green." Now that Turmoil had signaled that they were talking, it seemed Clench would never stop.
How Elita kept her poise I'll never know. "So where's your loyalty now?" she demanded. "Why are you telling us all this?"
Turmoil scoffed. "Loyalty to what? You've got us in the cuffs. They don't. Whoever they were. That was the deal – you get caught, and you're out. We gave them a few months of our lives, and now we'll lose our freedom for it. I don't know enough to help you find them. They move the operation constantly. Every few days, we'd go to recharge, and wake up in some new tunnel we were told to guard. The assembly lab's long gone by now. No one knows where it is. No one gets out."

He'd tried. He'd gotten a full hundred yards before he was hit with a blackout. A painful new shock collar he'd discovered upon waking had reminded him that he was just as much a prisoner as the newlings were. Chasing that one – that 'Flashpoint' – had been his ticket to freedom just as much as it'd been hers. He'd hoped to never be forced to return.

"Did you ever see anyone else down there?" Megatron inquired.
Clench looked at Turmoil. Turmoil slowly shook his head. But his spark told a different story.

The boss – or perhaps bosses; Turmoil really didn't know – had decreed no one ever, ever, ever got to go outside. But sometimes, someone came in. A mech with his tanker sloshing full of something with a too-familiar smell...

Forgetting to radio, I clamped my hand around Megatron's wrist. The transport-mech in Turmoil's memories was a bot I'd seen before.
I see him, Megatron replied. And I could tell that he was seething.
Octane. The gray and purple mech who'd been the start of so much trouble on my last night at The Hub.
Less than a week ago.
My life was spiraling into insanity. I dove back into Turmoil's memories in the hope of finding something that made sense.
Octane would show up every couple weeks, pulling a tanker full of something that yanked Turmoil's insides sideways. It smelled like the good old days, when Starscream was alive and shared his spoils. When Octane left, he left empty. He would walk out the door they guarded with a knowing, cocky smile and a salute. Turmoil tried not to wonder who was getting all that Juice. Tried not to want some for himself.
"Is there anything useful you can tell us?" Prime used his rumbling, No-Nonsense Leader Tone.
Clench had no mouth and couldn't smile. But he was grinning just the same. His spark showed it. He thought he was getting away with something. "Nope! Nothing useful. Sorry, fearless leader."
"I can give you something." Turmoil spoke with cold, hard bitterness. "I used to run drugs for Starscream. I'd recognize the smell of Devil's Due anywhere; even the alley-drainage muck they were using. Skywarp's big detox program has made getting that stuff on the black market almost impossible. But somebody's been making it in vats. My advice? Follow the redline."
I saw his choice not to rat out Octane, and admired him a little for it. Turmoil hated Octane; but he loved his freedom more, and refused to take freedom from someone else. I felt conflicted now about what I imagined was in store for him. What sort of punishment would he and Clench receive?
"We know about the drugs," said Prime. "Flashpoint died from withdrawal."
"Damn," Clench muttered.
"Flatline detected similar signs of withdrawal when he treated you," Prime went on. "I'm afraid you're both facing a rough time ahead."
The two prisoners went slack in their restraints. Prime looked at them. He looked at me. "Anything else?"
They shook their heads. I shook my head. Whoever had been running this was thorough. There was nothing else Turmoil and Clench could show or tell us. At least, nothing I wanted to swim down in the filth of their dark sparks for.
"Shut them down, Ratchet," Prime ordered. Ratchet stepped out of the shadows at the back. (It was a good thing that I knew him, or I might have screamed.)
"I'll have Ultra Magnus take them back to the detainment unit," Ratchet said coolly. He flipped switches on both prisoners' slabs, and their optics went dark. I gasped. But Clench and Turmoil's sparks still pulsed slowly within their chests. I hoped I'd never have to look at them again. (I worried I might never have the chance.) As Ratchet wheeled them out, I tried to muster up the courage to ask what would happen to them. But I was too scared I'd find out and not like it.
Prime raised his wrist like it was heavy, and spoke soberly into his comm. "Jazz? Prime. I've got a retrieval mission for you. Bring in Octane, ASAP." He glanced to Megatron and Elita, who nodded. "You have the Triad's full authorization." He shut the old-style comm-link down, and slumped against Elita.
Behind me, Megatron's sturdy body began to shudder. I looked back at him, surprised. He stood there, shaking audibly, his fingers clenching and unclenching, and his jaw locked tight. Small servos squealed at being over-tightened. He left me like I wasn't even in the room, and stamped over to Prime and Elita.
Elita shrank away from him. I wasn't even tempted to look inside his red spark – not if it did that to Elita.
"Tanker-loads, Prime. Tanker-loads. Of knockoff swill that could kill all of them. Whoever's behind this is hooking brand-new femmes on that sick stuff without a choice..." His engines rattled and his fingers cracked. "Newling femmes, living in tunnels where they never get to see the sun, and he's controlling them with- with- with goddamned Starscream's goddamned stinking filth!" He screamed an oath, and threw a wild, aimless punch. Prime caught it, and pulled Megatron into an unyielding bearhug.
"We'll find them, Brother," Prime whispered. "We will free them. From addiction and captivity. Skywarp and Mirage have the detox protocols in place, and Wheeljack and Shockwave are well on their way to finding a permanent antidote. We'll end this. Soon."
"And when we do," Megatron growled into Prime's shoulder, "I'm murdering that pervert Octane. Just because."
I backed into the nearest corner, but I couldn't really get away. I slid as silently as I was able to the ground, and buried my face in my arms. I tried to keep my crying quiet. But Elita was right, blast her. My sobs were not only for me, or for the captive femmes, or the emotion in the room right now. A few of them were for Turmoil and Clench: two mechs who'd taken a job, and lost their freedom because of it.
Ratchet roused me with a bright light in my eyes. "She needs to recharge," he said flatly.
"What, already?" Megatron demanded. "She just got done sleeping for days, and now you're telling me she needs to charge again? Do newlings have weak batteries, or something?"
I curled away from him, in pain. I hadn't known a spark could hurt.
Ratchet surged right up in Megatron's face, and wagged a finger inches from his nose. "She had to sleep off seeing your polluted spark, you selfish piece of slag!" He pointed angrily to me. "You take her just as she's recovered from that trauma, then exposed to Flashpoint and a second trauma. You ask her to read three more sparks, in the slim hope that she might help save half-sisters she didn't know existed till today. That's a hell of a lot to take in, Megatron. So yes, she needs to recharge. You idiots! You'll use her up before you even notice she was here!"
"I notice she's here," Megatron mumbled.
"Good! Now notice what you're doing to her, and try to make up for it. Primus spare me from such fools!" Ratchet threw up his hands, turned on his heel, and left.
The Command Triad looked down at me. Down at me huddled on the floor and crying. Yeah. It felt just as pathetic as it sounds. I stifled a sniff.
"Come on." Prime held out a hand, and somehow managed not to seem impatient. "I'll take you to the recharge wing. We'll all go top off while we wait to hear from Jazz."
I followed Prime half-blindly. Like everyone always does.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-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.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XXII-

I watched the city lights come on; watched my fellowmechs drive or fly along the well-organized, multi-layered travel-grid beneath me; watched the stars roll slowly up the sky. Tried not to think about what might be happening to Andromeda right now (was unsuccessful). Thought about returning to the Command Center, of pestering everybody until they found me some way I could feel like I was helping. But I knew that I'd just slow them down. Someone would comm me if they found Octane and needed my to spy into his spark. Till then, I was superfluous.
I missed my makers. I missed home. I missed my sisters. I missed Spangle. I missed Megatron – the perfect, nonexistent version of him that had once comforted me. (The obnoxious, real-life Megatron had made those memories obsolete and robbed them of their power.) I was a newling out of place: frightened and lonely. And although I knew it wasn't true, I still felt like I'd been discarded.
Around midnight the door opened, and there he was. Megatron walked out onto the little balcony like he owned it.
"Before you ask," he said, raising a hand, "We haven't found him yet. But everybody's looking. We've had reports from Ironhide and Chromia. From Firestar. From over fifty other mechs. We don't want Octane getting wind of our search, so we're keeping quiet; but everyone we trust is looking for him. So don't get used to hiding out here. We'll find him, and ask for your spark-reading soon enough."
"'Soon enough' passed hours ago, Megatron." I turned away from him so he might not see my chin trembling. "They've got my sister."
"What?" He sounded genuinely shocked.
"I tried to comm you about it when Sunstreaker and Thundercracker told me; but you were all too busy to respond or take my call. I know another missing newling is less important right now than finding Octane. But to me-"
"...To you, it's all there is." He looked at me, and sighed. "You've been out here stewing about your sister, thinking nobody else cared." He turned back toward the bustling, bright windows of the Command Center. "Optimus should have taken better care of you," he mumbled. "Blast and damn! He's usually so good at that!"
I pursed my lips and said nothing.
Megatron gripped the balcony-railing tightly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Then without quite looking at me, he reached across, and put an arm lightly around my shoulders.
I was startled at first. This was Megatron, and I wasn't sure what I felt toward him any more. I would have liked to act the hardened warborn. But I was only a newling. And I'd been alone out here for three helpless hours. Some seal inside me broke open, and hard words spilled out of me unchecked. "I can't stand her, actually." I hiccuped something between a sob and a laugh. "Andromeda emits this magic ray that makes everyone like her, but I don't think it works on me very well. She's always struck me as a selfish, spiteful brat..." I hunched away from him. "I can't believe I'm admitting all this to you."
Megatron snorted a wry laugh. "You're a terrible person, Spark. I'm shocked and disappointed." He drew me back into the shelter of his arm.
But I insisted. "I am terrible. I can't help feeling..." I kept my head turned away, so I could pretend he was someone that he'd never truly been. "I can't help feeling like it's my fault she was taken. It feels like a punishment. Maybe, if I'd liked her better. Maybe if I'd been less selfish, she'd still be safe in her house, and I'd be-"
Megatron stiffened, and spun me to face him. "No. It doesn't work like that." He stooped a little, forcing me to meet his intent, red-lit gaze. "Listen up, Sparky. The universe doesn't care whether or not you like people. Things just happen. Sometimes bad; sometimes good. Whoever took your sister made their own decisions. You might be able to read sparks, but you sure as Pit can't control whether or not someone we don't even know kidnaps a newling."
I shivered – not from the cold wind, but from the cold I felt inside. Megatron saw it, hesitated, and then pulled me tight against his chest.
I let him. Right then, I'd have gratefully taken a hug from Blot. His ooze would wash off, unlike all the lonely helpless frustration built up inside me. I imagined that Elita would have found my energy unbearable. I know I did.
I had a thousand things to say, but none of them were worth saying. So I listened. I heard my Mystery Mech's big engine idling. I heard his fuel pump sending energon throughout his systems. I heard his spark whirring away beneath his armor. It was right there, inches from my optics. I could have looked in. I could have found out everything I'd ever wondered about Megatron. I could have found out everything he thought or felt about me. The temptation grew and grew. To save myself from doing something truly stupid, I shut down my optics and put my arms around him instead.
"Don't get too comfortable," he growled. "I'll only hurt you. I hurt everyone who falls for me."
I stiffened, caught. "What makes you think—!"
"I'm telling you this as a warning, Rainbowsparkles: I hurt people who like me. I shut people out when they need me. I'm a selfish, evil glitch."
I knew he was telling the truth. But was it the whole truth? I thought of how he'd knelt in Spangle's battered doorway, the rain crackling in his open wound, and kept us safe from the invaders. I thought of how he'd tried to help me when I had to download awful things from people's sparks. I thought of how he'd read me poetry so I could sleep. "When will you start?" I asked.
"Start what?"
"Hurting me. Because so far, you're no worse and no better than all the other mechs I know."
Megatron drew back from me, his mouth open in horror. "Wait... You're not- you're not into that sort of thing, are you? Because... Please Primus, don't tell me you're into pain."
Now it was my turn to be startled. "What? No! Why would I be into pain? Who's 'into pain'? That's not even a thing that people do!"
Megatron muttered something ending with, "It was for Starscream." He touched me like I was some fragile thing he feared might shatter at his fingertips. His optics dimmed. "I've spent the last ten years trying to learn how not to cause pain, Spark. But the old habits are worn onto my gears and grooved into my cortex."
I tried to reconcile what he was telling me – and all the dark things I'd seen in his spark – with how he'd acted ever since Flashpoint had knocked at Spangle's. With what I'd seen of how he interacted with his Triad family. Would Prime have let Megatron near me, if he thought I might be hurt by him? No; it wasn't in Prime's nature to do that. This conversation was so far beyond me it was laughable. I had no right to ask any of these questions. But I pushed ahead. "Who are you, Megatron? Who are you really? Because everything I saw in that fast glimpse into your spark was monstrous. But everything I've seen from you in person contradicts that. How am I supposed to know what I should do? How I should feel?"
He clutched me tight. "I have no answers, little one. For a long time, I thought I knew myself. I don't know any more. You shouldn't try to understand me. I'm not safe."
I lashed out at him. "Then stop trying to help me! Stop checking on me. Stop backing me up when I look in sparks. Stop reading me your poems so that I can fall asleep. So far, you've only hurt me by withdrawing when I hoped you'd be my friend!" I kicked the nearest railing-post, and shouted in frustration. "You're just like all the other mechs who don't know what to do with femmes!"
"I don't know what to do with anyone," he growled. "Ask Prime. Or Elita. They'll tell you." He shuddered and whispered, "Ask Starscream."
I was good at hearing whispers. "Who is this Starscream? Lately you bring her up a lot."
Megatron snorted mirthlessly. "He was no femme, for one thing. And he's no competition for you. He's dead."
"Oh." (But, forgive me, I was glad.)
Megatron gripped the rail again, and stared out at the night. "I'll give you the sanitized version," he began, his shoulders slumping. "Because you need to understand the kind of mech you've developed a crush on."
"I never said— How dare you assume—?"
He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "I'm eleven million years old, newling. And Starscream gave me a lot of time to learn the signs." He turned away again. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the railing. "Now listen, because you need to understand this now, before you throw yourself at me."
Who did he think he was? I wasn't throwing myself at him! I just wanted him to be my friend! I thought about leaving him there with his almighty self-importance. But as always, I was curious. So I stayed.
"Starscream was my Second for the duration of the War. You know what that is?"
I shook my head no.
"Your Second is supposed to be the one you trust above all others. The one whose words will stand for yours, if you are wounded. The one who will take over your position, if you fall." He waited. I waited. We stared into the light-pricked darkness. "Starscream tried to kill me – more times than I ever counted."
"So... you hate him because he betrayed your trust?" I guessed.
Megatron scoffed. "Primus, no! Trust? I never trusted him with anything! I hate Starscream because... I… You don't want to know about this, little one."
"Maybe I don't." I thought about it. "But I need to."
Carefully, like he was worried he might break it, Megatron reached out and took my hand. I thought about pulling away. But he was right about that crush, no matter how much I protested.
"Starscream was a flier," he began, running a restless finger back and forth across my knuckles and not looking at my face. "A jet. Beautiful, though I'd never tell him that. Needy as the great Smelting Pool. He wanted me to-" He shot a glance up at me. "He wanted more from me than I could – than I would let myself give to him." HE dropped my hand. "Can you understand that? Even just a little bit?"
Baffled, I almost shook my head. But then I thought of all the people who had wanted more from me than I was comfortable giving. My makers' fearful, smothering love. Blot's near-worship. Prime's request that I be a spark-spy. The way mechs in the street would sometimes skid to a stop when I passed, and then turn to follow me with hungry eyes. I nodded, instead of shaking my head. "Actually, Megatron, I think I can."
He raised a thoughtful eyebrow, startled. Then he sighed. "Maybe you do, at that."
It was my turn to look away from him and grip the railing for a while. I didn't want to drive him from me. But he was giving me answers. And I wanted more. "You called that awful red stuff 'Starscream's filth.' Did he invent it? If so—" (I thought of Flashpoint and shivered) "Why?"
Megatron spat his answer like the words were acid in his mouth. "Starscream created pleasure-drugs because I wouldn't give him… the kind of relationship he craved. I hate that sick red stuff; it's filthy. I hate that newling femmes are being hooked on it. I hate Starscream for inventing it. But most of all, I hate myself for driving Starscream to create it. He's the one who showed me I can never..." He broke off, and shot another glance at me. "Never," he repeated firmly. "You should go find somebody else to idolize. I'm not trustworthy."
"Prime trusts you," I whispered. "I've seen it."
"Prime's an idiot."
"You know better than most bots that that's not true."
Megatron shot a wide-eyed glance at me; a look almost of fear. But he said nothing.
This time, it was I who took his hand. "I'm not Starscream," I told him quietly.
"I know." He slumped in defeat. "I know who you are, Spark."

It was Blot who found Octane: three days (three days too many) later, in the predawn gray, when all of the worst things seem to happen. I'd been wakened by a nightmare and was haunting Prime for comfort; so I happened to be with him when an urgent call came in from Spangle. She spoke the codephrase we'd agreed on if Octane were sighted.
Prime took the call eagerly, leaning in over the holoscreen.
Found 'im passed out on my doorstep. Spangle tilted the holocam to show Blot in a larger-than-usual pool of his own fluids, lying on a spare berth in the Hub. I'd go slam Octane's aft into the ground myself, but Blot here's not doing too good. I can't leave 'im. She scowled like she resented Blot for this, and wiped her hand on a used rag.
Prime signaled Prowl, who instantly took up another comm. "Wheeljack?" I heard him say. "We've got a location on Octane. I need that teleport trap, and I don't care if it isn't safety-tested. I'm not letting that fragger escape again."
It might have been interesting to eavesdrop further on Prowl's deployment of the bots who would go after Octane. But I knew Blot. He was, for lack of any better word, my friend. So I stopped listening to Prowl.
Prime was speaking in a controlled calm when I leaned in beside him at the holo. "Are you all right, Blot?" I interrupted.
Blot beamed. Sparkles! He gurgled through a crushed throat. I found him! I found him for you!
Prime was trying to be kind, but he still sounded impatient. "Blot. Right now I need you to focus on me. Where did you see Octane, and—" (he glanced aside at me, brow raised) "—how did you know that we were looking for him?"
"I told him," I said. I'd known it was a breach of secrecy, but I'd seen into Blot's spark, and trusted him. With simple things, at least. "I forgot to leave Blot a message when I left Spangle's. He asked her where I was—"
(Three hundred times! Blot interjected, I counted!)
"...and she gave him my comm-frequency. He called me, and I thought—"
"Cut to the chase, Rainbow."
I gulped. Prime can be scary when the chips are down. "I trust him, Prime. And Blot makes a good searcher. No one ever notices him, because they make an effort not to. He offends them. I'll bet he walked right up to Octane before—"
Yes. Blot's weak voice wheezed out of the speaker. I saw Octane. He was sneaking. But I'm good at sneaking, too. People hit me or shoot if they see me. I followed Octane. I went up to him and begged for some energon credits. I thought maybe I could keep him there for you. But he hit me. I tried to hold onto him tight, so the police could come and catch him. He kicked my leg off. I made sure I fell against him, and I got as much of my— of my— Blot swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. ...I got him as dirty as I could, so he'd have to wash off. Nobody likes to have my leakings on them. He was heading for the public washracks when I fell. I crawled to The Hub so I could report it. He turned to me again, beaming. Spangle let me come inside, Sparkles! I'm actually inside!
I smiled at him. "Thanks Blot. Honestly, you're a hero. I owe you a great big kiss."
His jaw dropped, his optics went white, and he passed out.
Well, you killed 'im, said Spangle. But she was smiling at me. Grimly. Get your bots down here, Prime. That slag-licker needs catching. My groundbridge is fully charged, so use it.

When Sideswipe, Guzzle, and Blitzwing brought Octane in, he was smiling. Despite being cuffed hand and foot to the same kind of slab on which I'd met Turmoil and Clench; despite being surrounded by a dozen or more angry mechs with guns, Octane was smiling. It was that smile that gave me the courage – no, the blind fury – to read his spark without flinching. I was ready.
Megatron grabbed Octane roughly. "Tell us where you're keeping them," he ordered.
"Why, hello, Leader," Octane sneered. "It's nice to see you, too. Enjoying your purified Autobot-slave life?"
"Shut up."
"First you want information, now you tell me to shut up?"
Prime stepped between them. "Go help Spark," he hissed, pointing at me. "We'll want backup files on this reading if we want to make a legal case." To Octane, he said gruffly, "This does not have to end badly for you. But as you see, we're all out of patience here."
But Octane wasn't listening to Prime. He'd noticed me, and was staring wide-eyed. "What's she doing here?" he demanded. He thrashed ineffectually against his bonds. "All right, I'll talk! But not in front of that newling!"
"Afraid of femmes?" Elita asked him icily.
"N-No! Just—" Octane shunted his vocalizer. "Please. I'm asking you nicely. Interrogate me somewhere else!"
"No such luck, I'm afraid," said Prime. He pressed a button, and the door behind slid open.
Ratchet entered, holding a big tube of something that glowed green in one hand, and an old drill in the other. I saw Octane's optics widen in stark fear. I stifled a shocked outburst with a fist pressed to my mouth. I'd thought I knew Prime. I had seen his spark. Since when was he the kind of mech who'd threaten bots with torture?
His face impassive as if he was just assembling a table, Ratchet placed the drill-bit against Octane's upper arm and squeezed the trigger. Octane's jaw went tight; his eyes narrowed; but he did not cry out. He only watched me warily. I checked his spark. No pain. But he was scared of me, all right.
The drill-bit penetrated Octane's armor, squealing as it broke through to the spaces underneath. Still, Octane registered no pain. "You're good, Doc," he admitted in surprise.
Ratchet plunked the drill down on Octane's chest as if he hadn't spoken. He vacuumed up the metal curlicues the drill had left. He opened the half-smashed tube of green glowy stuff and squeezed a glob of paste into the hole. Octane's spark flared, but only in frustrated anger, not in pain. "You slaggers're gonna pay," he growled. But his heart wasn't in the threat. He watched me like he thought I was some rabid turbofox about to try and rip his leg off.
Elita gave him the run-down. "That gel emits an isotope that we can track with our eyes shut. It also contains nano-drones which are programmed to explode if you go too far out of range. So don't try to leave Cybertron, or it'll be a short and very violent trip. For the rest of your life, Command will know where you are, Octane. So save us all some time, and tell us where you're hiding the femme newlings."
Octane thrashed his head from side to side. He was avoiding my eyes now. "I've done nothing illegal!" he protested. "Nothing but what you let dozens of others do!"
Behind me, Megatron spat, "That's a lie. We know what you've been hauling in your trailer, Octane."
"Slag you! And slag Turmoil and Clench for ratting on me. Get that femme out of here, and I'll tell you what happened."
"No." The refusing voice was mine. I forced my feet forward till I could feel the heat radiating off Octane's engines. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. But Octane cringed away from me like I was infected with cosmic rust. "Leave me alone!" he gasped hoarsely.
I jumped as Megatron's hand landed on my shoulder. "Whenever you're ready," he whispered. He'd been absent since our conversation on the balcony, but he was here now for me.
I handed back my wrist-cord and heard him connect. I looked into Octane's dull-yellow spark so he could never fool me with a lie, and ordered, "Tell us where you've taken my sister!"
"No," he whispered, defeated. "I won't tell you. But you're going to find out."
I wondered what he meant. But only briefly. I could finally do something to help Andromeda. I focused on his spark. Dived deep...
...and read him like a story on the datanet.

It had been Swindle's suggestion. "Everyone wants more femmes," he'd said to Octane. "But most mechs don't have the know-how, means, or dedication to build 'em." He'd smiled that patented, too-shiny smile, and slung an arm across Octane's shoulders. "That's where you and I come in, partner."

Octane never wondered whether Swindle'd chosen him because of his addiction. He'd just assumed it. Assumed Swindle'd found out all about his stash of unauthorized copies: every file on every pre-War femme, with all their stats and favorite things and hopes for the aborted future. He'd assumed Swindle knew how he pored over those files one-by-one, memorizing the details of those unreachable femmes. How much it hurt that every one of them, save for Elita's tiny squad, had abandoned them. Had abandoned 
him
. Swindle's plan was the closest thing to making his fantasies real. To getting the one thing he'd pined for till it became an obsession. So Octane had bowed to the inevitable, and agreed.

Swindle had shown him blueprints. "I've drawn up some basic templates. They're not much to look at, 'cause I'm not much of an architect. But we'll get more. Seems like lately someone's bringin' a new femme-frame down to the Chamber for ignition every week. So if we see a new design we like, we'll just..." (he'd nudged Octane and grinned that grin) "...appropriate and incorporate. Get the picture?"

Octane had seen the picture, all right. The same picture he'd been comforting himself with for the last eight million years: a pretty femme attending him whenever he desired her company, a pretty femme who'd ooh and ahh at his accomplishments, a pretty femme who'd think he was her world.

"I'll go with purple," Octane mused. "We'll match."

Swindle had given him an odd look. Then he'd smiled smugly, like he knew Octane was hooked as an accomplice. Like he knew Octane would never flinch, as long as what he wanted was dangled ahead of him. "Of course you'll get one! More then one, if that's what you desire." He'd nudged Octane in the side-struts. "We'll be rich! Let's get to work."

Octane and Swindle had spent the first year crawling around in ash-strewn tunnels, locating and marking every vein of Matrix-grade white energon. When Octane had asked why, Swindle had shrugged. "Bots who make lots of femmes attract unwanted attention. I heard Shockwave's got his optic on Thundercracker and Sunstreaker's operation. And they've only made six or seven so far. We want to make hundreds. So we need our own source, outside of the Vector Sigma Chamber."

"You mean – steal from the planet?"

Swindle'd given him a withering look. Octane had shut his mouth.

But that didn't stop his unease. Sure, setting up a newling factory for fun and profit sounded great. But as he watched the planet's heart-blood bleed into the sucking monster-machine they had made, Octane wondered if it was OK to bleed your god because you knew that he'd refuse to grant your creatures life if you asked him directly. "This was Swindle's idea, not mine!" He'd whispered to the bleeding wall on more than one occasion.

The first few attempts were failures. Small, flickering femme-sparks smothered in bodies too poorly-made to hold them. The next few had to be put down because they went insane. But eventually, they arrived at a starting point, and put five stolen sparks into five basic bodies.

"They're boring!" Octane had complained.

Swindle agreed. That night, they'd tricked Perceptor's femme into the back of Octane's trailer, taken her down to the factory, and stolen her schematics. Her design wasn't flashy, but it wouldn't fall apart. They'd retooled the five femmes they'd made (only one of whom survived the whole process) and then dropped Double-A a few blocks from her home: her memory wiped, her frame only a little scuffed.

It was when the Registration Network had gone up – at Swindle's suggestion, and according to his own designs – that things had really kicked into high gear.

"I get that the Registry sends us info on each newling femme brought in," Octane had said. "But it also means our femmes are officially illegal. Why'd you lobby for this, Swindle? What good does a full body-scan and spark-readout do us down here, besides proving how bad all our designs are by comparison?"

Swindle had smiled that salesman's grin. "Custom orders, Octane my buddy. Hundreds of options, all cataloged for our usage. We only have to bring the – heh – the 'templates' in. We'll be able to make each femme to spec. And for such custom orders, we'll charge triple."

Swindle had put a quiet word out. Told bots they were invited to be part of something special. Then he swore them to secrecy. But his first customers were willing to keep secrets. There were hundreds of mechs who wished to have femme companions, but who didn't have the wherewithal to craft them. They were willing to hide the beta-merchandise in exchange for getting in on the ground floor, as Swindle put it to them. Money rolled in.

But the buyers complained. Their newlings weren't content to stay inside as ornaments. They'd argue. Some would fight. But most simply withered away. Went catatonic. Died.

When clients called up feeling cheated, Swindle reassured them they'd be first in line for Phase-2 merchandise, and thanked them for their input. Some mechs had complained when they were asked to turn in their beta-femmes for recycling. They claimed they had grown attached. But Swindle always managed to up-sell them on the future.

"We're killing them?" Octane had asked, feeling queasy.
"That's just startup business for you," Swindle'd reassured him. "Hiccups are perfectly normal."

Then he'd turned to Octane for suggestions. "Gotta make 'em stay where we put 'em," he'd growled, "or we'll be out of this business before you can get your femmeling, partner."

Octane wasn't used to being an idea-mech. But he knew about control. The whole idea made him feel filthy. But he wanted a femme of his own. "Devil's Due. Juice. The red stuff."

"What good's that? Skywarp and Mirage have the detox program in full swing. Can't get it from Starscream like we used to in the old days."

Octane had shrugged. "I'm no Mixmaster, but I've always had a talent for mixing up trouble. I watched Starscream make it a few times, and took good notes." He'd smiled into Swindle's avaricious purple optics, and said, "The Devil's Due will keep them docile. And if all our femmes are born as addicts, they won't run far from their only known supplier, will they?"

Swindle's smile looked even worse than Octane's own had felt.

Orders poured in. And for each one, Octane scrolled down the Registry infodex to find a femme with something like what the customer wanted. Then they'd kidnap her for a few days. Stealing new tech was so much easier than building it from scratch. And these second-iteration femmes, with their customization and their guaranteed-home-by-sunset addiction... well, they sold for unholy sums of money.

Octane stopped using Blackjack's banking franchises. Sooner or later, somebody was bound to talk. It was risky, even in the post-Cataclysm building boom, to openly have that much cash. He tore up floorplates, ripped loose panels from the walls, and even drilled some holes into his ceiling: all so he could stash his filthy lucre in secret. But there was always more of it.

Octane had money literally falling down around him. But he still did not have the one thing he'd sold himself to this enterprise to get. The thing he had been craving all throughout the Great War, the Ceasefire, and the Cataclysm. The thing that now made all his old files seem as dry as dust and just as unfulfilling.

"You promised. How long till I get my newling?" he'd asked Swindle time and time again. But the answer was always the same: "When we've perfected the process. Don't want flawed merchandise for ourselves, do we? Better to try out our experiments on the unsuspecting public, till we get it right."

Octane told himself it would be worth it. But trusting Swindle was a fool's game, and he knew it.

So far, they'd stolen tech from 13 different newlings; and the customers for the 13 custom femmes they'd sold were mostly satisfied. But Andromeda was the real coup. Swindle had found her "everybody likes me" generator on the Registry, and come crowing down to Octane. "If we put this thing into all our femmes, we'd make them irresistible! No more complaints – we could send off a one-legged truck, and with that tech, she'd make her owners love her!"

So Andromeda was somewhere underground right now, in a cage, waiting while the memory-melting serum they had fed her helped her forget all the things that they had done to her.

I didn't even wait to pull my sister's precise location out of his spark. I yelled, and lunged for Octane's throat, jerking the feed-cord loose from Megatron. I was a fool, and it cost me.
"Stay back!" somebody shouted.
But I was screaming too loud to hear reason. I pummeled wildly, heedless of popping knuckle-joints and all the damage to my finish. Heedless of the fact that I'd knocked over Wheeljack's teleport-trap.
"That's my sister!" I shouted. "How could you-"
But I never got the chance to finish.
Octane hooked the fingers of his cuffed right hand into the plating of my thigh, and squeezed. My makers could have told him that the wrist is a good place to hide small electronic additions like trackers.
Like a teleporter button.
There was a sucking purple haze that made me want to vomit. It folded me in like an irresistible electromagnet. Octane clutched harder, and we fell.
I heard a *VOP!*
Then there was nothing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XXIII-

I was spat out into total darkness. With a yelp I wrenched free of the hand still warm against my leg. I blundered back until I clanged loudly against a curving, oozing wall. Echoes reverberated up and down. I cowered there and shuddered.
Far down the tunnel, someone swore. A door banged open and spilled grimy yellow light across the ridges of its corrugated surface. The unknown someone clattered toward me. I flinched back into the wall's curve, trying to find some safety in shadow.
"Get me out of this thing, Swindle! Ratchet injected tracking gunk into my arm. We gotta go!"
The new mech bent to Octane's side (his back to me, thank the Unmaker) and turned on his headlights. He opened a subspace compartment in his chest, and drew out huge bolt-cutters. Then he went to work on Octane's shackles, none too gently.
"Idiot! Why'd you let them see you use the teleporter?"
With his freed hand, Octane pointed at me. I froze.
Square, purple optics swiveled to meet mine. The new voice rose in outrage. "Why for Pit's sake did you steal a femme?"
"Had to. This is the one who reads sparks. She was looking into mine."
My boiling fuel tank gave a lurch as I realized my secret wasn't secret any more. I'd been told the Registry would keep me safe. Instead, the Registry had scanned me, read me, tagged me, and sent all that info straight to the kidnappers.
"I know this looks bad, but listen." Octane spoke rapidly, making large gestures with his hands while Swindle worked to free his legs. "That charm-field we just acquired. Sure, it makes our buyers love our product. But add in spark-reading? We'll sell femmes that don't just make their owners love them, but will also read their sparks to access their deepest desires. Program in a basic imperative, and our femmes will meet those desires automatically!" Octane grabbed Swindle by the arm, and I saw naked hunger on his face. "I want a femme like that, Swindle. And so will everybody else."
"Great idea, Octane," Swindle said sarcastically. "But you're forgetting something. If this femme read your spark, Command knows all about us!"
"I grabbed her pretty fast-"
"Don't kid yourself. We're ruined. But you're not taking me down with you. Where'd the Docbot inject tracking gel?"
"My right arm. Here."
"How long ago?"
"Three minutes, tops."
"Right then. Good thing it's slow to creep." Swindle reopened his chest compartment. This time, he brought out a circular handsaw, and affixed it to his fist.
"Hey, wait a minute-!" Octane yelped. But before he could finish, Swindle brought the blade down in a single arc. There was a blinding spray of sparks, and Octane screamed.
I ran. Pursued by shrieks and squealing metal, I pelted toward that far-off slit of yellow light, that barely-open door. My flight was drowned out by the echoes of dismemberment.
I slipped into the doorway, slammed it shut, and jammed the lock. I leaned my back against it, dizzy, while my poor spark flashed and flickered. I was in another tunnel. But this one, at least, was empty.
"Andromeda?" I quavered. "Are you here? It's me!"
"Rainbowsparkles?"
I've never been so glad to hear my name.
They had her locked up in a tiny cage made out of scrapmetal. Andromeda was curled up in the farthest corner, whimpering. I looked at her, looked at the shoddy workmanship of her makeshift jail, and rolled my eyes, exasperated. Was Andromeda really so useless that she hadn't broken free yet? The pen was so poorly-constructed it looked ready to tip over. But a second, deeper look showed me the reason why.
She wasn't scarred on the outside. But inside, her spark trailed torn ribbons of ravaged gray-lavender.
"Scoot back," I ordered, trying to forget what I had seen. "And hope this works! I'm gonna get us out of here."
I wedged myself into the space between the tunnel-wall and the cage where my sister cowered. I jammed my thrusters up against the bars, and turned my rockets up to full. This of course mashed me noisily into the tunnel wall. It scraped and battered my whole front, and blistered some of Andromeda's paint. But the blue fire of my thrusters also melted several pieces of the cage.
From down the tunnel, something heavy bashed against the door I'd locked.
Andromeda whimpered. "Come on!" I hissed, reaching in through the bars. "Do something! Push!"
Andromeda just shrank and shook her head.
I smelled my fingers charring as I hauled on red-hot bars. "Come on!" I cried. "They'll be here any second! Don't you want to go home?"
"Home?" At last she moved. She crawled forward and fell against the bars. They broke. (Thank Primacron for shoddy workmanship!)
I should have shown more sympathy, perhaps. But I was far too scared for that. I dragged her out between the broken bars (putting several deep scratches down her finish), and hauled her up to her feet. "All right," I said, wheezing with effort. "Which way's out?"
"Out?" For a nearly-eternal moment she looked blank. Then she half-raised an arm and let it fall. "That way, I think," she whispered in a hollow, listless voice.
"OK. Let's go."
Andromeda just stood there.
"Come on! Don't make me leave you here!" I slung her arm over my shoulder, and half-dragged her up the tunnel.
"They're getting away!" Swindle's voice sounded much, much too close behind us. But I also saw gray daylight up ahead.
We stumbled toward the opening, tripping over each other's feet. Andromeda resisted as we approached the daylight. She kept saying something about slowing down. I snorted. I'd rather lose a limb than slow down now – Swindle was gaining on us.
I was too dumb to look before I flung myself and her out through the crack. So we both fell. We fell into one of those chasms I had seen from the inter-state bridge with Firestar.
There's nothing like the hot uprush of wind and a countdown to death to wake you up. Andromeda clutched me and screamed. "You idiot! I can't fly!"
"Get off my back!" I tried to shout above the roaring wind.
"Slag you! You got us into this. I'll yell at you until we're dead!"
"No. I mean, get off my back. Unless you want to get melted. I can fly. But if you're back there, you won't have legs left when I do. Let's just hope my thrusters have enough power for the both of us."
"Oh." Andromeda maneuvered.
I could see the chasm-bottom now. And it was coming up to meet us. "Hold on in front, and hold on tight!" I begged the universe for mercy. I apologized for every aggravated thought I'd had toward my sister. Then I sent every last ounce of my fuel into my rocketpack.
I'm pretty sure I left a burn-mark on the bottom of the chasm. But we didn't leave a crater with our corpses smashed to bits.
"Woo-hoooo!" Andromeda crowed joyfully as we gained upward momentum. But she wasn't the one who had to navigate the gusting thermals and dodge all the chasm's zigzag ledges – with her weight dragging at my neck. We got several more bad scratches on the way up. But I kept at it. Each ledge, I told myself, could be the last before the surface. Just one more ledge. And one more ledge. I felt my power rapidly depleting, and tried to ignore the warnings flashing yellow. Flashing red.
I hadn't been prepared to find our captors watching us when we drew level with our exit. I swerved away in panic, and slammed into the opposite wall. We heard Octane shouting at Swindle. "I couldtransform into a plane and catch them both. But noooo, you had to cut my slaggin' arm off!"
"That's right, glitches!" Andromeda called back. "Bested by newlings! Chew on that!"
It was all well and good for her to brag, as Octane's shouts receeded beneath us. But I was scared. My engine whined. Despite the wind, I smelled the acrid tang of ozone as I bounced and bumbled upward, ever slower.
Then I saw it. The surface! And what's more, to my intense relief, I saw that we were no longer alone. Friendly bots reached hands down to us from all directions – bots whom I had come to know and trust when they had visited The Hub. Hound had unrolled his winch-cable and was parked with his engine running, ready to extract us if I could just grab the end; Scavenger had his shovel down as far as he could reach; Needlenose was flying in with some kind of rope-ladder...
A few more feet, and one of them would save us. A few more feet, and we'd be safe. Andromeda loosed her right arm, and reached.
Then something caught my ankle, and the safety of the surface lurched away.
My engine sputtered, coughed, and died.
I looked into Andromeda's wide optics, and saw both our deaths reflected there. I wrenched her loose, and flung her upward toward our rescuers. Some brave mech swung down and grabbed her before she fell back into the deep.
I was the only one who fell.
Swindle had many tools in his subspace. One of them was a missile grappling hook.

They reeled me in, while my used-up thrusters belched impotent black smoke. I screamed out every awful word I knew, till my vocoder split. They grabbed my arms and pulled me back into the tunnel, out of sight of all the bots above.
"It's time to lose your tracker, sweetheart," Swindle said.
My eyes flew wide.
"Don't worry," he grinned. "You can even keep your arm." Swindle pulled something complicated out of his chest-drawer, and passed it over to Octane. "You'll have to do the honors this time, one-arm loverboy." I struggled, but Swindle pinned my arms and held me tight.
Octane glared at his partner, but said nothing. He took the homemade tool – a box with lots of buttons and a transmission-disk, attached to Swindle by a spring-cord – and ran it up and down my body. I struggled; the tool beeped and whooped; but when it hovered over my right hand, the little box began to scream. Octane looked grimly up past me at Swindle, met my eyes for a brief instant, and then pressed one of the many buttons on the little box. The scanner-disc began to sizzle. I felt heat inside my wrist; smelled smoking wires and burning plastic; and then something inside me went dead. The tracker I'd been given in the Registry – the thing that had brought rescuers to the chasm's rim just above – the thing I'd hated as an infringement on my privacy – was gone.
"All clear," said Octane.
"Thank you for your concern, dear Leaders," Swindle preened. "But you really should know better than to let me help you build your project."
"Stop gloating and get us out of here. Skywarp's gonna pop in any second!"
"Right then. Phase Two. Grab on, Partner."
Octane wrapped his one arm around Swindle and me, and Swindle pressed his thumb into his palm.
There was that horribly-familiar *VOP!*
And I was lost.

Something hit me hard, and my knees buckled. There was white light in a white room: blinding. I tried to focus, but my head ached so much that it made me want to vomit. I stumbled dizzily as horrid voices barked horrible words.
"Get her onto the slab! There's not much time!"
I struggled, though my head felt half-exploded and my tanks churned bile. I fought. But Swindle and Octane were soldiers whose experience in war was as long as the lifetime of star. I was a newling whose idea of hardship was not getting what I wanted all the time. Not even Octane's missing arm could balance that equation.
"So much for your Metallikato chop, Octane. Didn't you ever practice with your left hand? Ow!Dammit, hold her arms! Get her strapped down!"
I snarled. I fought. I screamed through a cracked vocalizer. It hurt – everything hurt – but my attackers barely seemed to notice.
"Ack! She kicked me! Hand me a sedative." Something punctured my main conductor-conduit and my body went limp. I screamed at it to fight. My spark surged in my chest. But my body was nothing now but dead metal.
"Easy, kid." Octane rubbed his sawn-off shoulder where I'd kicked him. "Save your strength for the extraction."
I felt my optics go wide. It was the only movement I could manage.
Swindle patted my arm and threw me his best oil-slick smile. "I'd promise you that we'll be gentlemen... but you know better."
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.
Clumsily, Octane pulled the last strap tight around my ankle with a grunt. He turned to Swindle. "I need a replacement arm, you sawblade-waving maniac."
"You don't deserve one," Swindle snapped. "Because of you, our business will be defunct by tomorrow. We could have made millions, Octane. Billions!" He sighed, looked down at me, and crossed his arms. "The worst part is you're right – the charm field in conjunction with spark-reading would have been the perfect combination. It's just your timing that was off."
Octane went to cross his arms too, then realized it would look silly with only one. He settled for an aggrieved huff. "If I had waited, the little spark-reader would have found out everything, and passed it on to High Command. So get off my back, pal."
"They'd never have found out anything, if you hadn't got yourself caught..." Swindle sighed. "I suppose there's always the rest of the galaxy. There must be a market for female Cybertronians, as a novelty if nothing else. We'll have to pack a slag-ton of Matrix-grade energon into the shuttle with us when we leave. Gonna limit production, not having easy access to it. Maybe someday we can sneak back here..." He looked at me again, and deflated. "Come on, Octane," he grumbled. "Let's go find you a spare arm. I'll need your help with the operation."
They walked out of the room together, leaving me alone...

...Alone under a blinding light, in a white room stocked with more surgical tools and construction instruments than I had ever wanted to imagine, and the word "operation" ringing back and forth in my bruised head. I was alone, and no one knew where to find me.
I was glad I had saved Andromeda. I was. I was. But I felt cheated. What had she ever done for me that equaled this? Megatron was right: the universe did not care who did what to whom. It made me angry. I had been a hero. And this was what I would receive in trade. It wasn't fair.
I wished that I were strong enough to break free of my bonds. I wished Thundercracker and Sunstreaker would bust in here and save me. I wished Megatron would aim his giant gun at Swindle and Octane, and send them gibbering away like Clench and Turmoil on the night Flashpoint escaped.
I didn't want to end up like Flashpoint.
But there was no one here to stop that happening.
I thought of home. Of how much I'd resented my makers' constant worrying. Of how restricted I'd once felt. I wondered if it would have been better just to do what they wished I would do, and stay at home forever. Would discontent have been a fair exchange for never being tied up here and broken? I thought so.
I wondered if I ought to try and call them. Try and make some vain apology. Try and give them something to make up for the fact that they might never see me again. My kidnappers had probably built this base far too deep beneath the surface to allow radio transmission. Still, though... I had to try.
I set my comm to Thundercracker's frequency. Just thinking of him made my spark seize up in pain. I moved my lips, but my voice sounded like something that had been stepped on. "Dad?" I croaked. "Are you there? Can you hear me?"

R—nbow! —that you? Rainb—! Are —all right? Where are y—?

"I'm... all right," I lied, choking back a sob. "They took me. I'm so sorry, Dad!"

Sweet—, we can't —you. —tracker's not—.

I tried. I really, really tried. But I could not tell Thundercracker just how much I loved him.

Precious, —'t give up. Please. We'— everything—

My overtaxed comm-transmitter gave up in a puff of melted wiring. The connection, tenuous as it had been, was lost. I wished I could curl in a ball and forget everything I'd heard. Calling home had been a mistake. I tried to shut them out, but Thundercracker's static-laced words played over and over inside my head.
My optics flew open. Tracker. The family tracker! Swindle and Octane had shut down the government-issued one. But had they known to look for the second tracker? Frantically I began to skim through my schematics. Sunstreaker and Thundercracker had been true to their word. They'd shown me how to shut down their tracker after my last outing with Firestar. Thundercracker had told me wistfully I could reactivate it myself if I wanted to. He'd said it was easy. But I'd never let him show me how. I scrolled past file after file, hoping to find some instructions. I heard footsteps approaching outside; Swindle and Octane were returning. Desperately, I whispered, "Tracker activate!" And to my intense relief, it really was that easy. My makers would find me now. I'd be saved.
I've often wondered how things might have gone, if I had let my makers keep their tracker active. If I'd said, "Thanks Dad, but I think I'll just leave it on." It makes me sad to wonder, though, so I usually squelch the question. Because wondering won't change the fact that they were all too late to save me. It won't change what happened to me when Octane and Swindle re-entered that room.

This next bit isn't going to be pretty. It's not going to be nice. Feel free to skip it if you don't think you can handle it. I'm only doing this because Elita told me it was important to get things like this out of my system. I'm certainly not looking forward to writing it all down. But it's part of who I am now, whether I like to remember it or not. And perhaps it should be remembered – not just by me, but by everyone. Maybe, if I record what it was like – every shuddering, itching scrape of it – some bot might just think twice before he tries something like this again.
Swindle and Octane set to work with no trace of their previous bickering. Octane sported a skeletal orange arm that clashed awfully with his purple and gray color-scheme. He and Swindle loaded two rolling trays with saws, drills, pliers, clamps, and basins. These tools were commonplace at home– Sunstreaker used them to create his sculptures. But this wasn't home. And no one planned on making any sculptures. I told myself to stay calm. Help was on its way. I jumped when I heard a saw start up behind me. "Please," I begged, shaking my head. "Please no." But no one listened. Swindle clamped my head tight into a brace. I turned my tactile-sensors off. But I still felt the shudder of the blade as it hacked through my helm.
I screamed: an awful, hissing shriek like pent-up steam. Swindle's grip slipped, and the blade snagged. He swore, and wrestled the blade free. And then he shoved two fingers deep into my neck, and finished off my abused vocalizer.
Now all I could do was click.
I clicked as Octane picked up a prybar, and used it to force my chestplates open. I clicked as Swindle finished sawing the back of my head off. I clicked as he opened my brain.
There was a muffled explosion somewhere outside. Octane looked up from my open spark-casing, and shot a wordless, worried glance at Swindle. Could this be my rescuers? But Swindle only said, "You started this, Octane. Get the job done. And hurry."
Octane got out a long, thin wand attached by a cord to a tall gray box on wheels. Never taking his gaze away from the box's various gauges, Octane began nervously poking the wand-thing into my spark. I had no voice to scream with. I shut my optics, and clicked.
Then something like an icy razor slid itself into my brain module. I froze.
"There! I think this is it! When I press here, can you see something move down in her spark?" Swindle was doing something in my head that made me shudder all over.
"Hold on – I can't see anything when she's shaking like this!" Octane leaned on my chest to steady me. He poked the wand-thing in my spark again, and swore. "Her spark-code's always changing, Swindle. I can't tell if you're toggling the node, or not! Are you sure our intel's correct on this one?"
Swindle spat (the instrument jabbed into my brain jerked painfully). "You think Command would have brought her onboard if she couldn't read sparks? Here. We'll make her show us." The shiver-cold, hard something in my mind pressed even harder, and the room went out of focus. "Do your thing, femmling. Read his spark."
I would have liked to shake my head, but it was clamped. I would have liked to refuse his command; but the probe in my brain was activating my spark-reading whether I wished it or not. Shutting my optics down was the only refusal I had left. I shut them down. I tried to pretend I was far away. Tried to pretend I couldn't feel those angry, icy jabs inside my mind. Tried to resist the rough impulses Swindle was sending through my system.
I listened for more sounds outside, but there were none. I'd wanted someone – anyone – to bust in here, guns blazing, and carry me home to safety. But there were no more explosions. No footsteps. An awful thought struck me: what if the boom I'd heard had not been rescuers, but my two captors covering their tracks? And if they were planning to flee, what would happen to all the other femmlings they had made? I hoped to Primacron that they were dead. No one deserved to live like this.
I wondered what it would be like to die.
Something exploded much nearer, and I felt a jab of pain as Swindle jumped.
"Swindle! Stop trying to be gentle," Octane snapped. "Just show me what I need to take, and let's get out of here!"
Swindle grunted. "Sorry, sweetheart. Blame Octane for getting you into this." He jabbed the probe in so hard that I heard (and felt) my brain crack. I felt my optics go white and begin to overheat. They were aimed at Octane's spark. Through the blur of a melting optical array, I saw it hanging in the air above me.

It dripped with grief and loss and self-loathing and shattered hope.

I heard Swindle yell out in triumph, "There it is! Grab it, Octane!"
The box in Octane's hand began to chirp as all its lights lit up. Octane pressed a button on the wand-thing that made it hum. Like a barbed-wire-wrapped club dragged through a nest of finest fiber, the wand caught and drew out of my spark a wispy trail that shimmered in a million different colors. If my spark was my universe, it felt like Octane was stealing a galaxy. I was surprised by how small and fragile the remnant was when he displayed it hanging limply from his probe. Unceremoniously, Octane shoved the tender remnant of my soul into a small, clear tube; then twisted its lid shut with a flick of his brand-new wrist. "Got it," he said. "Let's disappear!"
I heard reverberating echoes of feet running down what I guessed was another tunnel just outside the bolted door. My rescuers had come too late. "Warpath, are you crazy?" hissed someone just outside. "Don't shoot; it might go through and hit her!"
"How 'bout this then? KerBLAM!" Something heavy crashed against the locked door. I felt the whole room shudder with the impact.
In blurry bursts, I saw Octane sweep armloads of equipment into Swindle's subspace. I watched the bit of my spark go in there with all the rest: a little dying rainbow going dark.
My sight began to flicker now, as melted wires crossed and shorted out. I smelled burnt insulation, hot solder, and something coming from my torn spark-casing that was less identifiable: it smelled like sadness. And regret.
Someone slammed hard against the door again. A few tiles dropped from the ceiling. But Swindle and Octane paused for a single second to look down at me. I wondered what they were thinking. But they had taken my spark-reading. So I'd never know. Swindle grimaced, and jammed a thumb into his palm. I waited for the too-familiar purple flash and "VOP."
Something went, *VOP!* all right. A voice I'd heard before but couldn't recognize said, "Close, Swindle. But no cygar." Octane yelped. Through my wavering vision I saw Swindle's square optics widen. A winged black shadow followed him and Octane as they disappeared into the purple flash.

That flash was the last thing I saw before my vision shorted out completely. I heard the door (or maybe wall?) fall in. I coughed on thick billows of dust. But I never saw the bots who rescued me.
Sunstreaker had taught me pride. Yet here I lay – unzipped, soul-robbed, eviscerated. To their credit my rescuers broke my restraints without comment. I curled up tight, and wished I were invisible.
"One side, Tracks. Let me see her." (Someone bustled up.)
"First Aid, no offense," (someone said in a snobbish, highbrow accent that even I could tell was fake) "She needs Ratchet."
"And Skywarp's disappeared, blast him (said someone else). "Zowie! Kerblam! Teleports all the time, but never where you need him!"
"Skywarp's the one who's making sure whoever did this pays for it!" snapped the voice called First Aid. He touched my shoulder gently, and seemed unfazed when I violently flinched. "It's all right, little one," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. If you'll let me, I can close some of this up—" I shook my head and crossed my arms tightly over my chest. It hurt – I'd bent some flange my captors had left open. If my voicebox hadn't broken and my optics hadn't melted, I'd have cried.
"Come on, little one," First Aid begged. "Let me fix it."
I was blinded. But in his voice I heard an honest pleading. So I steeled myself, and nodded. First Aid began closing things up, speaking softly and telling me each thing he meant to do beforehand so I wouldn't be startled. I shivered anyway, and clenched my fists. I never wanted to be touched again.
"Can you get her up to the surface, Tracks, if we secure her to your roof?"
"Only if you drive her out of these tunnels first," the snooty voice replied. "I'm not wreckin' my rims trying to drive in 'em."
"I'll blow a – BLAM! – clear path for ya, First Aid!" the super gung-ho bot suggested.
"Come on, then. Load her in. Carefully!" There was a lurch, and the platform I lay on moved. They tried to be gentle, but I was jostled more than was comfortable. Two doors were shut down by my feet; I felt an engine roar to life; and down the tunnels we began to bump. Ahead from Warpath I heard shouted exclamations, the roll of heavy tank-treads, and the occasional gleeful explosion. Behind came Tracks's running footsteps. But while First Aid thumped and bumbled, I was held and healed by the many robotic arms in his repair cabin.
At last we stopped. I was slid out of First Aid's cabin. The warmth of sunlight hit me like a blow. I cringed, and curled in even tighter on myself.
First Aid and the other bot – Warpath? – transformed and lifted me onto the roof of another car. I heard the purring growl of a big motor. Tracks's alt-mode seemed to be a speedster like Sunstreaker's, but the bits I felt were curvier in their design. I smiled a little, wistfully, remembering the time I'd ridden home like this on Thundercracker's back.
Things were just fine until they tried to strap me down. I started shaking. No. I'd just been cut loose from straps like this. How could they ask me to do it again? First Aid unwrapped me, and put a gentle hand on my forehead. (Still, I shuddered.) "You're weak, sweetheart," he said. "Think how your makers would feel if you fell from Tracks's back on the way home. At least let us put one strap around your middle. I'll make sure you can reach the release catch."
In the end, because I could feel my cydraulics shaking, I let them tie me on securely. (But I tested all the release catches first, just to be sure.)
"Ratchet is waiting in his medbay for you," First Aid told me.
"Sunstreaker and Thundercracker are – Zoom! – on their way," said Warpath irrepressibly.
Tracks revved his engine.
I realized that I'd never thanked my rescuers.
Tracks shifted gears and shot out into open air. We plummeted. My tanks lurched, but I was past care. Then I hear Track make some kind of secondary transformation, and we lifted up on unseen wings. I should have been fascinated by a bot with a car-mode that could fly. But I no longer assumed mechs with unusual abilities were my brothers. I had no brothers. I was a femme newling, and on this planet, femme newlings were sold as commodities.
I withdrew into a gray fog. I never even felt the bump of landing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-
XXIV-

Sensations told me things were happening to my body. There were footsteps. The persistent beeping of a monitor. The clink of tools. I felt the warmth of a welding flame; the tug of pliers; the pressing tremor of a buffer. Scents of hot solder and melted ducting wafted through my olfactory sensors. Thundercracker's arms held me through all this, held me tightly against the arrhythmic, panicked flaring of his spark. I tried not to listen to any of it. Not to feel. Mostly, I tried not to think. Not to remember what I'd lost.
Sometimes – the worst times – there were voices.
Suntreaker's voice, disbelieving: "She's broken, Prime! How could you let this happen?"
Prime's voice, shaken: "I made a mistake. I am sorry."
Megatron's voice, outraged: "As usual, you think it's all about you, Prime. But I'm the one who didn't hold her back." (Something metallic spanged across the room) "I am the one who didn't keep her safe."
Thundercracker's voice, cold and brittle as iron in liquid nitrogen: "Sir, if I had known she was so closely partnered with you, I would have forbidden it."
"Wait – really?" Sunstreaker moved to stand beside Thundercracker and me, and put his hand protectively on my helm.
He was followed by another footfall; but Thundercracker drew me back sharply. "Don't you touch her!" he hissed. "You don't get to touch her ever again!"
Optimus Prime spoke evenly, but with some effort. "Megatron is not responsible for what was done to your daughters. And he has always been circumspect in his partnership with Rainbowsparkles."
"Don't you defend him, Prime. You're tainted."
"Thundercracker? What's going on?" Sunstreaker sounded anxious now.
"I found a datapad she left. It was full of his poetry." Thundercracker winced, his arms tightening around me. "She likes him, Sunstreaker. Likes him. And I know too well where that leads." He spat a curse. "I know what that mech does to bots who like him."
Sunstreaker hesitated. "But he's your leader. Don't you—?"
"Was my leader. Back when I was too weak to make any other choice. Here." (Thundercracker's arm moved.) "Download this. It's some of the slag he did to Starscream. And that's just what I saw myself."
Sunstreaker gasped. I felt him lunge away. "You bonded with this mech, Prime?"
No one answered.
"You let him, Elita?"
"Do not speak to me of sacrifices you will never understand." There was broken glass and heartbreak in her voice. "The war is over. Isn't that enough?"
Thundercracker snorted. "If I had a bondmate and he brought home a mech like Megatron, I'd… Well, I'd..." He wavered to a halt.
"See?" Elita cut in. "You're not sure. And Primus-willing, you'll never have to make that kind of choice. For now, enjoy the fruits of our decision. No one is shooting at you; no one's asking you to fight. You're free to build a family with an Autobot. Save your righteous anger for your daughters – for all the femmlings so defiled by Octane and Swindle."
Megatron spoke quietly. "They're not defiled."
"You shut up!" Thundercracker spat.
There was a stifled moan, but not from me.
"All of you shut up! Can't you see you're hurting him?" I heard my makers gasp. Elita wasn't often one to shout.
"Him?" Thundercracker was still angry. "What's Prime's problem?"
Prime's voice was weary as he murmured to his bondmate. But I was a practiced listener. "I can handle it. Don't burden them."
But Elita shushed him. "No. They need to understand." She spoke sharply to my makers. "Imagine Primacron gave you a continuous link to every spark-core on Cybertron."
Thundercracker shifted like there was sand under his armor. "Prime's new matrix. Everyone knows about it."
"Fine. But now all of Cybertron is grieving. And almost 200 femmlings had their sparks torn open. Imagine you can feel all that. Imagine the weight of it on your spark. Would you like to trade places with him?"
Beside me, Sunstreaker muttered, "No..."
"I didn't think so." I imagined Elita taking Prime's hand, the way she often did. "You fight now to protect your daughter, which is only proper. I'll fight to protect my bondmate. And this fighting hurts us all. Rainbowsparkles looks offline, but she sometimes returns to partial consciousness. She may be listening right now."
I froze. Elita could read energy. What was mine telling her?
"Go," she ordered. "You have another daughter here who needs you. Fighting and recrimination will not help either of your girls to heal."
(Half of me bristled that Elita said 'your girls,' like we were property. But the other half knew we would always be a part of Thundercracker and Sunstreaker's family. I also knew that wasn't a bad thing.)
Sunstreaker grumbled. He stroked my brow with an artisan's careful hand, and whispered something tender. Thundercracker laid me gently down on the repair berth, and followed him out of the room.
Their footsteps faded. A door closed. Megatron sounded desperate (something thumped against the wall). "Dammit, Ops – Primacron must have given you that matrix for a reason! Can't you do anything to help them?"
"You think I haven't tried?" I was surprised. I'd never heard Prime snap like that before. "If you know how I can restore the sparks of 177 newlings, plus the others who were kidnapped before this, speak by all means." Prime's venting was ragged, his voice sandpaper-rough. "I know you think it's my job to heal them. It just so happens, so do I. But I can't, old man. I've tried and I've tried. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
Nobody spoke for several minutes. There was only the sound of straining engines and strained friendships.
"Come, my love," Elita said finally. Her footsteps, brisk and businesslike, pulled Prime's weary feet out of my cubicle.
Only one bot remained with me. He stepped close, but didn't touch me. (Thundercracker's words must have hit home.) "I'm sorry, little one," he whispered. "More than I can say."
A squeaky wheel horrid enough to raise the dead heralded Ratchet's return now. I heard him jostle the rolling tool cart in through the narrow door. I heard him curse its wailing axle, its unwieldy frame, and for some reason, its parentage. I heard Megatron whirl on the medic. "She's still refusing to wake up. Fix her, dammit!"
Ratchet snorted. "I'm a good medic, but not blessed with magic powers. That's the Command Triad's department. What can you do to help her, old man?"
"Me?" Megatron sniffed derisively. "Ratchet, Primacron just gave me something shiny to shut me up for a while. I'm useless to her."
"I suggest you find some way to be of use. Or leave."
He left.
I was alone.
I slunk back to the refuge of mindless oblivion.

I woke to an alarm I could not shut down without getting up to push a button. I cursed Ratchet's name, rolled over, and smashed the alarm to bits. My chronometer insisted it had been two weeks since my abduction. Internal readouts told me I had a rebuilt vocoder and new optical ducting. I didn't care. It was my spark that worried me. It felt hollow and lifeless. I looked down at my chest and groaned in frustration. All I could see were the usual swirls of purple-copper-teal titanium. Fine. I ripped my chestplate open, roaring words that would have shocked my makers. My spark was in there all right, pulsing erratically. But where before it had flashed every color of the rainbow, now it only shone a taunting peppy yellow.
At birth, I'd been bombarded by the content of my makers' sparks. Back then, the sight of so much history had almost killed me. This was worse. But I was older now. My systems had hardened. So I did not fall into an unconscious, twitching heap when I saw what was missing from my spark. I stayed online and bore the pain of loss.
I curled my body tight around my open wound. But all the pain was in my mind, not physical. I think I would have preferred it to hurt. Or if there'd been some scar that I could see. Or even if my spark had been some dark and brooding color. Yellow? It was mockery.
I lashed out at the mech who'd stopped in the doorway behind me. (He was venting very quietly in hopes I wouldn't notice him.)
"Happy now, Megatron? I'm blind. Your spark's secrets are safe from me forever."
He said nothing. Just stood there.
So I cried. Or maybe I should say I screamed and howled. I turned to flaunt my injury, raging that I'd always disliked yellow. (Sunstreaker, who had painted all my joints the same yellow he wore, could go smelt himself.) I sobbed that I'd once thought my rainbow spark was silly, somehow weak; and now felt rotten that it had been taken. I grieved for that small gauzy bit of me that had been ripped out, put into a jar, and lost. I fumed that I'd always resented seeing sparks, but felt desolate now without their shining company. I cried that if I returned to my makers' house, it would feel like nothing I'd done had mattered. Like I'd have to be a child again. Cried that I didn't know who I was now, or who I ought to be.
"I know who you are, Sparky," he said quietly, when I stopped to hiccup. "At least, I like to think I do."
I called him every word I'd ever heard drunk mechs use when Tankor or Roadbuster threw them out of The Hub. I even made up a few new words all my own.
Megatron didn't speak up to defend himself. I heard his servos whining to take action; but he just stood there and took it. When he finally did speak, it was more to himself than to me. And it wasn't angry. It was sad.
"I never was a mech to pine at bedsides. Never spent time in the medbay waiting for a lieutenant to heal. I always thought that kind of thing was silly. Let the medics do their work, and stay out of the way." He let out a long hiss of pressure. "Then Starscream almost killed Prime and Elita. I was devastated. The mech I'd just opened my whole spark to – the new family I'd been given after a misspent lifetime alone – it was being taken from me, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing I could do to stop it. It unmade me. I spent so much time in the medbay Ratchet threatened to put me into cold-storage. But I was there when Prime came back online. I got to yell at him for making me afraid." He gave a mirthless grin. "I guess that made the whole thing almost worth it." He looked at me then, and his optics were two deep red pools of fire. "This time, the threat is my own fault, not Starscream's." He slumped onto the stool beside my berth, and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I've come here almost every day, Rainbowsparkles. Whenever I can get away. Whenever nothing interesting is happening upstairs. I waited. To see if I'd lost you."
I did not know what I should say to all this. It was like being dropped into deep space, without a warning or return-plan. I felt dizzy.
"May I hold you?" Megatron asked, in a strained, hopeless sort of voice I'd never heard him use before. "It's all I have to offer you to say I'm sorry that I didn't hold you tighter back when it could have saved you from Octane."
I thought about what Thundercracker had said about Megatron. I thought about the things I'd seen on my ill-fated dive into his spark – back when I could see things in sparks. But then I thought about how Megatron had acted since I'd known him. I noted both Ratchet and Prime left him alone with me without any apparent qualm. It was as if there were two mechs with the same name… and one of them was my Mystery Mech. I gave up. "Sure. Hold me if it makes you feel like you're doing something."
I wondered if he'd snap at me for that. But all I got for my cheap shot was a swift catch in his venting. Megatron moved with an uncertainty that wasn't like his usual brash confidence. He sat down gingerly beside me on the slab; then turned, and held his arms out. Grateful (though I'd never say it) I crawled up onto his lap.
"How did you know it was me at the door?" he asked. "I thought I was so stealthy."
I scoffed. "I'm quite good at listening to people who don't want me to hear them."
"Was it the footsteps?"
"No. Your smell."
He froze. "My smell?"
"Hot crude oil, ozone, nitro-glycerine. It's always you. No one else has that combination."
"Heh. Perhaps you'll become an olfactory spy now," he remarked.
I wasn't amused. "How dare you?"
"It's spite the world or cry, sweetheart. I never give myself that second option."
"Slag you, Megatron. I choose to cry."
"I don't want you to. I want you to be happy again. Honestly, Sparky, I think your life will be better without seeing sparks. I'm glad, for instance, that you're in no further danger of seeing mine."
I sighed, too worn-out from my fit of crying to do more. "I knew you would be." I leaned against his warm chest, and traced a finger over the purple mark engraved on his armor. "But I miss seeing them, Megatron. Sparks are beautiful."
"I never paid attention. I was usually more focused on snuffing them out." He huffed and shifted position. "Prime's spark is beautiful, I guess. I'll give you that."
"They were like friendly stars around me every day. Sure, they could burn me if I got too close. But they were stars, Megatron. They were friends. I feel so alone now without them." I dug the heel of one hand into my useless optics. It did no good. "If I could look into your spark right now, I would. Even if it was agony. Even if it might wreck the trust I've come to have in you. It's not smart. It's not rational. But it's how I feel." I shrugged. "It's like I've woken up to find I've been imprisoned in my body, cut off from everyone else. I don't know how you all stand it."
Megatron absorbed this in silence. He rocked me slowly back and forth for several minutes. But I knew he was distracted. His arms tensed; and he exhaled sudden sharp blasts of heated engine-air. He was obviously wrestling with something. At last he stopped, and sat up straight.
"Sparky, turn your optics on. I want to show you something." Megatron unclasped his thick chestplate, and let it fall heavily to the floor. "Be careful," he warned. "But I thought, maybe you can read a spark if there's no barrier."
I looked. Looked hungrily, desperately, clinging to a dubious scrap of hope.
And there it was. Mounted above his main engine, nestled in knots of neural-ducting and flanked by – was that really a carburetor? – his red spark pulsed with a ponderous, ancient rhythm. I strained to read it. I peered at that fist-sized, swirling ball of light until my optic servos whined. But it was just a swirling ball of light. It told me nothing. All I could say was that it seemed familiar, like something I'd glimpsed once on a long drive. I reached out to touch it.
Megatron flinched and grabbed my hand.
"Sorry," I said, embarrassed. "Wasn't thinking." I folded my arms tight to hide my disappointment. "It doesn't tell me anything. But thanks for trying. Want to put your armor back on now?"
He shook his head. "That was just a shot in the dark. What I really wanted to show you was all the things you can read in a spark without some special ability."
I looked at him, surprised.
"Watch," he ordered.
I watched.
Megatron's spark whirled like a lightening storm in an ominous, dark-red morning. Every so often, though, there was an unexpected flash of blue. I gasped.
"That's Optimus," he said. "My bond-brother these last ten years, to everyone's surprise. Now keep watching..." Much darker, clawlike patches curled over the spark to smother its red light, and hide the bits of blue. Megatron swore and fidgeted. "That's some of the slag I'd have warned you away from, if you could still eavesdrop into my past." He sighed. "Those are the times I lost myself. But here. And here..." He pointed to intense bright flares of vivid red that pulsed with life. "I like to think these are times I spoke the truth. Maybe some of my better writings." He shook his shoulders like he was dislodging something. "Ah! There it is. This is what I wanted to show you. Prime noticed it earlier this morning." Megatron pointed to a tiny wisp of flame. I gasped. It was yellow.
Reflexively, I looked down into my own spark, still open from when I'd ripped my armor off. Sure enough, a thread of red now darted through it. I raised my wide-eyed face to Megatron. "What does it mean? Can sparks reflect each other?"
He shrugged. "Who knows? I just thought it might help you feel less alone."
I stared a long time at that tiny hint of yellow fire, as it whirled amid the lightening-storm in Megatron's red spark. At last I asked him, "Why me? Why my spark?"
He pursed his lips and looked away. "About a million reasons, little one. All of them complicated, some not pretty, and a few probably wrong." He smiled, but not his usual sharp, toothy grin. This smile contained a tired acceptance that I'd never seen before. "I'm scared, Sparky. Scared that I'll hurt you someday. It's an old, old, ingrained habit."
Once again, I ran through all my Megatron archives. "I'm too new to be scared of you," I shrugged.
"And I'm too old and too selfish to send you packing." He squeezed me tight. I tucked my face into his shoulder and felt safe as a diamond. "Mostly, Spark, I am grateful. Grateful enough to go down right this moment to Primacron's chamber and grovel before them on the floor."
"Is that where you got this?" I tapped the one thing that did not fit neatly in with all his other tangled internals: a square blue crystal cased in twining silver metal that curved outward into two sharp points. "Primacron gave you something, right? When Prime got his new Matrix and Elita got her key?"
Megatron raised an eyebrow. "You certainly pay attention."
"Professional collector of dropped information," I confirmed.
"It's meaningless. Just a consolation prize. They called it a 'Matrix of Leadership'..." He snorted. "Ha! It doesn't do anything useful. Oh, it pushes at me sometimes. Like the time I stayed at Spangle's and was there when Flashpoint knocked. Lately it's been bothering me to make Prime use his matrix to heal the new femmlings. But whenever I suggest it, he gives me this look like I've just torn his heart out. He says he can't, and I believe him. Prime would donate all his limbs to save them if he could..." He stopped, and looked at me with some concern. "I shouldn't have told you all that. Ignore my complaining."
"The femmlings – what happened to them?" I asked, finally turning my attention to someone besides myself.
He slumped, and looked at me from under black brows drawn together. "Are you sure you want to hear this right now?"
I tapped the casing of my single-color spark. "I'd like to know if this was worth it."
His lips tightened. He stared at me intently. Then he said, "We found a lot more newlings than we had expected."
I knew that much. "Will they survive?"
He looked away. "Mirage and Skywarp have a well-established detox facility. They developed an effective program over the years since the Ceasefire. We sent all the femmes there, in case they need it."
"Do they?"
"I'm afraid so. But—" He smiled and shook his head. "You should have seen all the medics converge. Everyone wants to help the femmes. For once, First Aid had the advantage over Ratchet, because his main practice was already set up at the Detox facility. He was the one to greet the newlings when they first arrived." He gave me a wry smile. "I must say, First Aid has a much gentler bedside manner than our Ratchet does. Don't tell him, but I think it's for the best that he's been stuck here caring for you and your sister."
I had forgotten all about Andromeda. "Is she all right?"
"Your makers are adjusting to her personality unsoftened by that charm-filter. But yes. She is recovering quite well. Better than you, by a long shot."
I sniffed. "If that was meant to be a taunt, it didn't work. I'm glad Andromeda's recovering. Though I do kind of wish..." I stopped; but the pressure was much much too great. I spewed the words in one big rush: "I sometimes wish I'd left her there, and escaped with my spark intact."
He chuckled. "Spoken like a true Decepticon."
I tried to remember. "Those are the purple badges, right?"
He laughed outright. "Sparky, you are a precious jewel too good for this poor world. Yes, those are the purple badges. I was quite proud of the design, I'll have you know."
I stiffened as a nightmare memory intruded, of a purple badge I'd seen as I lay paralyzed on Swindle's operating table. Octane's emblem had been right above me, as he had ripped my spark-sight from my open soul. A shudder clattered through my body.
Megatron frowned, missing none of this. He reached to the nearestcounter, and grabbed the cube of distilled White that had stood there since I'd woken. "Here. Take some of this, before I tell you any more. Sip slowly," he ordered.
I sipped obediently. It was good.
"What was that all about, just now?" he asked.
I vented a hot blast of pent-up air. "Just memories. I have some of my own now, and won't need to see the nightmares from other mechs' sparks to have a bad flux now."
He pulled me tight against him – against all that intermeshed structure beneath his armor. He swore softly to himself. "It's small comfort, but you don't have to worry about Octane and Swindle any more," he said.
"Tell me."
Megatron exhaled a hot, leaden vent. "Swindle and Octane are both dead."
"Executed?" I asked. "Is that a thing you do?"
"Nothing so clean as execution, I'm afraid. Skywarp teleported them back here. But instead of warping straight into the brig, he dropped them at the foot of the Citadel. Outside. Where an angry crowd was waiting to hear if we'd found you and the other femmlings." He stopped and looked into my optics. I made no comment. He went on: "There were close to a hundred bots down there. Skywarp himself only survived by phasing out." I felt a blast of heat as he ex-vented sharply. "We can't verify his story now; and honestly I wouldn't want to ask you to look into it even if you still could. We'll never know if Skywarp landed them outside because he guessed what would happen. He swears he's sorry; and perhaps that's true. But cleaning drones are still picking up bits of Octane and Swindle. The oil-stains are going to be there even longer."
I wanted to feel vindicated. Wanted to revel in righteous rage. But all I felt was sick. My tanks boiled over, and I fumbled blindly for something to catch the purge in. There was not even a bucket. I bent over and heaved hot fuel on the floor.
Unperturbed, Megatron patted my back softly until I was finished. Then he handed me a well-worn cloth, so I could wipe the foamy purge off of my face and hands.
"There is one good thing," he said, resuming as if there had been no interruption. "It was Skywarp's tech that Swindle used to make the teleporters he and Octane used. Skywarp was outraged by that, let me tell you. But he was able to follow the warp-signature back to all the portals they'd set up. He made sure there are no more femme newlings hidden."
"How?" I asked. "I mean, I know that he can teleport. But how did he know where to go?"
Megatron paused. "He, um… He kept hold of Swindle's hand in the melee outside the Citadel. It was the one with the teleporter."
I tried to ignore the images that sprang up in my mind at this, and asked the first question I could think of. "Are you saying Skywarp can tell where a teleport has taken someone, just by holding it? How does he do that?"
Megatron smirked. "If Skywarp had any ambition, he'd have taken over Cybertron millions of years ago. His power is unique, and all our imitation teleporters came about after we studied him. So don't ask me how he does what he does. He told me he followed the warp-trails, whatever that means. He made it sound like pathways through the air, like all he had to do was follow them. I guess it's just something he recognizes. Something he knows because it's a part of him. Like—" Megatron choked as if his vocalizer had clogged up. He looked at me. "I just had an idea."
I waited. I waited some more. I lost my patience. "Are you going to tell me this wonderful idea?"
He looked at me. And I saw through the red-lit lenses of his optics, down into a deep sadness. "If you could have your spark-sight back, would you take it?"
"Of course!"
I'd spoken without thinking. So I vented once or twice to give my second thoughts a chance. Did I really want to be assailed daily by all the memories of traumatized, gazilion-year-old war-vets? "Yes," I said, and meant it this time.
"Just to be clear..." (Megatron's voice was like a bar of steel in testing, just before it reached the breaking-point.) "You'd choose your spark-sight over being safer around mine."
I looked at him, focused on optics that were now my only window into what he felt and thought. "What are you trying to say?"
"Just answer the damn question."
I sighed. "Yes, Megatron. I would. Not that it matters. Why ask me about it now? It just hurts both of us."
He clenched a fist. He looked away. He shifted underneath me. "You read Prime's spark."
"A little, yes, but what does that have to do with—"
He cut me off. "So you know him. How well does he know you?"
I wasn't sure where this was heading. "Um, well, he always makes me feel as if he understands and cares about me. But doesn't he do that to everyone?"
Megatron grinned sardonically. "Even his enemies." He exhaled a long sigh, like he was letting something go. "One final question: If you had your spark-sight back, would you use it to help restore the other newlings' sparks? If that was possible, I mean."
"How can you even ask that?" I demanded, thinking of poor Flashpoint. "Of course I would. No matter if it took a thousand years."
He looked at me, red optics burning like two dying suns, and stood, with me still in his arms. "Come, then. I think I know what remains to be done."
Hurrying now – as if afraid his doubts would catch up to him if he stayed – Megatron kicked his chestplate angrily aside, and surged out of the medbay. Up the empty midnight elevator he bore me, to one of the middle floors of the Citadel. He leaned forward to bring the hand beneath my shoulders close enough to knock, and pounded on an unmarked door.
"Open up, Optimus!" he bellowed. "I finally know what Primacron's been trying to tell us."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XXV-

It was Elita-One, not Optimus Prime, who opened the door to Megatron's hammering. Of course I couldn't see into her spark; but judging from the outside, she looked haggard.
"Megatron, I'm warning you, don't—" Elita broke off. She cocked her head to look at him more closely, and retreated half a step. "You've figured something out."
"I hope so. I think I know how to save him."
"Him?" I spluttered, heaving myself upright in his arms. "I thought you said this was about—"
Elita stopped me with an upraised hand. But then her shoulders slumped. "You're in on it."
I shook my head vehemently. "Honestly, Elita, I'm not sure what's going on right now..."
She waved me into silence, sighed, and opened the door wide. "Come in. But no shouting. His pain is worse."
Megatron carried me inside. I was too bemused to make him put me down.
I hadn't visited this place before. This wasn't the small antechamber at the tower's top where I'd first met the full Triad. This was the private apartment Elita shared with Optimus Prime. Her bondmate, I reminded myself sternly. Brimming with unaskable questions, I peered avidly around the place.
I don't know why I kept expecting the Commanders to have huge, sumptuous living quarters. Maybe, despite the past few weeks of having my eyes opened to their foibles, I still believed that they were super-mechs, operating on a plane far above menial bots like me. In any case, it shocked me to find out they lived in one all-purpose room much smaller than my makers' home. Its only glories were the copper-bright walls with their interlinked engravings, and the deep red cloth curtains hanging at a tall window. Their woven fibers must have been imported from some more organic world.
Otherwise the apartment was spartan. Two simple chairs angled toward each other at the window, with a cantilevered lamp shedding a warm light over them. There was an ancient, dented desk strewn with miscellaneous datapads, cubes, and old tablets. (Megatron huffed in irritation, set me brusquely on my feet, and started organizing the mishmash.) There was an energon dispenser in the wall, just like at home. There were two recharge slabs; one folded up against the wall to make more space. But lying on the other… I gasped and my engine raced in sudden fear.
Optimus Prime lay still as a spring wound up to the breaking point. His hands were folded tightly on his chest, his lips pressed closed, his optics dark beneath a brow furrowed in pain. I heard his servos whine, and saw his feet curl as some new agony took him. No one reacted. I was terrified. I moved instinctively to Megatron, and took his hand for safety.
Megatron kept on tidying the desk as if it could help fix things somehow. (But he did consent to hold my hand.) "Any improvement?" he asked, like he'd said the words a million times before.
Elita shook her head impatiently. "It's gotten worse since your last visit."
I rounded on Megatron. "You said nothing important was happening upstairs! You said that's why you'd come down to the medbay!"
Elita looked daggers at me.
"Sorry!" I whispered, much more quietly. "But Megatron, you said—"
"Why do you think it was me, and not Prime in your room when you came online?"
"Prime? You mean if he weren't sick you wouldn't—" I felt as if the floor had collapsed under me. "I thought… I thought you..."
"He's the kind one. I'm not kind." Megatron turned from me to Elita. "I'm not nice either. So I'm going to ask all of you to do hard things tonight. But if I'm right, it will heal Prime, Rainbowsparkles, and all the femmlings Swindle ever touched."
I didn't even bother telling him not to use my full name. "What's wrong with him?" I asked. (And did you lie when you hinted you cared for me? I thought, but didn't say.)
Megatron looked at me with a hint of empathy, but all his earlier softness was gone. Patiently, he explained, "Prime's new matrix connects him to the spark-core of each bot on Cybertron. He mourns with them, rejoices with them; and sometimes he uses his connection to help them work out old pain." (I thought of my makers waiting outside a low gray building on a tense night months ago. How Sunstreaker walked out renewed. How he'd assured Thundercracker that Prime was there.) Megatron interrupted my thoughts. "Spark, there are almost two hundred other newlings whose sparks have been tampered with." He looked over at Prime, and his face changed. "Imagine feeling all that pain."
"But..." I tried, but couldn't stifle all the questions. "If he's connected to all life on Cybertron, why didn't he sense the hidden newlings before?" (Why didn't he save them – and me – much sooner?)
"I don't know!" Elita's outburst startled me. "Maybe he has to know the bots exist before he can establish a connection. Maybe he has to meet them in person." She pressed a hand to her forehead. "All I know is, he was fine before we visited the newlings at the Detox center. After that, he—"
We all jumped as Prime let out a groan and twisted on his berth. Both Megatron and Elita surged to his side. I watched, forgotten. Megatron stooped to face her and spoke quickly. "This is what I know. Elita, you have a key that augments the power of any bot you use it on. You've always been a builder, a supporter, a believer. Prime has a matrix that connects him to everyone on the planet, because Primus knows he's always been the kind of bot who strives to understand and love and heal."
Elita listened with hands on her hips and an icy expression.
Megatron sped up in the face of Elita's impatience. "Optimus cannot heal all the newlings. But with your key's help, can he heal one?" He beckoned me over, and pushed me forward. "Can he heal thisnewling?"
"Why?" Elita demanded. "Why should Orion heal Rainbowsparkles? Especially when he's hurt so much already."
"Because..." Megatron huffed and clenched his fists. "I'm hoping Spark can use her sight to show Prime how to rebuild the other newlings' sparks. Then everyone on Cybertron will rejoice at the miracle and send their joy straight into Prime's slag-damned self-sacrificing spark, and he'll stop hurting!" Megatron ended in a suppressed shout, and stood there panting while Prime moaned again.
"If he survives," Elita muttered.
"Are you kidding? If our war taught us only one thing, it's that Optimus Prime always survives."
Elita's head snapped up. "Don't joke about it!"
Megatron backed off. "Sorry. I didn't mean..."
Elita lashed out, "This is only speculation! Just another of your wild conjectures!"
"Yes. But this time Primacron put the wild speculation in my head."
"You're asking me to take a lot on faith."
Megatron shrugged. "Hey, it's not easy for me to believe all this either. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is all delusion, But I do believe in Prime."
"Have you asked Rainbowsparkles?" Elita jerked her chin at me. "Before, she had a hard time looking into one or two sparks. Now you expect her to deep-read almost two hundred of them? And you will be asking her to relive all the trauma of her recent violation as she digs through the similar memories of those other femmlings—"
I spoke up quietly, trying to hide the shaking in my voice. "If Prime can fix me, I want to help him heal all the others."
Elita left Prime's bedside and came across the room to me. She took my chin and raised my face to hers. Her blue optics were deep and dark as the sky in a rainstorm.
"Please," I whispered. "I want to try."
She dropped her gaze.
Prime groaned again. Megatron looked down at his bond-brother. Then he lay down alongside Prime on the narrow berth. He held Prime tight against his body, trying to protect him as he had once done for me. He held Prime like a treasure that would slip away if he was not utterly vigilant. I watched them, feeling strange. I realized Prime belonged to Megatron in some way I did not yet understand. Megatron tucked his mouth against one blue finial and began whispering urgently.
I saw Prime's head shake back and forth. I saw his mouth move, and the words I heard were, "What if I fail them?"
Megatron stiffened. He pounded a fist into the berth beside Prime's head. (I squeaked and scuttled backwards.) "No!" he shouted. "You don't get to hide from this. Get up, Prime! Get up and do your damned god-given duty!"
I had never imagined anyone talking to Prime like that. I glanced at Elita, sure she would pound Megatron into powder. But she didn't move. Her mouth was quirked in some unfathomable amusement.
I heard a sound that shocked me to my core. Optimus Prime was laughing. Wheezing, exhausted laughter. Laughter with a catch in it as his pain wracked him. But it was laughter nonetheless. "You always did know how to stoke the fire in me," he told Megatron.
"Damn right," my Mystery Mech agreed.
Prime took Megatron's outstretched hand and grunted, "Help me up, Brother."
Elita's brow furrowed with worry as she watched Prime lever himself back onto his feet. But as he rose, some of the horrible tension leaked out of him. His body gave an audible hiss as it relaxed. He gripped Megatron's arm. "What put this half-grammed scheme into your head, my nemesis?"
"Skywarp."
Prime snorted. "Skywarp?"
Megatron chuckled darkly. "Skywarp followed the warp-trails to find out where Swindle and Octane had hidden all the other femmes." He shrugged. "I thought you might be able to do something similar with your new matrix." He looked at Prime, then leaned against him like all his cydraulics had been cut. He spoke like he was begging for his life. "I know you haven't forged strong pathways into the new femmlings yet. But you know Spark. And she knows you." He tapped Prime's chest, under which pulsed the bright blue spark I'd once seen into. "I have to believe there's a connection between you. I want you to follow it, and heal this one femmling. Please. Open your fancy matrix, and find out what it can do."
Megatron backed away from Prime and took my hand, like he actually needed my support. He tapped the blue-and-silver matrix in his open chest. "I always said this was only a bauble the gods gave me just to keep me quiet. But if this really is a Leadership Matrix – if you believe the gods beneath our feet as much as you believe in me – then I'm telling you they're telling me that this is how we heal the femmes. This is how we give them back the lives Primacron meant for them."
Elita let out a long, heavy sigh. She walked over to Prime and linked her arm through his. He bent down to consult with her. They whispered together; I couldn't guess what they were saying. I just watched, thinking this was another pair who had shared ownership with one another. Maybe all families were like this. Maybe I'd been resenting something universal and precious when I'd kicked against the connection between myself and my makers. I didn't know. I'm still not sure.
Megatron held my hand like it was a lifeline. I squeezed it with what reassurance I could give. Prime raised his chin, and looked at me. His optics flared a little brighter.
"Rainbowspa—"
I interrupted the leader of Cybertron. "Just call me Spark," I sighed. "I'm begging you."
He laughed. A real laugh. And I saw more of the pain leave him as hope rose in its place. He stood a little straighter, and walked over to plant himself right in front of me. He was taller than I was, grand and glorious. But his bared face was kind. I faced him with what bravery I had.
"Spark, I'd like to try what Megatron suggests. I have to warn you, it may come to nothing. But I think Primacron is trying to assist us. And I do believe in Megatron." He put a hand on my shoulder. "There is one thing I need to know though, little one. Are you certain you want your spark-sight back? After all, it was often a burden to you."
I looked at Prime: that incongruously young face, its optics that had seen too much. I turned to look at Megatron, knowing that if his plan worked, I could never look so fearlessly at him again. His awful spark would always be there, waiting. Spark-sight had certainly made my life complicated. But it was a part of me. I dropped my gaze and turned away from my beloved Mystery Mech. "I know what I want, Optimus," I said. "I want to be myself – who I was meant to be – again."
Prime's face grew sober and he put a hand up to my cheek. "I want you to be certain of one thing. If I do manage to restore your spark, you are under no obligation afterward. You may choose to assist me in healing the other newlings; or you may go home and live out your life in peace."
"But I want to help save them," I said simply.
He smiled. "You remind me of someone I used to be."
"All right, Orion," Elita sighed and took his arm. "I'm in." She took the crystal key out of her chest, and held it ready. "Silly mechs!" She shook her head.
Megatron stepped up and took Prime's other elbow. With his two bondmates supporting him, Prime opened his chestplates (like two cupboards, I thought wildly). He ex-vented and drew himself together for a moment. Then he raised a heavy inner shield and unclipped something shining bright above his spark.
This crystal artifact was not like Megatron's. It was a shape I'd seen over and over on the datanet: an oval frame with flat hand-holds at either end, holding a glowing crystal at its center. This version wasn't blue, though. It was white. Prime brought it out and held it reverently before him in both hands. Its gentle luminescence flickered through the room like liquid light.
It drew me in. A little dazed, I stumbled forward a few steps to stand within the glow. The Command Triad flanked me: Optimus Prime in front, Megatron on my right, Elita on my left. A tiny distant part of me wondered how I had gotten here. I'd just been born a year ago! What right did I have to stand here with the Commanders? But whether I had right or no, I reached out and put my small hand on Prime's. "I believe in you, too, Sir."
He looked at me with the face of a fresh-sparked newling, his brow raised in wonderment. Elita touched her warm-pink key to his blue spark. (It flared near-white with power.) And Prime pulled on the two sides of the matrix till they split apart. There was a single burst of pure white light. And then the crystal floated free.
Threads of light flickered toward me like electricity seeking some point it could ground in. They poured inexorably from the bright white crystal like it was an overflowing crucible. The light latched onto me and poured in: as cold as water, thick as oil. My armor was no barrier to it. I was a little frightened. But I kept my optics locked on Prime's.
I thought of all I knew of this big red and blue and silver mech: all I had seen within his spark. I guessed he was doing the same – recalling the things he knew of me. (I hoped they weren't as petty and pathetic as I feared.)
My spark tingled.
I looked down. It was flashing rainbow colors.
I looked back up at Prime, my optics wide, my mouth open in amazed, desperate hope. And I saw him. I saw his spark. I saw him straining to focus not on his own self-doubt, but on his love for me. His love for everyone on Cybertron. For his two bondmates there beside him. I saw the pure blue light of his bright spark.
And it was beautiful.
The matrix closed. Prime exhaled sharply, and fell forward like his linkages were cut. I threw my arms around him, heedless of breached protocol. "I saw you!" I whispered. "I saw you!"
I clung onto Prime – both of us holding one another upright as we sagged in joy and disbelief.
"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Prime's spark surged in incandescent joy. He roared and lifted me up in a mighty hug. "One down!" he crowed. "Only 197 more to go!" He put me down, and grabbed Elita. She was holding back, afraid of disappointment. But he whirled her round and round with a long wordless shout of joy. "We did it!" was all he could say, over and over as they twirled together in some kind of freeform dance. He stilled suddenly, lifted her up in his arms, and bent to whisper in her audial. "My darling, precious love. Thank you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and clung there, her chest heaving in suppressed sobs of relief.
"It will be all right now, dearest. You did it."
Elita nodded. Then she must have given him some hidden signal, because he put her gently down onto her feet, touched his forehead to hers for a long moment, and then turned to Megatron.
Megatron stiffened, battle-ready.
Prime surged back across the room in two great strides. He threw the weight of his whole body into Megatron's, and bore the broader mech backward against the wall behind us. "Stubborn, slag-eating, wonderful glitch-head. You did it, Megs. You did it." With infinite gentleness, Prime cupped his blue hand over the red light of Megatron's spark. "Bond-brother of my twilight years. Fulfillment of my most impossible of dreams." He pulled Megatron's head toward him, and placed a kiss upon his brow. "Always, in every way, you bring me hope old man."
I'd have thought Megatron would show more fear. After all, his spark was literally in the hand of another mech. But he wasn't afraid. Quite the opposite. Slowly, every one of his taut struts slackened. He let his face fall onto Prime's shoulder and threw limp arms around him. "I did it," he repeated. "I did it. It worked."
"Not useless after all," Prime whispered. He took Megatron's face between his hands. "Never useless. Cybertron relies on you." He thunked his helm against Megatron's brow. "I rely on you, my beloved nemesis.'
Megatron pushed him hard, and Prime stepped back, a smile twinkling in his optics. Megatron turned to face me. He stood there like a king: his head-crest raised defiantly, his burnished silver armor bright against the copper engraved wall behind him, his spark pulsing with an ancient, raging power.
He was the most magnificent thing I'd ever seen.
"I need to look," I told him.
His crest wilted. "You'll hate me."
"Don't be so sure of that," said Elita. She shot me a secret smile, and winked.
"I survived a full download of your spark," Prime remarked with a wry half-grin.
Megatron rounded on him, finger pointed like a gun. "You barely survived." In an undertone he muttered, "Slag-licking overconfident punk-aft!" I wasn't sure if he meant Prime or me.
I persisted. "You're no coward. Don't tell me I should be one." He looked at me through optics of red fire. I clenched my fists, refusing to let what I did not know keep me afraid. "I'll stay out of the darkest places," I assured him. "I won't pry. But Megatron, I don't want to tiptoe around you forever." I took a step toward my Mystery Mech. "I've got another several million years ahead of me. I don't want to waste them."
Megatron slumped. "I've wasted enough years for both of us." He dropped his gaze. He was no coward, but he was afraid. "Before you look, let me wish you farewell," he said.
I crossed the last few feet of floor between us and shook his hand solemnly. "Goodbye, Mystery Mech," I told him.
Megatron's optics went fully dark. "Goodbye, Sparky," he whispered.
I awaited his permission. He stared at the wall over my shoulder. Finally he nodded. "Go ahead. Look if you must."
I opened my optics fully to Megatron's red spark.
It was dark in there. There were monsters. I saw how he'd lost himself. Saw all the horrid things he'd done. I felt his lifelong loneliness, and how he'd always pressed it down as unworthy of him. I saw the newforged mech he'd been – a youngling not dissimilar from me: full of naive hope, on a determined quest for independence. The storms and lightning of his past buffeted me; but I clung to what I knew and loved about him. I followed the threads of his writing as they wound throughout the years up to the present, till they led right back to me: into that tiny rainbow-colored flame inside his spark.
I pulled my gaze back to the surface and looked up into his face. He was a Mystery Mech no longer. But he was my hero just the same.
I went and threw my arms around him, and gave him the words he'd given me so recently down in the medbay: "I know who you are, Megatron. At least, I'd like to think I do. And for the record, I am not afraid."
He pulled me tightly to him, and held me as tightly as he'd held Prime. His frantic spark-pulse slowly settled into a more steady rhythm. My spark flashed in a harmonic counterpoint. We stood there together for what felt like years.
Prime put a hand on Megatron's shoulder. "The others," he reminded us gently.
"Let's go," I said. "I'm coming with you."
"We're all going," said Elita. "The groundbridge will fit us all, if we're friendly."
Megatron took her hand, looked at her for a long moment without a word, then bowed in acquiescence. "Lead on, my lady."
So that's how it happened that I squeezed into a smoking closet with Optimus Prime, Megatron, and Elita-One; and how we stepped out into the predawn darkness of the Detox center medbay, much to the surprise of First Aid, Deluge, and Flatline, the medics on watch.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

-XXVI-
To be honest, I'm not clear about much of what happened for the next several days. I know the medics greeted Prime like a savior. (I saw his spark shrink at first in the face of their blind faith, but he held onto us and rallied.) I know we were all bustled into a long room lined with berths on which lay the first forty or fifty femmlings, quivering in a half-sleep through withdrawal. I know Prime's optics went dim when he saw them. I know I nodded when he turned to me. So we began.There was always a spark in front of me: some wisp of tattered red or green or blue or white. They blurred together. But I tried to see them clearly. I remember cubes of energon thrust into my trembling hand (and later, when I could no longer hold them, someone would press them against my lips and pour). I drank thirstily, burning through the fuel. But I kept my optics open.I gripped Prime's upraised arm with my right hand, and filled the cable running from my wrist to his with what I saw inside the sparks that swam before my whiteout optics. Prime never once questioned me. He never doubted. He just channeled everything I gave him through the matrix in his outstretched hands, and sent his own love with it. White light flowed out from the matrix in a steady, never-ebbing stream of healing restoration straight from Primacron.Elita stayed close by; and with her key she charged me up whenever I began to flag. I'm sure she did the same for Prime – sometimes I'd catch a flash of renewed strength from his spark at my side. I never did see Megatron. But he was there. He was our rock; our fortress; our unstoppable rearguard, supporting whichever of us was weakest with his never-flagging strength. He pushed us forward: urging, cajoling, berating. He and Elita both rejoiced each time a femmling smiled and drew in a full breath with no more grieving.There were, I think, seven last femmes I wasn't certain we could save – in them, the damage was too great for me to work out what was missing. I looked into their hollowed optics, and felt nothing. I was emptied out: past empathy, past feeling. But I knew their eyes would haunt me for the rest of my life if I couldn't help them. I felt Prime sagging too beside me, his vents ragged and his engine rough. That's when Elita stepped in. She linked up with us, combining insights she gained through her sense of the femmes' energy fields with what I saw in their sparks and Prime knew through his matrix. With Elita's help, we were able to reconstruct even the most bleached-out sparks. All one hundred and ninety-seven femmes were healed. But all I can remember of the process is a blur.They tell me we were there for fourteen days. They tell me I did not recharge once through the whole endeavor. I suspect the other medics – older bots who did not need to recharge so often – transferred their own energy to my core when I was too engrossed in someone else's spark to notice. I need to remember to thank them, because I suffered no ill effects from the strain.I don't remember the transition from online to unconscious. But I do remember how I felt when I woke up. Megatron's familiar blocky body hummed warmly against my back, his arm wrapped tight around my middle. Prime's hand rested lightly against my cheek. And Elita was tucked in between him and me, her head under my chin.I could have stayed like that for years.My name is Rainbowsparkles, I thought in contentment. I am a child of Cybertron, daughter of Thundercracker and Sunstreaker. I read sparks. I belong to my friends and to my family. They belong to me. This is home.I smiled then, sure the world was going to be perfect from now on. But now I wonder if that was the moment Megatron decided that he had to leave me.I'm running short on time, but there are a few more things I should add before his ship takes off. You know, for science. So let's see how well I can condense the six months after we restored the wounded femmes.I did give Blot that kiss I'd promised him. He greeted me with downcast eyes, and one arm holding out a flower he had made of pressed and folded metal scraps. It looked like he had taken weeks to perfect it. I put it into my subspace, and plan to carry it with me always.I stopped in at The Hub to thank Spangle for everything she'd taught me (and to say hi to Roadbuster and Tankor, who were training several of the newborn femmlings). Spangle threw me a too-knowing grin and asked how I was getting along with Megatron lately. I told her it was none of her business. Her smile broadened. She slapped my back and told me I was getting the hang of being a femme.I found Firestar in Simfur, training one of the last femmlings we'd helped to repair – the ones we weren't sure we could save. Her name was Nebula: blue spark, water alt-mode, affinity with metal. She greeted me like I was god. It made me nervous. Firestar's brusque nod was pure relief compared to such mute adulation. She greeted me without fanfare, like we were equals. I think that meant more to me than all of the other things she'd ever shown me. I thanked her for mentoring me and my sisters. She cocked her head, quirked her mouth in an almost-grin, and said she was starting to see the rewards of her labors.I made my peace with Andromeda; but I don't think we'll ever be bosom-buddies. I asked Windchaser to teach me a few of her simpler flying tricks. I hung around with Arclight and Sunspot a lot. They are my favorites; but I hope nobody reads this and tells them that.I spent several months at home, just resting. I drove the dangerous old roads with Sunstreaker, and flew pale skies with Thundercracker.My makers took me down to the heart of our planet, to the place where, a year and a half ago, I had received my rainbow-colored spark. We stood in silence at the dark heart of the world, and listened to the blood of Primacron pumping so strong and endlessly around us. The great Voice did not speak to me. But I like to think Primacron was pleased.As we were leaving, I reached out to touch a glowing duct of the same matrix-grade energon that had given life to all us femmes. It flared white as my fingers brushed against it, and I felt a warmth and love surge through me."Dad—?" I called. But Thundercracker shushed me. Both of my makers pressed their hands against the glowing pipe. In unison, they smiled."Thanks for our daughters," Sunstreaker whispered. "We owe you.""No," the Voice said to my makers. "We are even."I have to give him due credit: Megatron hid his intentions from both me and Prime. Deceiving me was easy – I was a clueless newling; and I was keeping my optics on his surface, not his spark. (I figured he'd earned privacy.) I don't know how he kept Prime – or Elita, for that matter – from sensing his true intentions. I'm sure he thinks he's acting for the best.I disagree.Prime came to me an hour ago, brandishing this golden disc I'm recording on and giving me a frustrated, arm-waving infodump I wasn't remotely prepared for."He's commissioned a long-range shuttle with enough supplies to last several years. He says he wants to travel to the planets that got caught up in our war, and see if he can make amends. He's bringing a whole bunch of stuff he got Wheeljack to invent for him – terraforming, weather tech, biological maximizers, anything you can think of and probably more. No wonder Wheeljack never let the secret slip; I'll bet this was like Christmas to him.""What's Christmas?" I asked."Never mind. I'm just irritated with the big lump for not telling me he's leaving. I'll miss him. Badly. But Spark, Megatron's not meaning to take you with him. We both know why; we both know what he thinks he's doing. But I thought you'd earned the right to make your own decision about that."He told me he'd delay the departure for a few hours at least, and ordered me to fill this disc with my life story for the Archives. "Because," he said, "I've learned not to depend on people coming back." I try to ignore that implication – it just gets in the way of my resolve. I know what I want. So I've got to hurry.I'd barely finished writing about healing the femmes' sparks, when Skywarp appeared in a flash of purple. He said nothing, just held out one of those blasted in-hand teleporters. (I flinched. It brought back such bad memories!) Skywarp was blunt. "It's got only one destination: home. No matter how far out you go, press this button, and bam, you're back in Tessarus. I had Perceptor double-check the range for me."I hesitated, unsure if I wanted such a thing.Skywarp crossed his black arms and looked at me with unaccustomed candor. "I know everyone wants to believe Megatron's reformed and all. But Thundercracker and me – we want you to have an escape. Starscream was our trinemate, and..." He shrugged. "It takes just as much courage to protect yourself as it does to stick with someone who's flawed."I took the teleporter. Skywarp showed me how to install it. I made sure that my makers' tracker was still working. I thanked Skywarp. He waved me farewell. Then in a quick series of eye-bleed purple "VOP" flashes, he disappeared to be replaced by Sunstreaker and Thundercracker, both venting harshly like they'd just come through a hard-fought battle.I fell back as the grief of parting hit me like a wrecking ball.Sunstreaker dropped a metal locker at my feet. "I brought your things from home. There wasn't much. But just in case you need it..."I just stood there, my mouth flapping useless.Thundercracker thrust out the datapad he'd been incensed over just a few short months ago – the one I'd saved Megatron's poems on. "Take it," he said. "To help you sleep." And then his vocalizer jammed.I hugged them. I did not know what to say. I settled for. "I love you both. Forever.""Go," they said. "You'll miss the takeoff."I didn't even bother to subspace the locker and the datapad. I simply grabbed one in each hand, ran out the door, and rocketed at top speed to the shuttle-dock Prime had marked with a red X on my map.The launch-bay was huge, full of flying welding-sparks, and totally intimidating. It got worse when, as one, all of the other bots in the long hangar dropped their work, transformed, and drove away in a roar that echoed back long after they'd disappeared. Megatron closed his comm-link. He walked over to to the foot of the grid-steel staircase I stood on. He moved exactly like he had when I'd first seen him: driven by purpose and determination. But this time there was a grimness around his mouth. His crest was furled. "What do you want from me?" he asked."I hear you're leaving?" My voice squeaked, reverberating weirdly in the massive space so that I couldn't tell if the wobble I heard was from my insecurity, or just a product of the echoes.Megatron didn't change his expression. "You're here to ask if you can come along.""Of course."He actually stepped back. "No. This will not be a nice tour of friendly skies. Planets have formed, developed intelligent life, and been destroyed all while our war raged over the millennia. Quite a few of them were destroyed by us. It won't be safe. So you can't come." He fidgeted like something itched beneath his armor. "Stop confusing the issue!"I dropped my things, and took a single step down toward him. "Space, Megatron. Other planets. Civilizations as unlike ours as oil is from steel." I swept my arms out. "I've spent a lot of my life trawling the datanet, trying to catch up on the stuff that everyone but me already knows. I want to see some of the places I have read about. I want to see organic beings. I want to talk to one – someone who won't live for a hundred million years." I held out my forearm and pointing out the silver inlay there. "I want to see the plant-thing that inspired these designs! I want... I want—"He looked up at me. All my certainty clanged home. I took another step."I want you, Megatron. Not an imaginary, idealized companion. Not as the memory of a famous mech I once worked beside. Not even as a friend I might meet up with for some high-grade and a chat sometimes." I slumped, and dropped my gaze from his. "I want you, Megatron."There. I'd said it. But didn't we both already know how I felt? Hadn't I been dreaming of this since my first week online? I thought of all the times my offline brain had shown me images of Megatron and me among the stars, having adventures.Megatron said nothing. He only stood there, with his arms crossed and his lips pursed tight. When they came, his words were barely a whisper. (But I heard them.)"I want you too, Sparky. More than you'll ever understand. But I don't know if I can—""You can. You slagging-well can." I clanked down the stairway to him, but stopped while I was still out of his reach, still taller. "The whatever-it-is you always tell me you can't do – I've seen it. I've seen nothing but gentleness from you. And I want it. I've spent my life in service to what other people want. Now it's my turn. I'm going after what I want.""To use me?" he taunted. "Or let me use you for a berth-warmer?""Neither. Or both. We'll decide the particulars together."I took the last two steps down, and waited to see what he'd decide. Galaxies formed, collided, and faded to nothing while I waited, saying nothing.At last, he raised his hand, palm-upward. He bent back his wrist to expose the transfer-cord dock, and looked at me. "Anchor me, Spark?"I threw my arms around him and he folded me inside. I don't know how this thing will end. But we both want it not to. And for today, that's enough.I am Rainbowsparkles of Cybertron. My makers are Thundercracker (the thoughtful one) and Sunstreaker (the fiery one). They gave me iridescent armor of titanium alloy, and both a ground-based alt and a flight-mode. They taught me the pleasures of sky and speed, and showed me what familial love is. My friends are Optimus Prime and Elita-One of High Command; Spangle of Kaon, who runs the best place to party on the planet; Firestar, my mentor, who showed me the living world and helped me find my place in it; and Blot, whose heart is pure despite what he looks like on the outside. My Mystery Mech is Megatron, and I love him. I'm sending this disc straight to Prime – Sandstorm swears he will carry it for me. Till I return, this is Spark, signing off.
-THE END-