Title: Live. Remember.
Summary: A neutral dies. A warrior is born.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: OC death. Contains references to slash, torture and rape (all non-graphic)
Disclaimer: I do not in any way pretend to own Transformers, I merely borrow them
Author's note: So, this fic... I really have no idea where this came from but my muse refused to let me work on any of my other projects so finally I gave in and wrote it. This is my first fic to be posted here on and I don't have a beta yet, so if you spot any too blatant mistakes please let me know.
Reviews make me and my muse very happy, so please let me know what you think.
Rhythm stared at the mutilated remains of the bot that had been the centre of his life. The beautiful emerald green had long since faded to the dull grey of death and the only colour remaining were the sickening stains of pink and silvery purple that bore witness to the atrocities that his beloved had been subjected to.
Why? he asked himself for the thousandth time. Why did this have to happen? They had been neutrals, a peaceful band of travelling musicians, no threat to any. They made a sparse but honest living by going from town to town, trying to lighten the spirits of their fellow bots as best they could in these increasingly dark times.
Today, however, they had found their intended stop to be reduced to little more than a mass of rubble, every major building levelled with the ground and not a life in sight. In spite of the horrible destruction they had had no choice but to stay, having travelled far during the day and now unable to keep going without rest.
The Decepticon raiding party had come from nowhere and had struck them before they'd had any chance of mounting a defence. Not that there was much they could have done even if given a warning, a group of five poorly armed and untrained neutrals against a group of battle-hardened soldiers could hardly be considered a fair match.
The 'Cons had singled out his mate at once, which wasn't surprising considering how handsome the emerald bot was. The rest of them had been unceremoniously hurled into a small storage shack that was still standing and no matter how Rhythm and the others had tried they hadn't been able to force the barred door open. The pleading and screaming that soon began outside had left little doubt as to what was happening and Rhythm had thrown himself again and again at the door, as if he could break out by sheer force of will. He had screamed nearly as much himself, from anger, hatred and frustration at being unable to stop the brutes that were abusing his beloved.
He hadn't stopped until he knocked himself unconscious against the door.
When he finally came to again everything had been eerily quiet. The door was open and his three friends and fellow prisoners nowhere to be seen. Neither were the Decepticons.
Not even bothering to wonder why the 'Cons had left or why he had been left behind Rhythm had stumbled out on the street and fallen to his knees beside the greying frame of his beloved, trying in vain not to take in the extensive damage, the tell-tale stains on his thighs or the large pool of energon covering the ground.
The other had been barely conscious and even without any deeper medical knowledge Rhythm had known that this damage was beyond repair. The once green mech had whimpered as he touched him, obviously in great pain, and Rhythm had caught himself wishing that the Decepticons had at least had the mercy to end the pain they had caused.
With tears running he'd hoisted the dying mech into his arms and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He had no painkillers to offer, only his love and tender closeness.
Death had come within an hour. There had been a sudden change in the sound of laboured intakes fighting against the energon that slowly flooded them and then a sudden brightness in those beautiful but now horribly pale amber optics.
The voice had been almost too low to hear, and yet the words still rang inside Rhythm's processor clear as a bell.
Live… Remember…
Then he was gone.
The words had probably been meant as "live to be happy again" and "remember the love we had" but in his grief-stricken state of mind all Rhythm could hear at the time was "live to avenge me" and "remember who did this".
He had given one sparkwrenching, audio-shattering howl of despair and then collapsed in a violent fit of sobbing.
He remained in the same position for hours. Once he had no more tears to shed and the convulsive trembling of his frame stopped it would have been easy for a casual observer to think himself looking at two dead mechs instead of one. He didn't stir at all until he heard the sound of an engine approaching, and even then his only reaction was to tighten his grip on the cold, grey frame in his arms even harder, as if to shield it from further desecration. He was too swept up in loss and grief to really care that whoever was approaching was just as likely to kill him as to offer him help.
In fact, given the choice he would probably have preferred the former.
Fate, however, seemed to have other plans for him. Far from shooting him the newly arrived bot transformed to slowly but not hesitantly cover the last distance in root mode and then sit down beside him.
For nearly ten minutes the two of them merely sat there, neither saying a word or even uttering a sound. Finally, though, the unknown bot laid his hand gently but firmly on Rhythm's shoulder.
"Let go," he said, voice mild and patient. "We should get back to safety. The Decepticons may come back and there's nothing more you can do for him."
Rhythm felt how those words struck something within him, something that made him turn away from the road descending into grieving madness. In an instant all his pain, sorrow and hatred turned into a single, razor-sharp blade of fierce, burning determination. Yes, there was something he could - and would - do. He would live. He would remember. And he would find a way to acquire the knowledge and skill to turn himself into the deadliest of weapons and then release hell upon the ones responsible for this.
You have no idea what a monster you have just created, Decepticons, he thought.
Without a word he loosened his grip and gently laid the lifeless frame down on the ground before he rose, hardly registering the stiffness of his joints or the aches from the scrapes and dents he had caused by throwing himself against the door of his prison the night before.
"What is your designation?" the mild voice asked, and Rhythm finally turned to look at its owner. Slightly taller than himself, of Praxian build, colour scheme much like his own, he noticed absently.
He was just about to answer when his gaze once more fell on the still frame in front of him, the unwilling source of his pain and at the same time the only reason why he was willing to keep going.
Maybe it wasn't fair on the deceased, who had been soft and kind, gentle and forgiving, to have his name turned into a symbol of vengeance, but to Rhythm it somehow seemed fitting. It would remind him, every day of his new life, why he fought against the Decepticons.
His face hardened as he turned to face the Praxian again.
"Call me Jazz."
END