This story has been sitting on my computer for quite sometime. Originally, it was to be the start of an RPG between some friends and myself, however it has taken on a life of its own, and demanded to be typed and published to , so here it is. I'm uncertain how far this fic will continue, but I would love to read some reviews.

Fandom: Bayverse mixed with G1, RID

Characters: Sunweaver (OC), Bayverse Autobots and Decepticons, G1 (Prowl, Bluestreak, Jazz), RID (Vector Prime, Safeguard)

Rating: T (mentions war, slavery) Don't like, don't read.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my OCs

I fly high above the rebuilt city of Praxus reaching speeds in excess of Mach 3, the beginnings of a new Helix Gardens forming a blur beneath me. I revel in the sleek power of my alt form a Lockheed Martin F-22, the light glistening off the white highlights of my plating. I touch down near the new Academy, my crimson Autobot symbol and visor a startling contrast to my golden body. I shudder as my memories assault my processor threatening to overwhelm me.

It isn't that I want to remember, it's because I must for those who cannot…

The stench of scorched Energon and lubricants, the broken bodies of mechs and femmes littering the ground, the moans of the wounded that laid there dying. The whistling scream of bombs destroying the Helix Gardens, the Temples, and the orncare centers. The Decepticons didn't show any mercy to the helpless sparklings and younglings, simply razed them where they were with their caregivers.

In less than twenty joors, what was once a beautiful and prosperous city, was laid to ruins. The Autobots believe the only reason I survived, was because I went into stasis lock, when my creators and siblings joined the Well of All Sparks. When I finally came too, I stumbled out of the safety of my hideout to the eerie silence following the aftermath of battle, the processor numbing silence…

I remember when this was once home…

I won't lie, or coat the truth. I was very introverted mech as an youngling, definitely not in the in crowd at the Academy, and to be honest I really didn't even want to fit in, my peers were just to shallow for my tastes. In my opinion there are far more important things to be concerned about than who is dating which mech or my stunning looks. While I didn't care about popularity, I could have done without the constant jeers and violence of my fellow students.

While I suppose, I could have been far less discriminating when I choose my friends, but I had my standards to uphold. I just couldn't bring myself to care about the latest war rumors. I was too young to really understand (or care) that war doesn't respect or heed boundaries of neutrality.

I always did (and still do) preferred curling up with a good datafile. Never really got into the whole sleepover gig as a youngling, either. Never figured out the point.

Perhaps my only close friends was my Cybertronian History instructor, Vector Prime and his aide Safeguard, much to my creator's annoyance. My creators, wondered why I'd rather talk with the outdated mech and his Mini-Con pet, rather than hang out with younglings of my own age and society. I guess, it never occurred to them, that he was the one (and only) person who accepted and understood me for who I was, unconditionally.

It seemed like everything was stacked against me from the get go. My creators and everyone's optic color was a neutral white or yellow, with a smattering of cobalt blue in the mix. Everyone's that is except my optic color, I just had to be different, mine had to be a deep crimson color. I still remember, to this day what Vector Prime told me.

"Youngling," he rumbled in his archaic baritone, "Before the wars, optics ran the color spectrum. Your creators most likely altered theirs before the Golden Age, which wouldn't have changed yours, since optic color is an inherited trait. All that crimson color means is that you are less likely to accept the status quo. It isn't optic color, that makes you who you are, but what is in your spark."

Thinking back, it didn't help that we were one of the only neutral Seeker families still on the planet, and perhaps the only ones in Praxus. Which meant we were one of the few flyers still planet side, when Kaon fell to the Decepticons and war was formally declared by Megatron.

Soon after Kaon's fall, that the Decepticon's leader ordered the razing of the neutral city of Praxus, leveling the city, and leaving only two young survivors to be found in the aftermath of destruction. Out of the ruins and the ashes of Praxus, only one other survivor emerged, a mechling by the name of Bluestreak, it was ineventual that we would form an uneasy friendship.

While I internalized much of my grief, Bluestreak externalize his…he rambles on in nonstop sentences, and is plagued by nightmares. I'm thankful that he has found surrogate creators in the forms of the Second and Third in Command of the Autobot forces Prowl and Jazz.

It wasn't long after the fires stopped burning, that every bot on Cybertron or one of the outposts realized, there was no neutrality to be had in this war, you had to choose an affiliation in order to survive. As often happens in a long war, Cybertron suffered greatly and many neutrals bots took refuge in the vastness of space.

It was many vorns into my travels after I parted ways with Vector Prime and Safeguard, when I happen to pick up an odd transmission on my comlink...I am Optimus Prime, and I send this message to any surviving Autobots taking refuge among the stars. We are here, we are waiting.