Disclaimer: I do not own The Transformers (though sometimes I rent Ratchet ) I am not making money from this, it is purely for fun. Other characters in this story are owned by the author.
Warnings: Some parts of this may be violent and graphic. Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated and welcomed; flames will be given to Inferno.
Author Note: Just redone with lots of different stuff!!! I am a long time TF fan, since I was a wee young'un. I've had many versions of this story in my mind and finally came up with one I liked. I hope you readers like it too. I finally got up the courage to post it here. Enjoy!
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In the war that raged between the Decepicons and Autobots for millions of years, their home planet of Cybertron was drained of its once rich sources of energy. Deep in the heart of Cybertron, farther than even Vector Sigma an ancient being had woken due to the turmoil on the surface.
Primus, a powerful god of times long past, felt the pain of the beings living above and he wept for them. But as energy was depleted from the planet, it was drained from him and he could do nothing to help the mechanical beings he had come to consider his children. Moreover he felt himself weakening further, his life-force, what his children may call a 'spark', sputtering. In an attempt for self preservation, Primus reached deep into himself, to a less-used area of organic life. Using the last of his waking energy, Primus wove together the cybernetic and organic parts of himself creating a protoform that had the ability to house his spark.
The god formed the protoform into a being, mixing tissue and muscle with nano-cybernetics, covering it all with a thin membranous tissue. He gave the new being a mind to function its body and implanting more nano-cybernetics to make the formation more easily adaptable to connecting with any Cybertronian mechaniod, including himself. Once finished, Primus looked upon his creation; his and his children's only hope. He knew that now was not the time to use his creation, but also knew that it was too dangerous for the protoform to remain on Cybertron.
So he sent the creation far from Cybertron to await the time when its purpose could be fulfilled. Primus gifted his creation with the ability to adapt to whatever world it found itself on; to change so it could fit in, at least to a point. Primus sent with the protoform, all his good intentions and hopes, and spoke a prophesy deep into the core of Cybertron. The Star of Primus will come when all hope seems lost to bear the God to save our world; and so it will be the Bearer of Primus.
Not too many years after a team of heroic Autobots left in search of a new energy source they were followed closely by Megatron and his Decepticons.
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The protoform traveled through time and space, its mind locked in stasis until it arrived at a primitive planet light-years away from its origin. It crashed into its surface, remaining in a state of suspended animation for years. Surviving encasing ice, splitting of land, roiling of seas to the point of the coming of sentient creatures called humans. Slowly the protoform adapted to the form that fitted it most, growing from the thin membrane a tissue called skin, thin strands of hair growing from its head. The protoform even adapted to have what these humans called a gender. Since it was to be giving a new life to its home planet and holding the life of its creator for a time, the protoform took on the form of a female: the life-givers of the human race. Still it…now she…slept on, locked in her icy prison unaware of anything around her.
Until one day.
A group of humans came upon her resting place, drilling with machines through the ice and extracting her. Consciousness came slowly to the protoform as she was moved, over land and sea, she was thawed out. Her organic and cybernetic mind adapted and learned as things happened around her. She felt the humans doing things to her body, inserting painful things, taking things out, poking and prodding. They attached things to her head, and apparently whatever their computers were telling them, they found extremely fascinating. Slowly the protoform learned their language.
Then they opened her head.
It was after that, the protoform could not remember anything about its (her) place of origin.
In the first few days with these strange and cruel humans she learned many things, one word in particular was repeated: Brierstone.
Soon she was met with an older human female, a woman. She learned her name was Brenda and she was to take care of her. Brenda took her to a room, washed her body and gave her a formless bit of cloth to cover her naked body. It was from this woman, the protoform learned the kindness of human beings, how to act like a human being. It was also where she received a name, Kaylee. The protoform learned that the name had some kind of special meaning to the human Brenda and took it to heart. But she was only called by this name when she and Brenda were alone. Everyone else called her 'The Subject'.
For years the protoform forgot her origin, her creation, her destiny and learned to be human. But also she endured pain and suffering at the hands of the other humans of Brierstone. But this was all she knew: Eat, sleep, pain, eat. Eat, sleep, pain, eat. The only thing that kept her sane was her times with the woman, Brenda.
But time went on.
Her routine changed when they found that her brain could act like a computer. They started to implant thoughts, and even skills. They used their computers to induce a trance-like feeling and put her through mental experiences. She learned more. She learned how to fight, how to kill; she learned that she hated it. Over time, she became more resistant, but the humans injected her body with something that made her more susceptible to their tests.
They never used their names around her. But she knew their faces, knew their breathing, their scent, their voices. She didn't want to be used any more; she wanted more experiences outside of their cruel hands. Brenda told her to be patient. So she was.
Time went on for Kaylee.
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1986 - Somewhere
A scream tore through the metal hallways of the underground bunker, echoing in a skin-chilling way. It ended in a gasp, as a middle-aged man in a dark suit made his way to the origin of the sound. Opening the door he stepped inside.
"How is she progressing?"
"Better than we hoped, sir. She has a high tolerance and has easily passed all of the tests we have put her through," another man, wearing a white coat answered. "It is almost as if she was built to withstand all of this, and more. She has adjusted to the cranial-cybernetics quickly; the last step will be to input the radio microchip. Though we will have to keep her drugged, sir, if we try to plug her into any of our test computers, she could easily take them over."
"That will not work for when we use her in the Project, we need her to be obedient. What about when she is in battle-mode?"
The white-coat hesitated. "She is very resistant when we start the tests and refuses to follow our orders without being forced by the drugs or pain, but once in battle-mode she is quite responsive to our stimuli,"
"And her ability?"
"Against all opponents she's been aptly lethal, sir, using both the physical skills implanted into her mind and the mental abilities we have been developing," the doctor answered again. "Sharp-shooting, hand-to-hand, and bladed weapons have peaked in the last week alone. Telekinesis has become her strong-suit and along with her telepathic talents she's-"
"Is she volatile? I don't want a soldier that will turn on us in the middle of a fire-fight."
"As of right now I would not recommend her for battle, sir. Not only is she still very unstable and adapting to our controls, there is still much talent we have yet to tap into," he answered.
"Too many have died already, doctor. I want some results; the Circle wants results. And we want them soon," the suit said. "We are moving against the threat in the coming months; I want our weapon fully functional. Our allies in this have been more than accommodating if not helpful; I do not want to loose that advantage," he said sternly.
The white-coat paused, and then nodded. "Of course, sir. We'll have her ready." The man in the suit only nodded before turning to leave. Looking once to a chair situated in the middle of the room and the occupant of that seat. Skinny wrists were shackled to the arm with thick metal bands, similar bands crossed over a slightly heaving chest. A sweaty head was held back against the headrest by a leather restraint, a thick wire attached to the back of the headrest, thinner wires were attached at points around the head. Messy auburn hair fell around thin shoulders and into a pale face. A pair of mismatched eyes, half-lidded looked back at him through a curtain of hair. He snorted softly and left.
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Somewhere, far across the galaxy, a god cried out in anguish.
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An alarm tore through the metal hallways of the underground bunker, echoing in a skin-chilling way. Red lights blinked off and on, guiding the footsteps of a familiar man in a dark suit as he ran to a familiar room. Banging the door open he was met with destruction. Equipment had been torn apart as if by a huge hand, wires hung from the ceiling and the metal chair that once sat in an obscenely serene way in the middle of the room was crumpled like a soda can against the far wall.
Bodies in white coats lay still, like rag-dolls carelessly forgotten by a child. Red splatters similar to a mad artist's half-finished creation adorned the once so plain walls of the room. The man walked over to one of the bodies, nudging it gingerly with the toe of his black shoe. The form jostled and turned to face him, he let out a strangled cry of horror at the grotesque appearance of the mangled face. It was as if someone reached into his head and tore out his face from the inside out, leaving the features in a suspended state of screaming. "Jesus…" The man turned away feeling sick to his stomach.
A whimper caught his attention and he cautiously walked over to a desk, crouching down to look under it. The doctor huddled there, clutching his right arm to his chest, eyes wide with terror. Wet red streaks marred his pallid skin, the man in the suit was unsure if he even saw him.
"Doctor," he spoke. The man under the desk startled, blinking and looked at the other. "Doctor, what happened?" he asked.
"She…she's out. The restraints…didn't hold…she broke…in the middle of ….Oh God, she killed them all," he stuttered, frightened. Suit grabbed his shoulders giving him a shake.
"How did this happen? I thought you and your people had control of her," he asked. The doctor looked at him with his wide eyes.
"The restraints must have been…tampered with...yes, that is the only explanation," he said in a whisper. "She broke free in the middle of a battle sequence…she must have had help…the nurse…Brenda…My hand…" he lifted his shaking right arm. The limb was twisted and mangled, seemingly every bone broken, hand hanging limply. The wrist was torn almost completely from the forearm, the hand hung from a thin bloody tendon.
"Oh God…"
"She's loose, what have we done? Oh God…what have we done?!"
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"I know you helped her escape!" the sound of a slap and the cry of a woman. "Why?! Jesus fucking Christ woman, do you know what you have done?! You may have damned us all, if not the whole world!"
"I do not regret it," she spoke, picking up her glasses from where they had been knocked off her face to the floor, "I've seen what you did to her, what you were doing to her, it wasn't right! I couldn't stand it anymore! How she cried every night in my arms, the nightmares, the screaming. I'm glad she got away, maybe she will have a chance at some kind of life outside your clutches, Yardley," she spat at him. The suit raised a hand to strike her again, but lowered it instead.
"The Circle will decide what kind of punishment you deserve, Brenda. I've already sent out teams to search for her, she can't get too far. You've helped no one," he said and walked away. Two men in fatigues took the woman by the arms, standing her up. No one saw the small gratified smile on her lips.
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A small form hid from a passing car between a dumpster and stacked crates. Surrounding her were five bodies of men dressed in army fatigues, but bearing no markings of rank or allegiance. They were all dead, in various states of disarray.
The figure huddled down in the damp alley; arms wrapped around bear knees, dressed only in a formless grey hospital gown. Dirty hands clutched a crumpled piece of paper bearing only an address and a name: 34 Spruce St., Portland OR 07345. Kaylee Jenkins. A pair of mismatched eyes, one green one grey, stared straight ahead, auburn hair falling into a pale face. A voice, the only kind voice the person could remember resonated in their mind. Find this place; the people there will take care of you. This is your name, never forget that is who you are, no one can take that away from you. Be safe, Kaylee.
The eyes looked up, taking in their surroundings then out into the street. Then the huddled figure got up, and sticking to the shadows walked out into the world.
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Somewhere, far across the galaxy, a weakening god sighed.
End Epilogue.