Hey! To anyone who has read my previous work, sorry about not updating for ages. I have been busy hating the crap country I am in. pardon my language but that is the only way to describe this hell hole. It literally should go to hell. Their language is probably the most stupid in the world, and they have the IQ of a fruit fly. No, screw that, a fruit fly is a genius compared to them.
Well, after that little rant, I would like to introduce: Sanity of Earth
Slight AU – or however slight you wish to think this. Also, no romance – unless asked for.
Note: I do not write slash. If it seems like slash, it is not.
….
July 14th 1916
His optics scanned the environment. It was an amazing area, one of the few places on earth that he considered beautiful. It was not tarnished by human influence, but rather, held a tranquil peace, like the crystal gardens on Cybertron.
He drew in a vent of air. Seventy-two years he'd been stuck on this planet. Seventy-two years he'd been waiting. And for seventy-two years he had not left the place he had landed in.
Of course he knew that he could leave anytime. There was nothing stopping him. It was a very remote location; very few humans even came here. He didn't know the name of this area, but it provided the silence he had been longing for the past seven hundred vorns.
This mech had not spoken in years. He had begun to believe that his voice box was just rusting over from lack of use. He had even forgotten the sound of it. But still he did not speak.
Why shatter the silence for something as trivial as consolation?
He was not a social mech, and seventy-two years of solitude did not send him into insanity. Rather, it had allowed him to focus and regain some form of sanity.
The Cybertronian did not know if there were others of his species on this planet. His communication links and doorwings had been damaged upon entry. But it was highly improbable any of them had made it to this backwater planetoid.
His thoughts drifted to his own home. He recalled the destruction of such a great society, a society that did not deserve to be destroyed.
And while the memories were painful, he never let anything show. It was a well honed practice, to never give anything away. It was helpful during his time as an Enforcer, a tactician and Second in Command.
He did not know how he was even able to reach that position. It just happened. It seemed most likely that he simply met all the criteria for the post. And yet there had been so many others just as worthy.
But the workload was quite a burden. Something that few mechs or femmes could handle. But he could.
The Cybertronian stood straighter as the first light of the day cracked over the horizon. An up-side to total solitude. He was able to recharge for once. As for refueling, Wheeljack had been a great help with that.
Before the total destruction of their planet, the crackpot inventor had decided to take precautions. He had created a small device, that slowly but surely made energon from several different energy sources. He had created quite a few of these devices, and gave them to the Bots that would actually listen to him for a moment.
The astrosecond he had arrived on earth, the Cybertronian picked out the energy source. Earth's sun was right there. Granted, it took at least two orns to fill half a cube, he was not one to complain, after he had willingly gone for long periods of time without refueling or recharging while in the position of Head Tactician and then SIC.
The device proved extremely useful, and had so far – surprisingly – not exploded or broken down.
Drawing in a second draft of air, he set to work on his forms. Nearly a vorn of solitude allowed for him to perfect his Circuit Su training, something he had slacked off while serving in the Autobots. But now? He had all the time in the world.
And all the time in the world was quite a bit.
… … …
February 12th 1917
He held the energon cube in his servo, staring out over the landscape, though not paying attention to it. Humans had come by here a day ago. They had not discovered him. Lucky for them.
The human's physical structure was surprisingly similar to that of a Cybertronian, when in bipedal mode. It possessed the basic parts that each being on Cybertron had. Servos – or hands – pedes – or feet – legs, arms, torso, face, mind-
He was not sure about this last one.
Of course they had brains – their intelligence was just severely lacking. It was like they purposefully went out of their way to seem stupid.
How he was able to make this conclusion was because he had come into contact with humans once. A couple of travelers in 1874. It was purely accidental, but he had learnt a few words of their language as they were getting away. The mech did not know any human languages, but this one seemed strange.
The group that had come by yesterday appeared to be speaking a different dialect than the one he had heard before. But human languages were all confusing.
And now – for once in a long time – he would've liked to talk to his own kind. There was no feeling of safety in being on a planet that was entirely comprised of organic life. What if he was the only Cybertronian left alive?
That thought was pushed away, but his grip tightened on the energon cube. He knew that seventy-three years was a sign.
They weren't coming.
No Cybertronian would be arriving on this planet. And even if they were here, it would be impossible to find them. They may be able to find him – but they wouldn't be looking for him. They'd be looking for their leader – unless he was already among them.
There was no way off this planet. So he might as well just accept it.
Getting up, the mech sub-spaced the energy converter, and began the short trek to the coast. The easiest way to get out, seen as humans haven't gotten very far in ways of technology, was to swim. He had seen the organics do this, and after much study, had deemed the liquid substance harmless to Cybertronians, unless it should get into their systems.
And while he had very limited knowledge of earth, the location he was at was not to far from land. It would take at least a half a joor, or more to reach a larger expanse of area.
The land was cold. He had come to notice a pattern in the first few years of his arrival. There were sections of time where the weather differed dramatically. Of course, this island was already low in temperature throughout the year; at times it rose or fell for periods of time.
A white spec drifted down in front of him, followed by another. This happened sparingly. But he knew that if in large quantities, this form of climate could easily offline him. He had calculated this. The liquid substance should be at a right enough temperature not to kill him, and depending on what the mainland's weather was like, he would either freeze over, or be greeted with a warmer area.
Either one was fine. Earth was smaller than Cybertron. He would survive. The sky was grey.
Undoubtedly, one of the first few things that the mech noticed about this planet – minus its evident accumulation of organic life – was the strange atmosphere. Humans would most definitely not survive on his planet. The atmosphere consisted of gases. He was not able to identify those gases.
As the thrashing sea came into view, the Cybertronian faltered. Should he do this? Leave the sanctity of this veritable paradise?
He could just remain. Continue with the same routine, not have to put up with any problems, or war. But…
His optics sharpened. No, he couldn't stay here. If there was any small chance that other Cybertronians had arrived on this planet, his best hope for finding them was not on this island.
Steeling himself, he reached the shore.
Four and a half hours later, he arrived on the mainland.
Left on that island was a datapad.
The mech began to walk through the icy land he had arrived in. He felt his joints becoming stiffer. He did not let up.
… … …
February 12th 2013
/: Jazz, the reports are three weeks late:/ Optimus reminded his Third – turned Second – in Command.
/: Ah know Boss Bot, but there's just so many of them!:/ The usually even-tempered Autobot was stressed out. He'd been working non-stop since Mission city, and when he actually took a break, the work piled up /: Ah wasn't cut out to be SIC, an' ya know that!:/
/: I understand Jazz, but these things are very important. Our relationship with the humans is rather strained after the last Decepticon attack:/
/: Ah know. But this is ridiculous! How did any mech survive bein' in this position?!:/ Jazz placed his helm in his servos. Sure they had given him a break when he was brought back from the dead, but anybot would get time off for that. He couldn't really call on it anymore. And then there was also fighting. They were all kind of recovering from the Sentinel Prime incident. Except Jazz. No, his work doubled thanks to that.
He was not a mech who liked having a desk job. Pit, none of the Autobots did. Even his predecessor didn't enjoy it, he simply hid it well.
The saboteur smirked. Predecessor. The smirk fell from his face. He wasn't his predecessor, he was his friend.
"Dead friend." He muttered darkly. Nobody had heard from the mech for vorns. He may still be out there in the dark expanse of space, searching, like so many others. But many had joined them in the years following Mission City. Such as Arcee, Elita-One, Chromia, Skids, Mudflap, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Blurr, Jolt, Wheeljack and just recently, Smokescreen and Bluestreak.
And to say the least, Jazz now understood why this position was so rued. It was total hell. He had to deal with both sets of Twins, Ratchet's temper, and hundreds upon hundreds datapads filled with work.
Releasing a vent of air in what could be considered a sigh, he scanned over the next datapad. Something about a new liaison coming over after the other one quit. Again. Boring. Then another thing about Wheeljack being sent to the med bay. Boring and normal. Then something about the Kuril Islands, with a piece of Cybertronian technology on them-
The saboteur paused. What? He reread it. Nope, exactly as before. Now this was interesting.
He read on.
A piece of Cybertronian technology was discovered in the Kuril Islands. It has been identified as Cybertronian due to the dialect on it. It is currently in the possession of the Kamchatka Peninsula, and they are willing to hand it over to the leader of the Autobots, on condition that – should they ever be attacked by your enemies – you will supply protection to their community.
Darmen Schitzkof.
Jazz nodded thoughtfully. Those were good terms. Far better than what some countries had asked of them.
But his thoughts went back to the piece of technology. The letter did not describe what it looked like, only that there was Cybertronian writing on it. Could it be a datapad? Maybe the Decepticons were there and left it behind. It could contain much needed information on their enemies. It did not even cross his mind that it could be of Autobot origin. They always kept a close eye on their dwindling forces, and nobot had been sent to the Kamchatka Peninsula.
Getting up from behind the desk that was really for somebody else, the Head of Intelligence made his way towards his leader's office. He knew that he simply could comm. Optimus, but it seemed better to tell him about this in person. So to speak.
While walking down the concrete halls, he ran into Jolt, who was speaking animatedly with Ratchet's other apprentice, Mikaela. After her break up with Sam, she had stayed on here, considering it a good dig, seen as she kind of didn't have any other job, and bills were bills. Jolt seemed to be explaining something about the Cybertronian anatomy, but stopped to greet Jazz.
"Hello sir." He said formally. This was another thing the Saboteur hated about this position. Everyone was just so formal towards you. It was unfair.
Quirking an optic ridge, the Polyhexan replied. "Jolt, ya know Ah told ya not ta call meh sir. At least not while we're still on this planet."
The junior medic shifted uncomfortably while Mikaela simply smirked. "I know. But you are Second in Command." As if that was reason enough.
Jazz resisted the urge to scowl in annoyance. "Ah wish Ah wasn't." And he continued on. This was not usual behavior for the suave mech, but he hated what he had to put up with. How anybody could do this job was amazing.
He sped up with walking down the hall, reaching the Prime's office in no time. He sent an entry ping to notify the Autobot leader of his arrival. The door opened.
"Come in Jazz, what can I do for you?" Optimus' ever calm demeanor never wavered as he took in the slightly annoyed yet slightly pleased expression of his friend.
The saboteur went straight into business. "Optimus, the humans found a piece of Cybertronian tech in tha Kuril Islands. Ah think it may be a datapad left by the 'Cons."
The Prime was silent for a moment. "Why do you think it belongs to the Decepticons?"
Jazz hesitated. Wasn't it obvious?
"Optimus, it can't be ours. None of our forces were sent anywhere near there."
… … …
September 7th 1918
He had walked straight into a revolution. The Russian Revolution to be exact. How he was able to make it all the way across Siberia and into this country without dying, he did not know. What he did know was that he shouldn't be here. The only problem was, he didn't really know how to get out.
The humans' city was large, so it would be likely they would find him should he try and go anywhere else. And seen as people were outside nearly everyday and night, leaving under the cover of dark was not something that would work.
Sure, he'd been able to travel through the streets and alleys of Praxus without being noticed, but humans had very small buildings. This limited his ability.
He drew in a cold vent of air and assessed his location. It was a dark and dreary warehouse. Containing ammunition. The humans would find him if he stayed here. Of course they would. There was a war going on as well.
He sank down to the ground, as his processors went to work on the best option of escape. He nearly laughed, but his expression remained emotionless. How could he have sunk so low as to have to escape humans?
The mech knew that there was an easy way to go by this. But the humans' vehicles were so…pathetic. And square.
Besides, he would look very beaten up if in that form. His doorwings were still damaged, as well as other parts of his armor.
He shook this thought away, as his processor came up with only three options. Take the form of one of those pitiful vehicles, expose himself to the humans, or kill himself.
Joy.
He was not a vain mech, but the vehicles the humans had were not ideal, and he did not have the appropriate frame type to take the form of a tank.
Now he simply had to find one.
… … …
October 3rd 2009
"Prowl? Prowl!" The thick accent of the Russian operative entered the Praxian's audio receptors. The tactician glanced over at the human, his expression never changing.
"What is it Yuri?" He asked. The man held a bemused look on his face.
"You are not paying attention. Zhe drop zone is coming up." Sure enough, the location was nearing. Prowl glanced out of the now opening cargo doors and onto the white expanse that was the Swiss Alps. Or, what he could depict. After all, it was night.
"So it is." He muttered. Standing up from his position on the plane – specially designed – he readied his weapons. The mission was simple. Infiltrate the facility, hack into the systems, and collect the data.
/: Remember, we don't want any screw ups:/ The female voice of the field scientist sounded through the comm. link /: This is extremely important work:/ Unlike many of the people he worked with, this one was not Russian. Nobody really knew what her nationality was, and honestly, they didn't care. As long as she did the job, they were happy.
/: I have never – as you so eloquently describe – screwed up on any mission Ms. Parker:/ Prowl replied.
There was a slight pause /: I know that. But there's always a first. And you've known me for ten years now, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Anne?:/ This almost made him smile. Almost.
"Approaching drop point!" Yuri called over the rushing wind. The mech's optics sharpened, and his processors went through every single way to execute this perfectly. This all took under half a second, before he launched himself from the aircraft. Why send in an extraterrestrial robot? They aren't expecting it.
Yes, Switzerland is a neutral country, but that did not mean they didn't have secrets. An anonymous tip to the Russian secret service had them wanting to investigate this. But that did not rule out that this may be a trap. So, they were sending in the one being who human weapons wouldn't really affect.
As he hit the white powder, and began moving through the area, Prowl thought on how far he'd come since staying on that Island. Of course, it hadn't been particularly easy.
But he couldn't think about his experiences at the moment. He had a job to do. And yes, while he could simply hack into the Swiss files remotely from Russia, he had not revealed this to his colleagues. Seen as the last time he was discovered, they had found out about it, and he had been electrocuted into stasis. Then, his mind was hooked up to a device that kept entering codes, and problems, and his logic processor and battle computer just kept giving them answers.
It was one of the most…humiliating…things he had ever experienced.
That was in 1976.
To anybody watching him, it would appear as a black and white flash. While he could never be as fast as Blurr, he had agility.
Static crackled over the comm. line before a voice came through /: How far are you from the location?:/
/: I am there:/ It was a fairly large complex, and from what he could detect, well guarded.
No problem.
Using a similar tactic like he had while in Romania, the Praxian sent up a flare from his location, before moving onwards, and setting off another one.
And somehow, this actually worked.
Humans are idiots.
After moving round to the east side, he began the task of burning through the steel walls. Fairly easy. As the first layer came off, a slight rustling came from behind him. He was instantly on guard. His doorwings should have picked up the life sign. Unless…
He strained his sensors till he was able to pick up a signature. And he nearly crashed.
Stationed not to far a distance away, was the spark signature of Starscream. Immediately, Prowl knew this mission was a bust.
Activating his comm. link to a frequency that the Decepticon air commander could not detect, he signaled Yuri /: The tip was false. I cannot explain everything at the moment, but do not come near the facility. I will meet you at the outskirts of Gimmelwald:/
/: Vhat? Prowl vhat is-:/ The connection was cut, as Prowl made his way away from the only other Cybertronian – that he knew of – on this planet. While it was some sort of relief to know that there was another, he wished it wasn't this one.
His Decepticon counterpart was the worst of the worst. Conniving, deceiving, lying. The list went on.
And the most logical course of action: Do not apprehend.
The commander had the advantage of air superiority. And the Praxian was stuck in the Alps, surrounded by snow.
Not a fair fight.
So he kept moving.
… … …
February 12th 2013
"Hey Jazz!" Bluestreak greeted cheerfully as the Saboteur entered the rec room. Ah the rec room. Humans had a building to themselves, and so did Cybertronians. And the Cybertronian rec room comprised of Smokescreen gambling, and the younger recruits arguing over what program the human television should be set to.
"Hey Blue." He greeted, grabbing himself a cube of energon. The young gunner could sense that his friend was tired, and a bit irked.
"It must be hard having this responsibility." The sniper made conversation. Jazz nodded.
"Ya have no idea. Ah don't know how Prowl put up with it." He took a sip of the makeshift energon. While not as good as Cybertronian energon, it would have to do.
The young Praxian shifted slightly. The subject of his previous mentor was a touchy one at most. There were only three Praxians left, and that was him, Smokescreen and Prowl. And there wasn't much hope as to whether he was alive.
Glancing back at the saboteur, Bluestreak replied. "Well, working was always what he did best. He used to go for orns without refueling or recharging. I think that although he was good at the job, it was slowly killing him." Well that was reassuring.
Behind the visor, Jazz rolled his optics. "Thanks Blue. That really helps."
The young Bot didn't catch the sarcasm. "Your welcome Jazz."
Primus help him.
…
PLEASE REVIEW
Well, what do you think? It's been a while since I wrote a story, and I haven't updated my other stories in a while. But I hope that you enjoy this story, so please leave a comment, that would be really great.