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Just something I was playing around with after watching cheesy Armada episodes where Prime and the others give up everything to protect their sniveling human friends. This is largely a 'what if' exploration into a world where Prime posses some logical military and political sense.
If reviews are positive, I might continue this into a two or three shot, but no guarantees. I kind of like the way it ends now.
Don't be too harsh- I was having a philosophical moment while writing this.
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1The Agony of Necessity
Wars of all magnitudes and descriptions inspire the selfless heroics of the battle field soldier. It is inevitable that- in the dark depths of the nightmarish hell of the trenches, or in the torturous grip of the enemy- comrades will be born of common suffering. Many such stories of indomitable bravery stem from one soldier's desire to save their friends, even at the cost of his own life.
In war, death- even one's own death- becomes a normalcy. To many, the furtherment of their cause supercedes their own lives and happiness. The darkness of oblivion many even be a welcome change, if the heroic soldier draws his last breath knowing that his people- his friends- are safe.
But the hardest sacrifice of all is the one that is most often overlooked. For those who love- love deeply, selflessly, passionately- it is of even greater agony to send those they love die. They would rather go in their loved one's place, yet that is not always possible. Is then the willing sacrifice of those loved most dearly not the ultimate price to pay? For those who love- our parents, our siblings, our husbands, wives and children- is it not the hardest choice to make, to decide between the cause and those they hold most dear?
Yet even as these self-same thoughts floated aimlessly thought my mind, they could not lesson the feeling of abandonment. The white tiles of the hospital ceiling gleamed harshly in the florescent light. A ghost of pain that heavy medication could not dull fluttered throughout my entire body, leaving no place untouched by its intangible barbs.
Six broken ribs, they told me. One had broken free and pierced by left lung.
My right arm was mangled beyond recognition, bent at odd angles and held aloft, swallowed by plaster. The doctors didn't know if I would ever be able to use my hand properly again- several tendons had been severely damaged.
A cracked skull as well. Strangely, that was the part of me that didn't hurt at all, though I knew it should. The heavy bandages they looped around my head made it difficult to move.
My heart had stopped twice during the emergency operation to patch up my insides, they had told me. They hadn't thought I would survive the night, but stubborn old me disappointed them by deciding to stick around.
My left leg had been slit open by a piece of flying shrapnel, and they had had to give me a blood transfusion to replace the precious red liquid that had been lost. The 36-stitch number the doctor quoted was my most impressive to date, even topping the 21 I had gotten little over 6 months ago while in a repair session with Ratchet. A damaged circuit board had finally been jarred loose, and cut right across the length of my forearm.
Coming back to the Ark from the hospital, I attracted a lively crowd coming to see how much they had needed to sow me up.
But this time was different. Now, there was no Jazz hanging over my shoulder, laughing like a maniac, or Bumblebee fretting like a mother hen in the back-ground, or Ratchet having a nuclear meltdown over my carelessness, though he was as much if not more worried than the others.
Now there was only the steady 'Drip-Drip' of an intravenous tube to lull me to sleep, and only the constant stream of doctors and nurses checking up on me at all hours of the night to keep me company. I would have given just about anything to suddenly look up and see a smiling mechanical face looking in the dingy square window. Hell, I would have even settled for Sunstreaker, if nothing else.
They had all sent flowers, though- my room had enough bouquets crowded onto every flat surface to put every florist in a 15 mile radius out of business. It was easy to tell who sent what; some even had cards attached. The enormous bunch of sunflowers from Jazz had a note wedged between the stalks, reading:
"Get well soon, Kitten, so we can bring you home. Ya'hear?"
The one from Bee had simply said: "Miss you." in tiny, printed script on a little slip of paper accompanying a dozen white lilies.
There was one gift, however, that I refused had refused to look at ever since they set it on the table beside my bed. The single white rose had not come with a card, but then again I didn't need one to know that it was from Optimus Prime.
I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't quite bring myself to it. After all, it was my tongue that pleaded for him to save the earth and not me; it was my hand that forced his. Yet when the moment of reckoning had actually come, despite my own words, I could not believe that he had chosen the earth over me. In essence, he had abandoned me to die.
Yet I did not. Against all odds and probabilities, my heart continued to beat even as I was crushed to death in the hated metal palm, my lungs continued to gasp for life giving air even as the blood poured out of me and the world turned to red.
Perhaps it should have been a joyous fact. We won on both counts- I did not die, yet neither was the earth reduced to ashes. All in all a fairly pleasant ending.
And really, how could I have expected less? The leader of the Autobots had the fate of two worlds resting on his shoulders; undoubtedly that was worth much more than my mortal life. He had only taken the more logical course- sacrifice me to save the world.
Now I think I understand how that man in the Bible felt when God asked him to kill his own son. He would have gladly given up his own life for God, yet how could he give up his own son- the person he loved more than the moon and stars combined?
For those who love, it is a greater test of devotion to give up the object of their love.
I knew that I was a weak, selfish coward. I would never have been able to kill Bee or Jazz or any other of the guys. I would never have been able to give them up. Intellectually, I knew how terribly hard it must have been for Optimus to make the choice he did. But that did not stop the abject sobs that made me sputter and cough whenever I thought about it too hard.
The single white rose was an accusatory glow in my peripheral vision.
The doctors had told me that it would be at least another six weeks before I could leave the hospital. The Autobots didn't know, and I had no intention of telling them. The calls that rattled the phone in my room and jarred me from the haze of medication went unanswered- I knew all that awaited me would be profuse apologies and hollow assurances and a million repetitions of "Are you ok?"
No, I was not okay. And I didn't want to have to pretend to be.
Every time I thought of the stream of profuse apologies that awaited me within the vibrant orange halls of the Ark, bile rose in my throat and my head started to pound. I didn't want to hurt them by saying what I truly felt, but neither did I have the strength to plaster a grin on my face and pretend that everything was okay. Because it wasn't, and I didn't know if it would ever be again. There would always be unspoken words hanging in the air, separating us like a translucent but impenetrable veil. It was the type of thing that never went away- it would poison every laugh, every smile, every glance, every moment, until none of them could act the same way any more.
And I knew that, eventually, they would come to hate me for it. First I would be the alienated friend that they would work feverishly to bring back into the fold, then the pitied outsider that was included out of a sense of duty, then an annoyance that brought the grief of responsibility upon them all.
I wasn't strong enough to be abandoned for a second time.
So I waited for my body to heal and my bones to mend, biding my time in the sterile white room with its starched white sheets, until I was well enough to walk on my own two feet. No one would be able to find me, because even I didn't know where I would go. Anywhere would be better than with the Autobots.
Going outside the country was not a viable option- a passport could be too easily traced. But I had to get out of Oregon, and as far away from the source of my misery as possible. Perhaps I would hitch-hike to the east coast, and make my living sewing t-shirts in a sweat shop or washing dishes in a diner or something.
I would never be able to totally forget them, but they might forget me. There would be the desperate midnight searches when the hospital reported me missing, the calls to family and friends, the scouring of databases for a hint of my whereabouts. They wouldn't be able to put out a public announcement, however, without attracting the attention of the Decepticons, and that would probably be the only thing that would allow me to escape. But after a few weeks the searches would be called off, and after a few months the rumors would cease. And finally, in a few thousand years when I- and probably all my race- were dead and buried my memory would be completely erased from their circuits.
And maybe it was better that way. The Earth- and all of humanity- depended on the Autobots beating the Decepticons. They didn't need a human hampering them at every turn; my very existence was a tool to be used against them. Maybe, if I was no longer around, they would be able to stem the tide of destruction and death once and for all.
Maybe, it would have been better if I had died.
Though it came as expected, I could not help but groan as the phone began to clatter incessantly against the hook, demanding attention.
Transformers, the marvels of technology that they were, never ceased to amaze me. Their internal communications capabilities made it possible for them to call any phone, any where, even from vehicle form. Call-screening software and firewalls were as twigs and spider thread to them.
I wondered vaguely who it was this time. Probably Bumblebee; calling me everyday to check up on me seemed right up his ally. But I didn't think I was strong enough to hear his voice on the other end of the line without breaking down crying, regardless of the deep longing twisting my heart that made me want to forget everything that had happened and go back to the happy-go-lucky existence I had led before. If I picked up the phone, the last vestiges of my crumbling resolve would break away, and I wouldn't be able to make myself leave. I was too weak. I was too selfish.
So instead, I avoided the inevitable agony of separation and stolidly ignored the ringing phone, counting the ceiling tiles absently. Somewhere in the back of my mind I counted the number of rings. The record so far was 19.
4.
5.
6.
Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I shouted at the phone in my mind, screeching at whoever was interrupting my brief respite to go away and leave me the Hell alone. I hate you, I said. I've always hated you, and I always will. I don't love you. I don't want to be around you. You mean nothing to me.
A hot, streaming tear rolled down my cheek without my permission, silent sobs causing my ribs to throb mercilessly.
They can't take you from me, because I don't love you. I will be strong. Love is weakness. Love is the Achilles heel.
15.
16.
17.
Try though I might, nothing could distract me from the blasted phone as it rang again and again and again. Looking at it caused my good arm to itch; the temptation to simply pick it up, to simply give into the weakness of love, was far too strong. So I looked at the ceiling and at the white curtains over the small window and at the darkened TV screen in one corner of the room and at the closed door over on the right wall, always seeing the same smiling faces. They were laughing, waving, joking, burned into my mind in a place where tears could not wash them away. And still the phone rang.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
A thick nauseating lump constricted my throat and made it so hard to breathe. My fingers twitched longingly.
And at long last, when there was no where else to look, a powerful, instinctual magnetism drew my eyes to the white rose lying innocently on the table beside me. No amount of force could tear my gaze away.
34.
35.
36.
And eternity spanned the crucial moment of decision, but my conscious mind seemed to play no active part in the movement of my arm and the clutching of the receiver in my hand. An absolute silence descended as the ringing was abruptly cut off.
But I didn't bring it to my ear. Ignoring the trembling of the cramped muscles in my arm, I left it hanging in the open air, teeth clenched. Reason clashed viscously with emotion, and the resulting struggle set my ribs aflame and sent my head pounding. My fingers loosened to drop the phone back into the cradle at the same time they tightened to bring it closer.
"Kira?"
So soft, so tiny, so sweet was the faint voice that I let loose a painful gasp that was half sob and half laugh. My whole world began and ended with the metallic timbre, the very tone washing over me with a warmth that could not be measured in degrees. Whenever I hear it, I fell safe. I listen to that voice, and I'm home.
Running for miles and miles across the desolate moon-scape battle-field that was Cybertron, fighting for my life again Ravage armed with no more than a baseball bat, chasing after a car as it raced into the distance- nothing could compare with the effort it took to raise that sacred receiver. Every bit of breath had been knocked from me, leaving me with not the faintest ghost of air with which to speak.
But somehow, I filled my lungs with antiseptic-tinged oxygen, and brought the phone to my ear.
I was weak. I was a coward. But I could not help it.
I could not help but forgive.
I could not help but love.
"Hello, Optimus." I whispered.