Chapter 3!
Now you know my story. My adoptive parents are saboteurs, I spend my days locked in my room painting, and I have no friends. I'm enrolled in a school where no one will accept me.
The roar of two engines sounded, tearing my attention from the school. Two vehicles, one a large green SUV and the other a white, red, and green Cybertronian car, raced around the corner. Tires squealing, they came to a stop near me, transforming.
The green SUV turned into a massive male Cybertronian of medium height, although he was still taller than me. His companion was leaner, with a charred paint job, a scarred faceplate, and evil looking ice blue optics. He was taller than the green one, so I had to strain to look up at him. My neck and body protested at the movement, weak and sore from prolonged lack of movement, and I swayed, nearly collapsing. The green one caught me, steadying me on my pedes.
"Are you okay?" His voice was a rumbling tenor, making my body shudder.
I nodded, struggling to even my ventilations. Now was not the time. "Yes, thank you."
His optics widened at my voice, and he glanced at his companion as if in fright.
"You're the new kid, right?" the charred white one asked, his voice slightly deeper than the other's.
"Obviously." I rolled my shoulders. "Who are you?"
"I'm Bulkhead, and this is Wheeljack," the green one said, motioning to the other.
"Why did you help me? You know nothing about me."
"All the more reason to be friendlier," Wheeljack said, grinning somewhat maniacally.
"Don't mind him; he's a few gears short in the processor."
"Didn't I say the same thing about you?"
"I don't know; did you, Jackie?" Bulkhead asked, a taunting tone creeping into his voice.
At this, Wheeljack turned; a dangerous look blazed in his optics, which had darkened a few shades. I felt a dark urge roll off of him, similar to Whiteblade when he had acted strangely the other night; the longing for destruction, or in this case, the longing to beat Bulkhead's faceplate in so hard he wouldn't remember his name.
I rolled my optics and turned away, hading down the sidewalk to find another way into the building. Their voices echoed towards me:
Bulkhead: "Look what you did!"
Wheeljack: "What I did? Ha! It was your fault!"
"My fault? How is this my fault?"
"You just had to call me Jackie, didn't you?"
"It's not my fault you hate the nickname!"
"Actually, it is."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is!"
"No, it isn't!"
There came an echoing bang and a shout of pain. I glanced over my shoulder to see Bulkhead on the ground and Wheeljack standing over him, glaring daggers so fierce and sharp I could feel them from here. He felt my gaze on him and looked up. We stared at each other—me with confusion and anxiety, and him with rage and something I couldn't quite figure out.
Then, out of the blue, he grinned.
A cheerful grin.
Primus, he really was insane.
The bell rang.
Scrap. I threw my locker shut, growling in frustration as I glanced at the map to find my next class while muttering angrily to myself.
"Stupid locker; of course it wants to break down on the first day…"
The classroom door squeaked as I opened it. Everyone turned to look and I was shocked at the varieties. There were Praxians, Kaonites, Iaconians—everything, including hybrids.
"You are late." The teacher spoke in a quiet, deep voice. He was a short Praxian, even shorter if imagined without doorwings.
As if it wasn't obvious. "I know. I had locker troubles."
"Any self-respecting Cybertronian would store their necessities in their subspace."
"I apologize if I do not live up to your standards." My optics narrowed.
His optics narrowed. "Who are you?"
"Nightwish."
"Your parents?"
"Whiteblade and Redwing."
Murmurs filled the room, and even the teacher looked uncomfortable at the mention of my parents. I groaned silently. Sure, they were terrifying, were still some of the most wanted beings to walk the face of Cybertron, and had immeasurable amounts of power, but they had changed. They weren't the same.
I scowled, my wings rising. I had the urge to slam the teacher helm-first into the wall, leave him there to rot, and leave this wretched place forever. The corner of my mouthplates curved into a slight grin; the temptation grew stronger.
But then, a sudden wave of nausea washed over me. I swayed slightly, black spots darting in my vision. Their voices blurred; the world became a hazy fog. I could hear my spark beating in my audio receptors, loud and pounding. Heat overcame me; I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe…couldn't…
A hand was on my servo, and I was yanked down. My vertigo increased, and then it vanished suddenly, sending the world crashing back. I turned to see who had moved me.
It was a male Praxian, one with a white, blue, and red paint job. His doorwings were at uneven heights, one flicking the air in sporadic movements. His optics were startlingly bright and blue, so light they were nearly white. His faceplate profile was sharp, face just about outlined clearly. His mouthplates were stretched in a lazy, not-at-all forced grin, and were moving. Why were they…?
"Hello?"
I blinked, shaking my helm. The near-blackout was still affecting me; it'd take me a while to readjust my audio receptors—I couldn't even hear next to me.
"Are you okay?" A servo waved itself in my face, so close, too close, too close…
"Yes, I am fine." I fixed my gaze on the Praxian, who wasn't grinning anymore but still had traces of it, as well as a hint of concern. "Who are you?"
"Smokescreen. And you are…?"
I was grateful he didn't pin me as the daughter of Whiteblade and Redwing. "My name is Nightwish."
Smokescreen nodded so many times he made me dizzy looking at him. "Nightwish. Nice." He tilted his helm. "It suits you. Especially with your paint job—purple, black, a hint of gray—blended just right."
Okay, then. "Are you an artist?"
He shrugged. "You could say that, although I do some works in my spare time. I'm a mechanic, but I don't have near as much knowledge as some—"
"Smokescreen, is there something you'd like to share with the class?" The teacher was glaring at us and I noticed Smokescreen's bent doorwing jerk as he looked up.
"No, sir."
"Then I suggest you pay attention for your quiz tomorrow."
Groans of irritation filled the classroom.
I might just like this school.
At least, a little.
My gaze slid across the room. So many Cybertronians, so many. Where was I going to—?
"Nightwish!"
I turned to see Smokescreen heading towards me, dodging the crowds. His doorwings were at their right height, although his bent wing still twitched.
"Are you looking for a seat? You can sit with us."
"With who?"
"Them." He motioned to a table filled with Cybertronians.
"Space is limited. I do not think I should—!"
"That's a load of scrap." The Praxian grabbed my servo and pulled me towards the table, much to my dislike.
"Hey, guys! Look what I brought!" As if I were a trained Scraplet on show at the Iacon National Fair.
I recognized a few faces: Wheeljack, Bulkhead, and a Praxian that was in a few of my classes who never spoke and had convinced me that he is mute.
"Hey, hey, look who came back," Bulkhead laughed. Next to him, Wheeljack was grinning, the same maniacal one I had seen earlier. When he caught my gaze, his optics shone brighter, nearly turning white. Bulkhead noticed this and elbowed him, making him scowl.
"I did not 'come back'. He invited me." I motioned to Smokescreen, who grinned hugely.
"Where did ya meet 'im?" a visored male asked, his thick accent showing that he was most likely from Polyhex. "Did he say how good ya paint job was?"
I looked to Smokescreen, but he had his gaze fixed on something else, his wings raised high.
"Yes, he did. I…" The room lurched and a wave of vertigo washed over me. I felt my body sway and heard the others' concern, but it was like I was outside of my body, my mind. I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe…
"Nightwish!"
My optics jerked open. Smokescreen stood over me, Bulkhead and Wheeljack flanking him. Why was I…?
Scrap. I tried to sit up, but pain laced throughout my body, making me clench my dentia to nullify it. "What…happened?"
"You tell us." Smokescreen crossed his servos. "You were talking and then you just froze."
"Ya looked like Prowl," the Polyhexian added, motioning to the mute Praxian, who didn't react.
"I do not… who—" My head exploded in pain and it was all I could do to not scream.
"Ratchet!" Smokescreen roared, making my head pound even more.
A Cybertronian of medium height appeared. He was white and red, with blade-like optics ridges and a look on his faceplate so severe he rivaled my neighbors—who were elders—when they were angry.
"I'm here; no reason to snap at me." His voice was gravelly and did nothing to improve the massive processor ache I had.
He looked down at me, his body blocking the bright lights above him. "I've never seen such a bad backlash syndrome. Her mind is fighting with itself, locked in an endless battle to stay strong."
"Enough with the lecture, Ratch," Smokescreen said. "What's wrong with her?"
"That is what I'm not so sure about." Ratchet looked at me. "How long have you had it?"
I felt my mouth move, but couldn't form words. It was too exhausting to move. I just wanted to sleep, just sleep…
"She's zoning out again, Ratchet."
"I know."
Cold raced throughout my body, and then it turned into heat, restarting my systems. My chest constricted and I gasped, struggling to breathe.
"She can't breathe!"
"I know, Smokescreen! Stop rushing me." I could see the young medic's outline heading over to a monitor. "Her vitals are stabilizing. She's healing well enough on her own. It's best not for me to interfere."
"Nightwish."
I looked over to see Smokescreen, kneeling by my side. His optics had darkened a few shades, and I could tell by the look on his faceplate that he was concerned.
"What happened?" His voice was low; it was clear he didn't want the others to hear.
"I—" The room tilted, although I was motionless. It was impossible to speak.
"Take it easy." There was nothing he could do, and we both knew it. When I was settled, he continued. "I've seen some backlash cases." He motioned to the mute Praxian, who was standing by the window of the room. "See Prowl over there? He has some bad backlash. But he never had one as bad as yours until he was vorns into it." His optics flicked back to me. "What happened to you?"
I shook my helm. "You wouldn't want to know."
Smokescreen's wings twitched. "But I do. How do you think we felt when we first met Prowl? What—?"
"I told you!" I shot up from the berth, ignoring the wave of dizziness. "I can't tell you! I just can't!"
The Praxian froze, his faceplate impassive, and rose just as Ratchet came over.
"Smokescreen, what's wrong? Where are you going?"
"Someplace that isn't here, Ratch. I need to get out."
"Why?"
Smokescreen looked at the medic-in-training with a glare that said, Primus, who died and made you leader? "Just out, Ratchet. I need to…" He trailed off, staring at something outside of the room. He was nervous, I could tell, by the flicking of his wings and the tensing of his body.
"Smokescreen, what is it?" The medic moved over to the door, freezing in his tracks when he saw whatever the Praxian saw. "Oh, Primus." He whipped around, his faceplate showing that he was irritated and nervous. "Nightwish, stay here. I mean— do not leave. Prowl, you're with me."
The Praxian appeared next to me, as silent as a ghost. He was tall, I noticed, taller than Smokescreen, and had tall doorwings that looked about as sharp Whiteblade's swords. He moved past me, faceplate impassive.
"What will he do?" I said to Bulkhead.
"You've never seen him deal with problems before," Bulkhead responded. "He's a maestro."
"But he can't talk."
Bulkhead frowned. "I'm sure he can. He just never does."
"So how will he—?"
"Do you hear that?" Wheeljack came to attention, his optics dark and cast over.
We shook our helms, wondering what he was getting at.
"Exactly," he hissed. "Nothing." He then grinned, his optics brightening. "Let's go check it out." He then vanished through the door.
