Fallout
"Eyes"
by Nan00k
Here we are! In this one, the mechs, both Autobot and Decepticon alike, make a choice. The next prompt ("Keeping a Secret") is already completed and will be posted next week. ...I'm actually sticking to a schedule. Weird!
Hey, for once, it's not that cute of a prompt. Finally, there's some drama~! It takes place a few years after Introductions. The game the group plays in the beginning is a silly one I made up with friends, so apologies for the strange rules.
Many thanks again to shantastic and her beta-ing assistance! :)
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Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Dreamworks. The original characters in this story are mine, however.
Warnings: character death, violence, foul language, disturbing imagery
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"Bucket"
"Rose."
"Cage."
Barns didn't even blink. "Corbeille."
"Basket," Vortex snapped out.
"Corbeille is French for basket, 'Tex," Rachel said.
"FUCK!" Vortex snarled in anger. "That's slagging cheating!" His irritation only further agitated when the smug humans began to laugh at his expense.
"You shoulda made rules on language beforehand," Rachel offered, grinning. She paused, thinking. "Hmm…minus one point from Barns for using a similar category, but he wins because you said the same word."
"This game is slagging stupid!" Vortex hissed. He kicked a large section of crushed car, sending it skittering across the road (promptly ignoring Thundercracker's hiss of annoyance when it skidded just behind the pack of organics).
Kass snorted. "Just be glad you aren't playing against me." She did know at least five human languages.
"You keep going for the same category that you said before," Barns said, patient. "It is called the Random Game for a reason. Change word categories often, or you fall into the same trap."
"Then you use English!" Vortex demanded, still angry.
"I thought you guys knew all the languages," Danny said, frowning.
"Nah," Jazz said, calling from in front of the group. He slowed and kept pace with the irritable Vortex, grinning as he usually did. "We usually just had time to download the most common language in the area we landed in. I only know, like…five of 'em, cause I had to work with different human groups before the 'Net went down."
"Vortex had to download English from us, remember?" Wheeljack added, chuckling.
Vortex glared at Barns. "Exactly, so speak the language all the players can understand."
"Sore loser," Danny chided, giggling.
Growling, Vortex chose to ignore the snickering. He had grown used to the humans over the years; they were annoying, but the other Transformers could be worse. He dreaded the times he had to put up with Bluestreak alone. That fragger would keep talking even if Vector Sigma told him to shut up. The humans at least could tell when he was really pissed off.
It was better if they all stopped talking now, anyway. They were moving through yet another ruined city, in a land the more-informed survivors called Switzerland. It was a cooler month again. Vortex hated the chills that permeated his joints. Energon wasn't too scarce, not with Wheeljack's converter (and the returning foliage), but winter eliminated many of the organic sources the converter had to be fed to work. The humans also had much to fear during the winter; Vortex couldn't fathom how such inefficient bodies had survived for so many centuries, even before the War reached Earth. Now, they were stocking up on the supplies (coats, clothing, snow gear, canned food) the humans would need during the winter. Wheeljack tried to emulate them when possible, storing extra energon, "just in case."
Cities were unnerving, even in the daylight. Vortex was still unsettled by the memories of how Goddard had died when they'd been cornered in a city just a few years before. They considered splitting up to make less noise, but that was too risky as well. They settled with moving into the area quickly and as quietly as possible. The games were only to calm their nerves, but after a while, everyone seemed content to quiet down and focus on their tasks.
While the humans raided a "grocery store," Vortex was left with Jazz to watch out for any approaching drones to the north. The quiet was unnerving, so he tried to distract himself by looking at the nearby shops. Human cities were laid out on a grid, just like Cybertronian cities had been (or so he'd been told; his gestalt had been brought online in one of Starscream's many military projects, vorns after the Decepticons had left Cybertron), but the shops were so much more varied here. He wandered a few feet from the grocery shop and found himself staring into a glass window that was surprisingly still intact. He could barely see tiny helicopters and other human machines on the shelves behind the dirty windows.
"What store was this?" Vortex found himself asking. He wasn't overly curious about human culture. It was dying anyway. But he was attracted to this shop for its apparent dedication to miniature helicopters.
"Looks like a toy store," Jazz replied. The smaller mech stepped up next to Vortex and grinned at the storefront. "Got some toy helicopters and cars."
"Humans played with miniature models of vehicles?" Vortex asked, frowning behind his mask. It seemed ridiculous, but then again, humans were naturally ridiculous. He had given up judging their behavior after watching Danny repeatedly try to entice Barnaby with inane mating rituals.
Jazz chuckled, understanding his incredulity. "Yeah, they liked t' make toys outta everything in life. Even toy weapons," he said. "Maybe we could snag one of the toy 'copters and try 'em out, hmm?"
Vortex scoffed. "Pointless." He doubted they had the fuel the machine needed anyway. No sense staying around hunting for it; afternoon was already upon them and they had to get to the rural areas again by dusk.
"Yeah, probably not a good idea anyway," Jazz said, grinning over at the taller mech. "Knowing the squirts, they'd probably try to aerial bomb us for once."
That made Vortex laugh. "They are still sore about me and TC winning that last match," he agreed, smug. If they were allowed to use multiple languages in a word game, he could use his flight in a water balloon fight.
Both of them laughed and Vortex turned back to the glass at the same time as his companion. Perhaps they could take one of the toys. It had been a while since they had something new to mess with and he doubted they would be returning to the cities again soon—
Vortex stopped, both physically and mentally, as he saw his reflection as well as Jazz's. Both mechs were standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, looking into the same glass window. Nothing had seemed odd about it before, because he had been looking at the helicopters. Now, he looked above them, at himself and Jazz.
Two sets of optics shone brightly on the darker reflection. Vortex stared at the lights, his processor skipping for just a moment.
One set was red and the other was blue.
Vortex couldn't think of the words he wanted to say, if there were any that could be applied to the situation. Jazz had stilled in the same way he had and Vortex knew they had noticed the same thing.
"…Scary…huh?" Jazz asked quietly. He was smiling, but it wasn't his usual lighthearted smile. It was a strained look.
Vortex said nothing. A cold and weary feeling crept through his body. It felt like the winds that struck the land during the winter. Cold. Merciless. The numbness sank deeper and deeper into his core, touching his spark, which jumped at the contact.
This wasn't right.
He was barely aware of his own roar—since when had he been angry?—and suddenly, his leg had kicked through the glass. The lights disappeared as the pieces gave way.
"Shit!" he heard one of the humans shout. Kass was giving him a stunned look from the entry of the other shop. "V-Vortex! Why did—?"
Growling, Vortex pushed past Jazz. He ignored the others' inquiries about what had happened. He didn't quite manage to ignore the startled and then sickened look Wheeljack sent him as he walked past the scientist.
He didn't know how they had missed it before. Vortex wished for nothing more than to erase the revelation from his processors and go back to how they had existed before. It had been blissful. It had almost been…nice. No, it was nice to work with, to protect, to be protected by allies, rather than try to survive alone, with no one from his faction. He had almost forgotten his initial problem with working with these survivors. They all had quirks and he had his own prejudices from those quirks alone—
But when had faction stopped meaning anything?
When had two different colors been enough to make his spark ache?
This isn't right.
00000
The problem was a simple one, at least from what Jazz could figure. When each new member of their group arrived, they were forced to go through something similar: they were forced to realize that they were Autobots and Decepticons respectively… and each time they had each made the decision to continue to work together willingly. It felt like traitorous behavior, blasphemy even, to abandon their causes and ignore their pledges. That choice meant their continued survival, but it wasn't easy.
He and Thundercracker had taken several years to get where they were. Jazz trusted the jet with his life and he was sure the feeling was mutual. The others, in their own ways, had wormed their way into his spark. He cared for them as friends—sigils had stopped mattering early on. In fact, only Arcee and Vortex still had their sigils. The others' had worn away or had been taken off as the years and battles came and went. It had been too much effort to take care of the symbols that had, as it turned out, mattered less and less each new day.
But it seemed he was far more willing to let go of old feelings than some of the others. Vortex had an obsession with his old teammates and Arcee wasn't any better. For all of his friendliness, Bluestreak also had some prejudices toward the Decepticons when there was an argument.
Now, they were back to square one and there wasn't even a new survivor to blame. It didn't make sense. They had been all right for five years, and now suddenly, they didn't trust one another and they were all suffering from guilt over accepting this way of life. This was not good, not now.
He traced his own empty chestplates, thinking. They had not run into any other mechs since Bluestreak. Galvatron had never resurfaced and Jazz doubted any of the Decepticons in their group (who had all lost so much to the tyrant) would be willing to work under him again. As far as Jazz was concerned, the war was over. On Earth it had ended as a tie for the two factions – neither had won, in fact it could be claimed that both had lost. He had thought the last symbol of that past struggle had been the sigils. Jazz had really thought they had been over the hurdle, so to speak, when it came to cementing their eleven-person alliance.
But the eyes. Oh, the eyes.
He had no idea what genius in the initial war parties thought that differing eye colors could symbolize a faction. Before the war, eye color was just a matter of preference. Jazz had had blue his entire life, mostly because he liked the color. But he could remember Autobots he worked with having red, or orange, or reddish-hues. It didn't matter then.
It did after the war began though. All Autobots had changed their eyes to a standard blue, and from what he could figure, the Decepticons chose red. Why? Color meant nothing. Red was no more evil or fearsome than blue… and yet now he saw the color as such. It was a bizarre psychological twist, he thought, grimly amused.
He wasn't alone in that feeling. Standing there, looking at himself side by side with a previous enemy, Vortex had seen blue and red standing there. At first sight, both of them should have reacted negatively to their enemy color. But they were just standing there. It was surreal. Definitely disturbing. Wrong.
When dusk arrived, Jazz was still reeling at what had happened. He hadn't thought the eye colors would matter anymore, but after it being so blatantly pointed out to them thanks to their own reflections, it did matter. Perhaps it had been the idea of them not noticing before that really freaked them out? Perhaps it had been the fact that they were freaked out about them not noticing it before…and still didn't care?
That was sure enough to freak Jazz out and he had been trying to remain calm all day.
"Soooo," he began carefully, sliding up next to Thundercracker. The giant mech had also been quiet, but then again, he was quiet even in a good mood.
Thundercracker glanced at him past a cube of energon Wheeljack had handed out to them earlier. "So?" he replied, humoring the saboteur.
"What're we gonna do?" Jazz asked calmly. He kept his voice low, however, and was careful not to attract the attention of the humans. They were all quite aware of the mechs' war, but this new mess…this was something the Transformers had to handle on their own.
"Other than tearing out optics?" Thundercracker asked, shrugging. He leaned closer to Jazz anyway, comforting if only in a physical way. "I don't think it matters."
Jazz glanced over at where Arcee was currently glaring daggers at the ground and then over at the other side of the camp, where Vortex was looking at his energon with an equal amount of hate. He had expected that the incident in the city would just fade from their minds, but that clearly wasn't going to happen. Bluestreak was unnaturally quiet and kept sending Jazz and Vortex both worried glances. Wheeljack had that glint in his optics that told Jazz the scientist was "thinking." Wildrider had quieted down as well, and while the insane grin on his faceplates never really left even on the bad days, Jazz could see the red-and-black 'Con was just as agitated as the rest of them.
"Yeah," Jazz said finally, sarcastic, "yeah, it don't matter." He frowned at his friend—yes, his friend; Thundercracker took an affront to being called a Decepticon now—and said, "Come on, TC. We've been dancin' 'round th' subject fer at least five years."
"The problem was the sigils," Thundercracker replied, still not upset.
"If they were the only problem, why's everyone freaked?" Was it guilt? Was it the fear that they had given up their previous loyalties?
Thundercracker's engines rumbled and he glanced at the smaller mech. "…It's unimportant. We've lasted this long without any alterations to our forms. We just need to place it out of mind," he said slowly.
That wasn't comforting in the least. "It freaks me out, TC. I mean, not that I'm walkin' with 'Cons, but th' fact I'm not afraid of it," Jazz said, trying to remain calm, but he couldn't help but let a little of his panic slip into his voice. He leaned closer, trying to relax. "I'm grateful t' Pit and back that we're all workin' together, but I dunno, man." He frowned. "Vortex was freaked."
"And the more you 'freak,' the more everyone else will," Thundercracker replied bluntly. He, at least, was able to keep a logical front when messes like these happened. The jet paused, looking over at where the other mechs were seated, trying to keep up a civil conversation. "…Wheeljack seems to be either contemplating another insane invention for the humans, or something for us."
That made him laugh. "You noticed it, too?" Jazz asked, grinning.
Thundercracker sighed, sounding weary. "Why do I have the feeling this has something to do with what happened today?" he asked wryly, frowning at Jazz.
The saboteur shrugged, emitting his own sigh. "I dunno, but unless he finds a way t' make us colorblind, I don't care."
"Figuratively or literally?" Thundercracker asked, smirking.
Jazz didn't have an answer for that. "…I dunno," he said after a long moment. He looked back out at the others, worried. "Either or."
He didn't know what to do, other than talk to the others about it. Ignoring it could allow it to fade away on its own, but they couldn't afford to be so awkward with each other now. It was risky enough when they argued. Right now, it looked like if there were a battle tomorrow, they'd re-segregate themselves to Autobot and Decepticon teams rather than acting as a single unit. This was a potentially deadly distraction in the making.
They had to settle it, soon.
The humans went to bed and Jazz waited until they were completely asleep before walking over to the circle of mechs and femme. All of them had anticipated the talk, but no one looked especially excited. Vortex looked almost murderous.
Jazz sat down opposite of Wheeljack, glancing around at everyone once Thundercracker sat next to him. "So…" he began, struggling to find appropriate words.
He didn't move fast enough, apparently. "Primus, do you say anything else?" Vortex snarled.
"Well, there are so many ways to start an awkward conversation, ya know?" Jazz replied dryly, shooting the mech a level stare. Vortex growled and looked away.
Bluestreak sank lower against the tree he was leaning against. "I don't get it," he complained, upset. "I never cared that our optics were different before, but now I keep thinking about it."
"Of course you cared about it before," Vortex exclaimed angrily. "You shot me!"
Hesitating, the talkative gunner continued hurriedly. "I shot you because of your sigil, not because of your optics. I mean," he said, nervous, "sometimes, I met Autobots who turned off the color in their optics, because of some medical thing, I guess, or maybe it was just for energy saving, but I still didn't attack them, because I looked at the sigil first."
"Which is what we're supposed t'do," Jazz said, sighing. "But now…our optics are th' problem." He looked at each of them pointedly. "We gotta deal with this stuff now. We can't afford t' be gettin' nervous 'round each other now, not with winter comin'."
Arcee, as Jazz expected, was going to be one of the problems with this situation. "I will not let myself remove the Autobot insignia from my chest. I am still an Autobot, even if our people have fallen," she said, holding her head high. "Too many of my team members have perished to make it morally acceptable to forget which side I was on."
Wildrider sneered. "Little femme already gave up team—because you made new one!" he said. He laughed daringly, quickly leaping to the other side of Thundercracker when the enraged Arcee lashed out at him.
"Shut your vocalizer, before I do it for you!" she snarled. Jazz almost stood up when he heard her cannons charging. This was not going well.
"He's got a point, Arcee," he began. He winced when the femme's anger was suddenly directed at him. He held his hands up, trying to keep the peace "Not that ya forgot anyone! But…come on, Arcee! Look at us! Four 'Bots, three 'Cons…sitting together, havin' a mostly sane conversation. Primus…we haven't cared about Decepticon or Autobot fer years!"
Arcee's glare never wavered. "I have not forgotten," she hissed, daring him to contradict him.
Jazz knew Arcee was more than dedicated to the old ways and to her old team. She had lost a lot, but so had the others. She had come a long way; he dared to venture that she even trusted the Decepticons in their midst, at least during a battle. The children had swayed her when they were younger, and she learned to care for the humans as a replacement family.
But some habits were difficult to break. Her losses were recent enough that she had her reasons to lash out at the 'Cons if they prodded her the wrong way. This time, though, Jazz was the instigator. He needed her to see the truth.
"But do ya care?" he asked firmly.
That made the femme hesitate. "…What?" she demanded.
"Arcee, you've taken just as many hits fer these Decepticons as you have fer us Autobots. You don't care, or at least, yer smart enough to realize that it don't matter anymore." Jazz frowned. "I mean…yeah, we got different optics. Who cares? We've been fighting for so long together…I don't care about it anymore."
Which was true. The optics made him realize he didn't care and his Autobot-morals told him that was wrong, but he still wasn't motivated to care that he was working with the 'Cons. If they could only just find a way to ignore what they were doing so willingly…
"Me neither," Wheeljack said, surprising Jazz with his quickness to speak.
Thundercracker shrugged. "I haven't for some time." He gave Wildrider a glance, however. "You, though, I've just doubted your sanity."
"Neutrals can be crazy," Wildrider said smugly. He reclined comfortably against his new tree. "Vhy care about optics, hmm? Colors mean nothing. My brothers and I had purple optics vhen ve vere activated. I chose red optics vhen mine vere damaged in battle—I vanted new look. It hass made no difference."
Bluestreak hesitated. "I…I didn't care until earlier. Not that I don't trust you guys anymore…but…" He stopped, suddenly alarmed. "There it is again! I know I should be afraid or at least suspicious of you, but I'm…not. Isn't that weird? I can't stop looking at everyone's optics, but mostly, it bothers me because I'm still not upset that we're living together like this. Shouldn't we be nervous around each other? It's…weird."
Jazz chuckled grimly. "I know what ya mean. It's just our trainin', Blue. Changin' megavorns of behavior code ain't gonna happen in ten years."
"But it doesn't matter," Thundercracker suddenly said, glaring. His patience was finally fading, it seemed. "We've established this. So, who the frag cares? It'd take too much fragging work to reformat our optics. I don't even know how to do that myself."
"Me neither," Jazz replied, frowning.
Help appeared in the form of Wheeljack. "I do," the scientist said, almost hesitating when he spoke. All optics—red or blue—fell on him immediately.
"…'Jack?" Bluestreak asked, surprised.
"It is a very basic update, to be sure," Wheeljack began, pausing. "Just a few tweaks to the cranial circuits. A simple hard-line jack could do it quite easily. After all, our optics are merely glass covers. The color comes from the internal lighting beneath it."
This was not what Jazz had been expecting. This was better. "…Really? Slag." He found himself grinning, despite the mixed reactions this new revelation was getting. Half of them looked excited, while the others were still frowning. "But what color, though?"
"Frag this." Vortex stood, glaring at all of them. "I'm not going to pry off my sigil and I'm not going to let you screw around with my optics just to make a few of you feel better about having red eyes peering back at you."
Thundercracker scowled. "You're the one who freaked out first."
"Can I have yellow eyes?" Wildrider suddenly asked, grinning. "Ooh, no, can I have rainbow?"
"This is ridiculous," Arcee hissed. She stood and glowered down at the seated mechs (well, up at Thundercracker and Wheeljack, considering even standing, she was shorter than them). "Changing the mere color of our eyes will not change the fact that we come from different factions. If the war were to ever restart, where would that leave us? I will not compromise my past—!"
Something in her speech made Jazz's control slip. He was tired, physically and emotionally. He didn't want to forget—he wouldn't forget—their pasts either. He had lost too many friends, too many hopes and dreams of his own to forget them now. Those he had lost deserved to be remembered.
But life on Earth had somehow changed how he remembered them. He would never forget Optimus, or Ratchet, or Ironhide—and never Prowl, who had touched his spark in a way no one could ever do again…but things changed. He stopped seeing the present through the past and all he could see now was the future. He only cared about getting to the next day, and making sure that the people he loved now were there to wake up next to that morning.
Jazz wasn't compromising his past when he stopped hating his previous enemies and went on to trusting them as friends. He was moving on.
He stood up, peering down at Arcee with as much controlled anger as he could process. "Primus, Arcee—the war is over! It's done!" he snapped. "We all lost—Decepticons, Autobots, Neutrals! You act like they're different species, but, slaggit, we're all Cybertronians. We're all Transformers. And right now, we're all survivors of the aftermath of our war." He pointed at his visor, shaking now. "I want neutral eyes. I don't care. I loved bein' a 'Bot once…but slaggit, I'm just Jazz now." He slowed down, suddenly exhausted. He sighed, looking away from the startled femme. "I'm just Jazz and I have friends with red eyes. I don't care."
Arcee was looking at him as if he had become a Decepticon right before her optics. Like he was speaking gibberish, or something blasphemous. He was, really. But he meant every word. He was done caring about faction or what had been. He wanted neutral eyes, if only to avoid this topic ever again.
"It's…symbolic," he said, quieter. "Don't mean anythin' except fer what we want it t' mean. For me…it's letting go. Movin' on. Never forgettin', but movin' on t' more important things, like th' future."
Jazz jumped when Vortex's engines roared suddenly. The helicopter was giving all of them a lethal glare. "Everything of who I am is in the past!" he snarled, not bothering to speak quietly for the sleeping organics. He slammed his fist into a nearby tree, nearly breaking the trunk in half. He ripped his body away, visibly shaking. "I have no identity like this. Everything of who I was then—that's—that's all that's left." He cursed in Cybertronian before marching away. "Frag this, I'm done."
The helicopter stormed away from the camp, clearly intent on being alone. Jazz knew he'd be back eventually, but he didn't dare say that to the mech now; it was entirely possible that the ex-Con would attack anyone who reminded him of his "ex-" status. Jazz wasn't too surprised when the still-silent Arcee mimicked Vortex and wheeled off in the other direction. They all needed time to think.
They were just optics. Just colors. Jazz knew that it was a huge step for them all to take, but he had to be rational himself. He had chosen blue megavorns ago for himself as an aesthetic choice. He had chosen it again when it was an order from his superiors. Now, he was willing to change that color, for peace of mind. To remind himself and the others every day that things had changed and they were allies.
He did understand that it wouldn't be an easy thing to get used to. But as Barns jokingly said once, 'what was seen cannot be unseen.' If they kept seeing blue and red, Jazz knew there would be more problems. They couldn't afford to go back to square one in their alliances again. He knew that, and he hoped the others did too.
After Arcee vanished, the remaining five mechs stared at each other, the silence stifling. They couldn't do much more until the other two came back; this had to be a group decision.
"What about green eyes?" Bluestreak suggested shyly.
Jazz sighed and shuttered his optics.
00000
This wasn't right. It hadn't been right the first time she had met them and agreed to put aside logic and morals in exchange for safe passage. It certainly wasn't right to sit there and agree to erase a part of her life.
Arcee was not a fool. She understood perfectly what Jazz had told her. Distractions got people killed in a war. Friendship was a hazard, but bickering teammates proved even more lethal. One argument could leave the team, regardless of their location, crippled. That was her main reason for playing nice with some of the more questionable members of this new team. She would be damned before she thought them any more than allies, but she could not deny the fact she willingly placed her life in their hands when they were forced to fight their mutual enemies.
But this was different than just being polite and keeping a professional relationship going between herself and the Decepticons. She would never trust them completely. She would never view any of them as a friend. Their unit was unique and ultimately unnatural. She refused to give up believing that beyond Earth's clutches, the Autobot forces continued to fight, or at least, were still in existence. Without the Decepticon generals, their enemies were weakened. If anything, this meant the Autobots had won.
But Arcee was not with those other troops. She was here, on a forsaken, dying world. She had to make sacrifices to survive. All of them had, she conceded.
The others had grown soft, though. Jazz had once been a brilliant member of the special ops teams and a tactical leader in his own right; she had heard much about him from team transfers. But now he chose to treat mechs that had once been their enemies as friends, as family even. Wheeljack and Bluestreak were naïve and far too trusting, calling the Decepticons friends.
Even the Decepticons had lost their pride. Wildrider was hopelessly lost to insanity, but he was still coherent enough to know who he should have been associating himself with. He mocked his old loyalties and seemed to enjoy ridiculing any kind of military order. Thundercracker, perhaps, had gone neutral even before meeting Jazz, but it was clear that he no longer honored any vows he had made to the Decepticon cause. Vortex, at least, seemed to realize his boundaries, but for different reasons. He was trapped in the emotional losses he had suffered. Arcee…she was bound by her honor.
Sitting in the dark, Arcee blocked out the sounds of the others talking lowly. The camp fire was dying and Arcee was left sitting on a broken tree and wallowing in a torrent of feelings. She had lost just as much as the others had. Her sisters, Chromia and Elita One, had fallen almost as soon as they had gotten to this planet. Galvatron's forces were merciless. It had been Decepticons, not drones, who had caused Arcee's misery.
She heard trees breaking; Vortex was still mad. She couldn't blame him. At least he had respect for the wrongness of the situation.
She stared down at her chestplates. A red face worn down to gray streaks mixed with red paint particles gleamed back. She had been honored to wear that insignia, because it had been the moral, righteous decision. She had been trained to be the fastest and deadliest. She was more a warrior than a femme. She had been willing to give her life for this symbol, for their cause.
What cause?
Arcee clenched her fists on the edge of the log, trembling. The stray and rebellious thought made her overheat. She was an Autobot and nothing could change that. Too much had been lost to just…give that up.
But were things really different now? She had other priorities that extended past her duties when she commanded a team. The humans were new concerns for her. She cared for their safety, much more than she would have cared about most of her previous teammates. As an Autobot she had sworn to protect all life, but this was more than that. She had seen them grow and change from younglings to mature adults. They aged so fast; it was startling.
What disturbed her the most about the humans was their acceptance of the mechs. They should have feared them, hated them even. The Autobots as well as the Decepticons deserved humanity's mistrust. All humans had suffered greatly due to the arrival of the Cybertronians on Earth. She had expected the children to mistrust them…but they didn't. If anything, they treated the Transformers as they did each other, like there was no difference between their species. Like the humans didn't care about the origins of their civilization's destruction.
Barns told her once that he did hate Galvatron. He hated the drones. But he did not hate all Decepticons, and mostly certainly not the Autobots, who tried to save Earth. He claimed the others and himself saw no factions residing in their group—just each member.
They made themselves colorblind to their own murderers.
How? How was that acceptable, or even possible? She could not fathom it.
Arcee remembered her past every time she saw red optics, or the purple face upon the Decepticons' chests. She remembered how she once fought mechs like that to the death every time she heard their demonic laughter, or stories of their own wartime escapades. But every time she looked at the humans interacting with both mech and each other… everything seemed to fade. During a fight with drones, she failed to remember their proper places. She took hits for the Decepticons and often found herself thanking one of them absently after they returned the gesture.
Jazz talked about moving on. Arcee scowled at the soft words. It was impossible to move on from a war like theirs. It was true they were fighting a new battle, one that was limited to their own group and was only fought from day to day, with no coherent plan for victory. But… but how could only a few decades on an alien world wipe out the hundreds of thousands of years they had spent battling to the death with each other? How could a few alien children shift the polarity of their alliances and make enemies into allies?
Changing their optic color would only be a daily reminder that they had given up their previous allegiances, given up their past prejudices. It wouldn't change where they had come from. Arcee covered her face with her hands, a habit she had picked up from the humans. She had to rationalize the facts; the color of her optics had nothing to do with her memories, or her loyalties to those memories. It only showed her alliance with the Autobot cause.
…an alliance she had already broken by playing nice with the Decepticons all this time.
Perhaps things would be different if they ran into other Autobots. Perhaps she would have the chance to make amends for her mistakes. They could all go back to how they were supposed to act, as enemies. Emotions didn't matter. She was a soldier, now and forever. For now, however, she was a survivor foremost.
Logically—although it tore her spark out—Arcee knew which was more important.
If a color could soothe their nerves and grant them the ignorance of superficial friendship… she could handle that. Color was just a temporary, reversible thing. As long as she remembered the truth, color didn't matter.
…Telling herself that somehow made everything seem much less complicated.
Rising, she looked back at the others, readying herself. This would not be easy.
00000
This had long surpassed the time to ask, why? The only coherent thing let to ask, really, was, what now? Vortex loved questions—not as much as getting answers—but he never had a problem with them before. Lately, it seemed, questions were rare, because life had become so simple. Get up, walk, dodge attacks, fight if needed, tolerate annoying teammates, enjoy the company of less-annoying ones, refuel, and then recharge or go on night watch.
Suddenly, though, life wasn't really simple. It only took a day and questions were piling up, threatening to smother all of them. Vortex had the entire afternoon to regret noticing what should have been noticed ages ago. He had hours to wallow in self-hatred, the hatred of the Autobots, the hatred of their situation…
Now, standing beside an anonymous creek bed on a world his kind just did not belong on… Vortex couldn't hate anymore. That would be too easy, too… simple. He couldn't blame the Autobots for working with him willingly, because he was working with them too. Even his old faction members—could he blame them for turning traitor, as he had?
Were they even traitors? Was doing what was necessary to save one's life—was that traitorous?
Vortex growled lowly, fragile leaves rustling above him at the displacement of air from his vents. Even if it was—he still wasn't a traitor. How could any of them be traitorous when their supposed master betrayed them first?
The real problem, the problem all of the Transformers were undoubtedly troubled by, was that they were doing something so…so unnatural.
It was understandable—logical even—that they revert to suspicious glances and questioning their status as allies. They had been lulled by years of companionship, close calls, and common interests. Vortex, as much as he was just as nervous about recharging beside his previous enemies as said-enemies were about him, could see where they had gone wrong… or at least changed their behaviors.
Earth had made them go soft. For their own benefit, perhaps, but it was startling when they looked at how much they had let themselves be manipulated by circumstance. Did loyalty (at least for the Autobots, whose leaders didn't go mad with power) mean nothing? Did all the hundreds of thousands of years they spent spilling energon and lives mean nothing?
Vortex was at a loss. He could extract any number of answers from captives in interrogation, but the one source he could not force answers from was his own mind. His brothers might have known what to do. They could have found answers—
Vortex's processors stumbled and he found himself realizing something unsettling about his previous logic. About his brothers.
Onslaught would have killed the humans immediately.
He, Brawl, Swindle, and Blast Off…they would have just dismantled the Autobots, even if they had been as alone as Vortex had been. In fact, they never would have crossed paths with them. They would have either let Goddard and Barns be killed that day he'd met them, or they would have killed them on their own.
His brothers would have wiped out anyone they met. They never would have given them a chance.
Vortex, had he been his brothers, would have killed them all, Rachel included.
Why was he different from them? Why had he done what he did?
…Because he had been alone.
Because it was either assimilate or die.
Because he had so craved companionship, of his own kind, of any kind, that he had ignored symbols and factions. He never forgot they were different…but he learned not to care. Megavorns of warfare had become whispers of dreams within a span of decades on this planet.
He couldn't fathom how that was wrong. To want to survive, to want to hear a voice other than one's own. He had lost his brothers' voices. All he had were the voices of these…people. Organic voices and Autobot voices. And the voices of fellow traitors.
How could this be wrong?
In a rare moment of clarity, certain facts became clear to him. Vortex was not his brother—he wasn't like any of them. He could pretend to be, for survival or nostalgia's sake. But he was Vortex. Only Vortex.
There were things to look forward to, rather than just at in the past. Maybe the new things, like companions and an extended life, weren't really important. Maybe everything was unimportant now. Vortex didn't want to think about it anymore. It was so much easier to just… let go.
Perhaps… changing to green colored optics would not be too bad.
After all, Onslaught had red eyes.
00000
Thundercracker knew it was only a matter of time before a decision was reached. Jazz had been right in his worries, to a point; if they continued to act awkward with one another, who knew what sort of dangers could befall them in a large fight? They became companions for a reason and that was to work together.
He hoped—prayed even—that they came to a solution soon. He couldn't care less about his or anyone's eye color. He had given up caring about faction and who belonged with whom long ago. He knew the Autobots had a very difficult time doing the same, considering how much stress they put on loyalty and honoring a vow. Thundercracker, in contrast, never took the Decepticon vows for the vows themselves; he only took them for his trine's sake.
A long hour passed without any real sign of Vortex or Arcee reaching a decision. Thundercracker knew both had their reservations against officially going neutral. Vortex's whole identity rested on his brothers' memories and his role as a Decepticon soldier. Arcee was a soldier at spark and had suffered extreme losses in the last few decades. She would cling to her honor, her vows to the Autobot army, more than any of the others would.
But they had to face the fact that times had changed, life had changed, and they had to make their choices now. Thundercracker knew that the others (who had all agreed in the end to Wheeljack's plans) would give Arcee and Vortex both leniency, but he wasn't above threatening to kick them out. They couldn't risk a slip up during a fight with the drones. If it came down to it, Thundercracker was not above giving them the ultimatum of changing factions or leaving the group.
He hoped it wouldn't come to that. Their group needed every member they had, if not for safety in numbers or firepower then for the structure they had set up over the years. They had formed a new unit, families in some cases, and that was probably rarer than energon in a wasteland like this.
Just as he was begin to feeling a little nervous about the outcome to their situation, movement alerted the seated mechs of Vortex returning. Arcee arrived a few minutes later. Both arriving Transformers stopped awkwardly in front of the group, watching everyone warily.
"I take it we've all come to a decision?" Jazz ventured; only he would dare make it seem like this was a joke, Thundercracker lamented.
Vortex growled lowly. "What the frag, it's only eyes," he said. He marched over to the group, slamming onto the ground, promoting a mixed air of casualness and irritability. "Won't change me or who I was. Or what I am."
Thundercracker glanced back at Arcee, who seemed incredibly reluctant to say anything at all. He was briefly afraid she would try to continue the argument, or say she wanted nothing to do with it, but she surprised him.
"Conformity is sometimes necessary for survival. I am willing to make the changes necessary to ensure we… continue to function appropriately," she said, her words cold and guarded, as if she were agreeing to some heinous suggestion, like joining the Decepticons instead of going neutral. She held her head high, her pride never wavering, even for a moment.
Jazz beamed. "Sounds logical t' me," he said.
"Thank Primus, we're all finally agreeing," Wheeljack said, relieved. He chuckled, standing. "It's far too early into the morning for this much dissension. I say we get this done as soon as possible." He looked at Vortex and Arcee specifically. "And if you don't like the changes, it is not permanent. I can change it back."
Arcee's optics darkened. "Nothing about this is impermanent, Wheeljack," she said pointedly. "We are crossing a bridge we cannot cross back over again."
Thundercracker scowled. Such pessimism. He preferred not to think like that about his decisions. Nothing was permanent, or at least safe from radical change, on Earth.
"Vait!" cried Wildrider. He grinned up at the others. "Vhat color, though?"
They had been bouncing around ideas while Vortex and Arcee had gone off soul-searching, as Kass might call it. It was either green or orange, and most of them thought orange was too close to red. Vortex shrugged, not caring about the color choice.
Bluestreak was excited over this part of the discussion, most likely interested in color because of his friendship with the human artist in their group. "At least we're not changing the color to blue or red, or even blue and red, because then it would be a little awkward," he said, insanely cheerful over all of this. "I mean, I couldn't imagine having red optics—no offense, guys—but I could handle green. Green… is sorta like Earth, right?"
"Yeah. Red and blue are out 'cause we need to be neutral and equal." Jazz grinned lazily. "I like green."
"I'd look like a walking human Christmas," complained Wildrider, frowning.
"But it fits!" Bluestreak said, adamantly. He smiled. "Green is calming and neutrals don't fight generally. And we're on Earth and in the stories Barns reads to us, green and Earth go together!"
"Maybe white would be better," Arcee said, frowning.
Jazz shook his head. "Too borin'. I like yer idea of makin' it like Earth, Blue," he said cheerfully.
How fitting, Thundercracker mused. Earth had changed everything else about them. It did seem right to base their next and hopefully last huge change off of the planet that had altered everything else.
He shrugged, giving his consent to the plan. He didn't mind green.
It took more discussion, perhaps longer than what was needed, but green was eventually agreed upon by all parties. Jazz offered to be Wheeljack's guinea pig first and the others watched, anxious. Wheeljack was no medic, but apparently, it was a simple matter of changing the coding. Jazz's visor went dark and then almost pure white—and then an alien color of light green.
… Strange.
The more simpleminded members of their group clamored to be next, and after Bluestreak and Wildrider were finished, Thundercracker offered his hard-line cable to the scientist. It was unsettling to have such an unfamiliar mind have access to a partial amount of his motor functions (even if they were from the same faction, he never would have let Wheeljack have total access to his mind; no sane mech would). Wheeljack, true to his word, was in and out as soon as possible. Thundercracker felt no different after the scientist ejected himself and the jet was left to tap absently at his face, wondering how different he truly looked.
Glancing to the side, he saw Jazz was staring at him.
"…Ya look weird," the saboteur said, grinning.
Thundercracker snorted. "You look weirder." It would definitely take a bit of time to get used to the different color. The Autobots at least had already had a light-color before; Wildrider looked bizarre with such bright optics and Vortex looked downright wrong with it.
But it was only day one. They had overcome the first step of making a change. They now had to stick with it, and if they could reach what they had before—the level of not even paying it any mind anymore—then this experiment would have succeeded.
Only time could tell where this would all lead, in the end. Thundercracker prayed for the best.
Morning meant taking the next step: owning up to their choices. When the sun came up the mechs were all pointedly acting as calm as possible. Watching the less stilted interactions of the mechs around him, Thundercracker thought they might have been able to obtain some peace by noon…but he had forgotten about the other half of their team.
Barns had made customary greetings to the mechs and Arcee, barely giving them a real look over.
But apparently something caught his eye, because he whipped around wildly and gawked at the closest mech to him with a scandalized look.
"… Jazz?" the man exclaimed, looking stunned.
Grinning, Jazz glanced down at him. "Yeah, Barns?" he asked, completely casual. Thundercracker sighed.
"Um…what's wrong with your, ah, eyes er visor?" Barns asked, apparently grasping for a way to ask the mech.
"Nothing's wrong with 'em," Jazz said in his usual flippant way. "I can see just fine." He rolled questions off himself like rainwater.
Kass looked unsure as well. "They're green," she stuttered. "I…I thought…" She gawked at Bluestreak. "D-did all of you change your eyes?"
No one said anything at first. Vortex and Arcee were pointedly ignoring everyone again. Thundercracker personally didn't see a reason to talk about it. The point of the change was to stop standing apart from each other. But if the humans couldn't accept the change… Just as he was beginning to worry that their plans of assimilation were failing, Thundercracker felt tiny hands ghost over his leg. Looking down he saw Rachel was smiling tiredly up at him.
"I think they're pretty," she said, smirking. She turned away, yawning. "Let's start breakfast, come on." She shooed the humans toward the campfire.
Thundercracker was grateful for her—and if that made him a traitor, he didn't care in the least.
The morning continued as it did every day. Everyone did their best to ignore and yet include everyone. Conversations were started and Thundercracker could almost feel the tension lifting from the group. It would take a few more days, or even weeks, but they were off to a good start.
Clawed hands traced absently on his wing. He barely had to turn to know Jazz was there, watching the same scene unfold, the same allies.
"Think we did this right?" he asked quietly.
"I don't care," Thundercracker replied honestly. He glanced at Jazz, knowing the other mech very, very well, and added, "But I think we did. At least we tried."
Jazz chuckled, smiling faintly. "Yeah, we did."
None of them could tell the future, or what the exact outcome of all of this would be in the long term. Life gave no certainties, not any more. Thundercracker could handle that. He could handle the group having different colored optics. But if a simple change like this could make his friends—he was feeling daring enough that day to call them that—feel more at ease…he was okay with trying.
They broke camp and headed east.
.
Eyes end.
Next: Vortex has a revelation about himself. He isn't pleased. Not. At. All.
.
