Tetrajet wings. Tetrajet cannons. Tetrajet body. And he knows those legs are supposed to be a Tetrajet's tail.
They've turned him into a fucking Tetrajet.
"Robots, you say?" He asks with a calm he's not feeling, brought out more as a result of the shock still clenching his innards—or whatever mechanical equivalent they are now—almost painfully.
The beating of whatever is now his heart doesn't do more than increase almost imperceptibly, but the pulsing coming from his chest is now obviously faster.
He doesn't know what to make of that, either.
"Yes. A white one with red markings and a black V-shaped crest on its forehead. Said its name was Ratchet, and talked in plural when he referred to… having helped us."
He looks up with what he wants to believe are wide eyes, despite the fact he can't feel them widening.
It's impossible, but he recognizes the creatures sitting by his… table.
The silvery white one with the blue eyes and the V-shaped crest, looking composed yet with those short wings shaking softly. The matte black and white one with the horn-like things and the blue visor that seems to look both at him and the door at the same time. And the dark blue one sitting straight and without a hint of emotion on his face, red visor fixed on him with what no one else would recognize as fear and hope.
Fowler, Smith and Sanders.
"And how am I supposed to know this isn't a dream?"
Instead of answering verbally, the dark blue robot taps the closest wing.
The bolt of pain that makes him jump on his sitting position on the table is more than enough.
Though he also gets some curious readings about air currents and pressure per micron—whatever a micron is—and a lot of data not related to the tap that is purely a result of Tetrajet sensors.
And, as thus, he can make sense of it.
He realizes he could have avoided the tap, since he'd felt the hand coming, and knows he could maneuver around the room blind and deaf as long as his wings—weird, to thing of wings as his instead of his Tetrajet's—keep functioning.
He reaches to soothingly rub the tapped area, but stops, his metallic matte black hand hovering over the equally colored surface.
He can see his hand.
But he can also feel it, and something inside him alerts him that the sensor nodes are over-sensitized, and that touch wouldn't be a good idea right now.
Freaked out of his mind, Steve lets his hand fall to the surface of the table, feeling and seeing his wings start to shake.
"This… is crazy."
Three other heads nod in agreement.
He looks down at his… legs, and wonders if they will be able to hold him upright.
And gets his answer without even meaning to when he jumps to his feet to face the opening door, wings spread wide to hide the other three behind him, and sensor spheres glowing menacingly.
He can't hear it, but he can feel the soft thrumming running up his legs and his cannon-like arms, and, a blink later, there are target-locks on the robot frozen barely inside the threshold.
That… is almost like he was inside a Tetrajet instead of being some robotic version of one.
"Ratchet." Fowler greets calmly, taking a small step to the side so that he can see the newcomer, and Steve feels Smith do so too, while Sanders stays tensely in place.
"Glad to see you all… awake. Ron Fowler, Jazz Smith, John Sanders and Steve Reeds, correct?"
"Yup, that'd be us. I'd say nice to meet you, but I'm not feeling like lying to someone I've just met." The Head of Special Operations answers cockily, but, thanks to the close proximity, the Air Commander can feel the tension and increase in the energy flow to his legs, readying himself for either running away or attacking the robot.
An almost inaudible snort answers Smith, but it doesn't come from the white and red being.
It comes from outside the room.
Wings vibrate with an audible menacing hum as that coming from his cannon-arms increases, and both Civilian officers step back next to Sanders.
"Why don't you come inside and join the chat? I'd hate to blast a hole through the wall just so we could talk face to face." He growls and, after a couple of seconds, another robot enters the room.
Steve's wings jerk all the way to their highest in surprise, but are quickly turned so that their leading edges are pointing forward, still menacing but no longer that big of a target.
For he knows he has weaponry, even if he doesn't know how to use it, and the new robot looks also like a Tetrajet.
Not like him, though. This one has one blue stripe on each wing, from what little he can see, and another on the outside of its 'thighs', and it's slightly bigger and thicker armored, the parted nosecone on the shoulders wider than his own, the chest bulkier and the wings thicker and slightly wider—
And quickly pulled down and pressed further against the blue-marked robot's back, even if they had already been folded when it came in.
"Whoa, calm down. I'm not looking for a fight." It states calmly, hands up in a non-threatening gesture as it huddles a bit into itself, orange-red eyes looking at him pleadingly.
Slowly, he lowers his own wings, letting them fold against his back, and feels the thrumming stop as his sensor spheres dim.
He knows the Tetrajet robot is speaking the truth, even if he doesn't really know how.
"He looks like you." Smith points out, stepping to be at the Air Commander's side. "He looks just like you."
"He doesn't." Steve answers automatically, looking over the tiny differences, disregarding the blue stripes, because that can be just painted on, and trying to remember why they look familiar.
"You're not speaking about the different color." Fowler points out, and Reeds shakes his head in answer, narrowed eyes still looking over the two almost expectant robots.
"Look, I'm not here to cause trouble, I just wanted to see how you were doing. If you want, I can just go away." The black being adds easily, though there's a hint of pain and disappointment in him.
"Sure you will, fly-boy."
"Thundercracker." Smith stiffens at the answer, and Sanders finally steps around to look curiously at the metallic creatures. "Not 'fly-boy'. My designation—my name's Thundercracker."
"'Ratchet' for the medic, and 'Thundercracker' for a flight-capable being." The Communications Officer repeats calmly, though almost vibrating with curiosity. "Interesting names."
"Well, you know how it goes. You can't choose your name, just make the best out of it."
"'Theodore'? Are you serious?"
"What part of 'call me Ted' didn't you understand, Grant?"
"'Ted' sounds like a teddy-bear name and 'Theodore' is something out of history books. How many years did it take your parents to even find such a name?"
"Says 'Sky'."
"Hey! I thought you were on my side, Stevie!"
"I stopped being on 'your side' the first time you called me that."
"But 'Steve' is a boring name."
"I'd rather have a boring name than a fool's name!"
"Maybe we should call you 'Explosive' instead of 'Stevie'."
"Why, you—!"
"Reeds, calm down. And Grant, stop messing with the rookie. Besides, you know how it goes. You can't choose your name, just make the best out of it."
"Oh, yeah? And what is the best you can make out of 'Ted'?"
"The fact that you will all sound like toddlers scared of 'the monster under the bed' each time you have to call for my help, my dear subordinates."
"Hey! Being wingleader doesn't mean you can treat us like kids!"
"No, but have you forgotten that I'm older than both of you?"
"Well, then I guess that explains why you're called 'Theodore'. That name must have been top trend when you were born."
"Do you know how childish you sounded right now?"
"I guess for an old geezer like you, everyone must sound childish."
"Oh, for the love of…"
"Commander Sanders? Are you sure these are supposed to be my wingmates? Because I'm starting to think I'd rather go back to basic training."
"See? You scared the rookie, old-timer."
"I wasn't the one who took a picture with strangers after entering the room."
"Oh, please, as if you are a stranger. We've been around each other ever since I joined!"
"You called me 'Baxter'."
"… Isn't that your name?"
"It's Carter!"
"Psche, almost the same. Right, Stevie?"
"Basic. Now."
Orange-red eyes turn darker in worry as the Tetrajet robot's lips move, but the words he hears aren't those being said.
"Get away from my Trine Leader!"
"Ted?"
The blue-marked being stiffens, eyes brightening in surprise and doubt and fear—and recognition.
And he knows the other knows the Air Commander knows the robot knows.
And thus, the tension vanishes, leaving him looking defeated.
"Once upon a time, I was called that."
The other three human-turned-robots stiffen, finally making the connection too.
"Thundercracker, what are you—"
"They deserve to know the truth." The Tetrajet-like being cuts Ratchet, straightening in a show of a strength and confidence he lacks. "This is going to sound bizarre to you, but please, let me explain." The four of them exchange some confused and expectant looks and, after some seconds of deliberation without words, turn to the robots and nod. "We are an alien race that was created by another, called the Quintessons, to be their slaves. But we rebelled and broke free. For uncountable time, so long that we even forgot about the Quintessons, we lived and grew and… and even managed to start wars among ourselves. And then, the Quintessons came back and enslaved us once more. Only, this time, they did it on Earth, and the humans were caught up in our mess." He falls silent at that, looking away with eyes flickering as he remembers. "They reprogrammed us to make us think we were human and… decided to use you too." A matte black hand gestures vaguely towards the four tense bodies, but he doesn't look up. "They turned you into what you are now, and made us all believe we were under siege so that we would protect their energy draining operation."
"The geothermal plants…" Fowler whispers almost inaudibly, but the Tetrajet robot nods.
"They fed the Protectodome, sure, but there was enough extra energy produced to send to their home world. Along other resources. Thing is, the Black Beasts were those of us and the humans they hadn't managed to capture, and who were trying to free the rest of us." And, finally, orange-red eyes look back into Steve's. "When they shot me down, they used a scrambler, a sedative for us, and got rid of all the fake data the Quintessons had installed in me. And then, I joined them to try and help all of you. We got you back, in the end, but we still don't know how to reverse what they've done to you."
"And we won't stop trying until we do." Ratchet adds, arms crossed against his chest in a firm and unbending stance that reminds Reeds of—
"Shepherd."
The white robot only nods.
"They really got all of us then." Fowler whispers, still slightly stunned.
Steve feels something hover over one wing and turns his head around, finding a confused Sanders staring expectantly back at him.
"I believe them." He answers simply, and, after a second and the Commander-in-Chief's echoing of his own words, both him and Smith nod.
Trying to hide the distress the Air Commander can feel racking his body, the Communications Officer steps forward.
"Then… my children? Freddy and Allan?"
The robots look at each other with worry and indecision in darkened eyes, but, after what seems like a silent conversation, they nod and turn to them.
"They're all fine. All five of them." Ratchet answers, and Steve has to grab an arm when his fellow Military officer sags with relief. "But… they're not like you. They're of ours. All of them."
Sanders doesn't tense like the Enforcers, his straighter stance being a result of determination, so the Air Commander releases his hold on his arm.
"I don't care. They're my children. I want to see them."
"Sure, no problem."
"Absolutely not!"
Silence.
And then, the two robots glare at each other.
"What?!"
"Ratchet, you can't keep them isolated. Let the Cassettes come, or let them go to the Rec Room."
"You can't be serious! They're not ready for any of that, they've just been told about the mess we've been in!"
"Do you really think you can keep a creator away from his creations?"
And they fall silent once again, their glares not lessening.
"I already did more than I should have letting you come here, and now you want to get the whole base—"
"Not the whole base, only those five—"
"And don't you think the rest of them wouldn't want to come too if they knew I allowed this?! I let you be here because of the chance of the bond sparking something, not because they were cleared for visitors!"
And Thundercracker lets out a humming sound be heard just before answering in a language they can't understand.
Ratchet looks stunned for a second, but shouts something back in the same way, though he's once more silenced by whatever the Tetrajet robot says back.
And then, darkened blue eyes look away.
"Very well then. But make sure the Rec Room is cleared. I don't want any incidents caused by impulsive mechs." The blue-marked creature nods and goes away. "I'll let you go meet with some people, but only after I've checked you." He adds, turning to the four of them, with a seriousness they all know too well.
That's my decision, and it's final. No one gets away from it.
They try to relax when all he does is scan them, sometimes poking a joint or tapping some plates, but fortunately—or knowingly—staying away from silvery white and matte black wings, Smith's horns and Sanders' chest.
After testing reflexes—alright, this is pretty simple, I throw the ball and you catch it before it slams into your faceplate, and stop giving me that look or I'll throw a wrench instead—, equilibrium—walk in a straight line, from this wall to the other, optics offline, and don't look at me like that, I know there are berths in the way, just avoid them—and sight—what color is this? How many pads are on the table? Good, now close your eyes while I change things and turn off the light, and we'll do it again, and no peeking!—they are finally allowed out of the Med Bay.
The corridors are wide and tall, and so much like Civilian Government Building's that the Enforcers need to be given a couple of shoves before they finally start walking on their own.
They're also empty.
The medic walks in the front, guiding them to the Rec Room, as they look around curiously. Despite the structural resemblance to the Civilian Government Building, the lack of decorations and overall spartan looks are more like the Nemesis.
The whooshing sound of a door opening alerts them of their arrival to their destination, with Ratchet gesturing for them to go inside being the last clue.
So, slowly and cautiously, Steve steps into the even larger room, wings up and twitching once he sees how many robots are in it.
Granted, eight of them aren't even Smith's size, who is the smallest of the four, but two others, one red and blue and the other black, purple and silver, helping Thundercracker keep another Tetrajet-like being from trying to run away, are bigger than the Air Commander, and there's an even taller and bulkier one standing not too far from them.
Both happy and wary looks fall on him, but none of them are menacing.
So, he takes a couple more steps further inside, even if he doesn't relax his tense stance nor stop the thrumming reverberating in his arms and legs, and lets the others get in.
Sanders barely has the time to get more than three steps into the room before two of the smallest robots slam into him, embracing him tightly.
Shaking wings relax when Steve realizes they look the same.
And when he hears the names slipping past the Communications Officer's lips as he hugs them back.
Freddy and Allan.
"—me go, he hasn't seen me yet! Please, I can't go through this again, I don't wanna—" Finally noticing the whimpering pleading, the Air Commander turns to look at the Tetrajet robot being kept from running away by Thundercracker's and the two bigger ones' grip.
He's also matte black, though has one purple stripe on each wing and his eyes are glowing a scared pink.
The nosecone is wider than Steve's though also flatter, the wings themselves are thinner than the blue-marked ones, though more or less the same length, and the chest is slightly more protruding than the Air Commander's, something that, in a real Tetrajet, would reflect in a 'plump' belly.
The result of a survival modification.
And since Thundercracker is supposed to be Ted…
"Grant?"
The squirming purple-marked robot freezes.
And, slowly, turns around so that hopeful yet scared pale red eyes meet his own.
"Skywarp." Steve tilts his head curiously, waiting a second before the still paralyzed Tetrajet robot explains. "My designation. It's not Grant, it's… Skywarp."
He can hear the soft clinking of plating as a shiver wracks his body, as well as the pained and betrayed expression that manages to flash on his face before he reigns in on his heartbreak.
He's one of theirs.
Of the robots'.
"Got you!"
"You're ours now."
He hears his pained gasp as if from far away, both hands quickly clutching his head with enough strength to have his clawed fingers puncture the metal it is now, as he curls into himself, two pairs of hands grabbing his arms to avoid him falling to the floor.
"Reeds!"
"Let me see—"
"Get away!"
"I'm fine." His voice still sounds far away, but as he clears his throat and feels the sharp and unexpected stab of pain recede, it grows stronger. "I'm fine." He repeats, straightening after a couple of deep breaths and letting his hands fall to his sides.
Fowler gives him a searching look as he winces at the pinpricks of pain—itching more than hurting—from his head, and the weird buzzing coming from his chest, but lets him go.
Without looking away from Ratchet, visor a dark blue with clearer lines and spots, Smith also takes his hands off of him when he doesn't immediately keel over.
Sanders, clutching the confused twins closer, looks at him with worry and unspoken questions, but he doesn't answer.
He needs to piece things together first.
Which includes…
"Who am I?" All eyes fall on him, some incredulous, some hopeful, but he's looking at the confused and curious of Thundercracker. "To you, who am I?"
Realization makes orange-red flash a paler, almost yellowish tone, before settling for a darker, somehow mournful shade of red.
"Starscream." And then, all eyes are on the blue-marked Tetrajet robot. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Fowler said Ratchet had called us names that weren't ours… and because I heard something when you fell." This time, the surprised yellowish tone stays in the eyes he's still looking intently into. "Comms were out, but something—someone—said 'you're ours now'."
"And you heard it?" The black robot with silver and purple detailing asks with disbelief, and he barely spares him a glance as he recognizes the voice.
He may sound like Commander Lester Storm, but he knows he's not.
He's starting to think there are only the four of them who are still 'stuck' in their predicament.
"Got you. You're ours now." He repeats, feeling his wings twitch and his body shiver, despite containing his fear as best as he can, focusing on the memory of his first encounter with an Aerial after he recovered. "Two different voices I hadn't heard before."
"Ramjet. And Thrust." Thundercracker's eyes flash with something that looks like a mix of ire and thankfulness. "Ramjet was the one to impact, and his Trine immediately framed you, but only Thrust would boast like that."
And it means nothing to him, but judging by the rest of the robots' expressions, it explains a lot to them.
"I also heard you." And surprise and astonishment return almost tenfold, though he doesn't react despite starting to feel self-conscious. "Get away from my Trine Leader."
Before he can react there's a black blur in front of him and his arms are pinned to his sides and there's something wrapped around his torso and applying increasing pressure and there's red on his tail but it wasn't there less than a second before and he's shaking in fear and pain as he flies out of its range—and it's suddenly in front of him—
"Skywarp!"
There's fear and horror in the voice and the pressure around his torso increases but he doesn't care, he can't use his cannons but he can do this—
The shriek is loud and painful so close to his ears, and the tug as his captor throws itself away from him sends a sharp pain through his wings as the razor-sharp gliding flaps imbedded in the thing's shoulders are harshly pulled out, covered in a sticky and tingly pinkish substance, but he finally has his arms free—
The charge that has been building disperses as soon as he puts the now hand-less nozzles against matte black armor, but he's been too late, his target has once more popped out of his screen to appear suddenly behind Shawn's signal, but one of the Ground Cybertronian is close enough to help his brother, and the red dot vanishes—only to suddenly appear tailing the Air Commander again, and he can't shake it, can't shake them—
So he charges his weapons again and locks onto the signatures, seemingly frozen in place—
He feels it move at his back, tackling him, and he whirls around, but he's too late, the new Black Beast is too close to shoot, he needs to pull back—
His engines die almost as soon as he's engaged them when something pierces his throat, a numbing feeling taking hold of his body and why is he seeing the shut down codes for his Cybertronian as if they were printed on his—?
AN: Aaaaaand... That's chapter 22. I hope your questions were answered.
Now, some news. The good one is that I've found a job. The bad one is that I don't think I'll have the time to update my fics regularly. I will try, mostly because writing is relaxing, but I can't promise anything.
The other good news, after all this has been said and done, is that chapter 23 is half done, so, unless something happens, I'll have it ready to post next weekend.
Enjoy!