25. In which Slingshot is Peter Pan (Follow-up to Chapter 18)

"Careful with new mods," they'd said. "You've had a pretty serious reformatting done, and it'll take a while to adjust. Don't expect to be a natural on the first day. In fact, I would wait a while before doing anything risky."

They'd all said that, and they were right, he was sure. But Slingshot didn't care.

It had taken him most of his frustrated childhood, years of toil and delayed gratification, hard work and deception and blind determination, and all the savings he'd scraped up in that time. He would have to start training at the bottom of the barrel, and would have to cram lessons in between workdays, since he couldn't afford tuition otherwise. Even after training, he'd probably end up in an unglamorous job like light cargo or message delivery.

But he didn't care about any of that, either. Because he had now what he'd always wanted. And he wanted to try it.

So he stood on a rooftop, on the edge of town where air traffic was light. The breeze was just strong enough to send jangling vibrations through his newly tweaked sensors. The stars were clear, as they always were from Cybertron, even in the daytime. The nearest star, Cybertron's cold and distant "sun", had already set. Artificial light was scarce in the mostly abandoned sector. Slingshot stood in shadow.

No one could see him shivering. He preferred it that way.

Finally, after going over everything a hundred times in his head, he stuffed down his fears and transformed.

That was weird, for starters. He'd not tried the new alt-mode yet. He was relieved when it went smoothly, everything sliding into place as if he'd been born with it. Transforming was an automated process once triggered, but a mech could gain conscious control over it with time. Slingshot hadn't had time, and the change left him bewildered and disoriented for a moment. Air continued to move across strange surfaces, sensor readings bombarded him from new angles, and he sat for a moment to calm himself, just to get used to the shape he was now in.

Soon however, a sweet hunger overtook him. The faint breeze brushing along his wings was tantalizing. This body wanted to fly. He'd felt this longing as far back as he could remember, but now it was just irresistible, begging, screaming. He knew what to do. He searched his new programming and found a trigger, and jets flared to life underneath him.

He shot up, fast, surprising himself. For a second he panicked. His wheels were off the ground, fears from his old programming asserted themselves, and he lost control. He wobbled and skewed and spun and almost sheared sideways into a nearby tower. Instinct took over in the nick of time and he overcorrected, only to spiral at a steep angle towards the street.

No no no, idiot, you're doing it wrong! STOP!

Cruel or no, the self-chiding inner voice he'd always lived with saved his tailfin this time. Automatically he obeyed it, leveled himself with determination -- almost snapping a rudder -- and banked back around hard. In case he was going to crash, he'd rather land on the same building he'd started on. But by the time it came into view, he found the panic fading. Wrenching himself about in the air had gotten him thinking and reacting again. He banked gently in the other direction, trying a slow turn, and though his wings wobbled and his nosecone bobbed erratically once or twice, he wasn't going to crash. He wasn't.

He was flying.

Oh, Primus, what a feeling. The wind that had been teasing him was suddenly a firm and constant force pushing on his wings, lifting him up, he'd been held down so many times but never been lifted, the feeling of dropping everything away beneath him, no strings to tie him down, not even gravity.

He was flying.

He pointed his nose up, and his jets roared, and he shot higher, the fear gone, a wild joy welling up in his Spark. Rising, not sinking down but rising, and the sky so open, he could see it all and reach it all, just point himself at any light on the horizon and go. "Second star to the right and straight on till morning" -- it would be years before Slingshot even heard of Earth, but he might well have agreed with Peter Pan on that day.

He was flying!

A wild laughter flew from the careering, jerking, freshly painted jet on its maiden flight, but only the stars could hear it.

- - - - -

Sorry for the rather abrupt ending, and the shortness. I'm a bit preoccupied tonight. I wanted to write Slingshot happy again, though. He's had enough angst for one fic (maybe).

akisawana: I have a daughter in her twos, and an autistic little sister. They inspire me quite a bit in how the team treats Fireflight. He's got childlike innocence, and definitely a sort of learning/attention disorder. (And here's another bit of history for ya, just one team member though)

Dragowolf: Well Skydive missed the first part, so now they've got to drag him into it. ;) Don't worry, Silverbolt greatly exaggerates the stress he's put under. He's actually just melodramatic, but he loves his team.

ToaVeka: Yep, that was Flight. Naturally he'd be the only ones letting the kids mess with his controls. Silly. (shakes head)

KitokiriKurisuta and Lament of Meow: Glad to have you! Fan worship is my fuel. Thanks to all of you who read and review!

Oh, and sonofan8track, who's doing some awesome Wheeljack drabbles, had a question for the Aerialbots a few chapters back. So I got their answer.

Question:"You hear a loud explosion coming from Wheeljack's lab. Do you..."

A) Shrug your shoulders and figure he'll be alright?

B) Comm Ratchet for assistance?

C) Run in the opposite direction, in case he does it again?

D) Oh, shiny! (wanders over to check it out)

E) Something completely different.

Silverbolt: "I'd pick B, it's one of those duty things. But wipe my hands of it after informing Ratchet. Wheeljack isn't my problem, and I have four others demanding my attention."

Skydive: "I'll go with B, because I'm a shameless suck-up. Actually, I'd rather let Ratchet deal with the mess, and I know Wheeljack too well to think he can help himself out of his catastrophes."

Slingshot: "Run away, live to run another day and all that. I get enough parts blown off me by Decepticons, I'm not taking chances with Wheeljack. I pick C."

Air Raid: "Ooh, E is completely different. I like that. Like Monty Python!"

Fireflight: (Has forgotten the question and become fascinated by something else)

Air Raid: "Okay, he's definitely a D." :P (The Aerialbots, ladies and gentlemen!)