Only Skin Deep

I'm not vain

Alright, you can stop laughing, giggling, snickering, rolling your eyes any time now. Really, I'm not vain. I just happen to be very confident in myself and my appearance…. Ok, so maybe I am a little vain; but I wasn't always like this. Once upon a time, I was infact, quite a sorry sight to behold.

Tracks didn't remember anything about his creation. He didn't even remember who, or what, had created him. He just remembered lying on his back. Tracks. That was the first word that came to his mind, though he didn't know from where. Yet something told him that word belonged to him, was a part of him. It was his name. He activated his optics, and at first, all he could see was the darkness of space above him.

He sat up. The gears in his energy storage banks ground together. He knew he had to find sustenance somewhere, or he would die. But where could he go? He didn't even know where he was. Core programming said he was on his home planet of Cybertron… but where on Cybertron was he?

Contrary to what others may think or say, I was not created with a silver spark plug in my mouth. Nor did I have a crowd of admirers gathered around me waiting to 'ooh' and 'ahh' the second I came online. No, I woke up on the streets – hungry, afraid and all alone. I didn't have a loving creator to tell me where I was or who I was. For all I knew, my creator, whoever he or she was, had simply abandoned me.

Those first few days were the worst. I was terribly weak and extremely low on power. I began to wonder, what was the point of my coming online if I was just going to die again. I wandered aimlessly on the streets, and several times I kept asking people if they could spare some energon, but they'd take one look at me and walk away. It was probably my appearance.

Tracks hung his head dejectedly as yet another door was closed in his face. He sighed heavily. He just couldn't understand why bots were so cruel. He wasn't even asking for much – just what they could spare – but they wouldn't even hear him out. they'd just look at him in disgust and slam their doors.

Shoulders bent, he began to walk slowly away, hand on the wall to keep himself upright. He stumbled twice, but managed to keep himself from hitting the street. The third time however, he crashed to his knees. As he began to pick himself up, he caught sight of himself on a reflective metal surface, and he stared.

He was nothing more than a bunch of circuits and wires fused together, and then layered over with metal rods and plating. His entire body was, in a word, misshapen. His face was an angry red color, protected by a simple white helmet, and housed a pair of bright blue optics.

It was no small wonder that people refused to help me. I was a ghastly sight. And then I began to realize just why I had been abandoned on the streets. I was a mistake, a failure – some bot's creation gone wrong. So they threw me out and decided to start again. What they didn't realize was that there was a spark already embedded within me, and sooner or later I was going to wake up as a sentient machine.

Well, since I'm sitting here telling you this, I guess we all know the answer to the whole gaining sentience thing. Anyway, let me continue my story of how I became the good-looking mech I am today.

Tracks sank down, too tired and drained to go any farther. His optics shut off and he felt himself drift away into blissful oblivion… but then the ride became shaky and he cracked his optics open to see what the cause of it was. His mind dragged itself back up to reality. Someone was shaking him.

"Please… stop," he begged.

"Wake up, slag you, and drink this before Primus awakens," an old husky voice said.

Tracks raised his head, but got no further, as a can was thrust to his mouth and something warm and rich was poured in. energon. Life-giving energon. And he drank greedily till he finally felt his systems surge with energy. It was only when he had finished the can that he noticed the old mech holding it. Amber optics gazed back at his own blue ones.

"Have you strength enough to walk?" he asked.

Tracks nodded, dabbing at the energon that stained the corners of his mouth and sucking it off his fingers. "I can walk, but where will you take me?"

"Some place where you can earn that energon. You'll have to work, but at least you wont go without any sustenance."

It was a good deal. Tracks willingly followed.

He took me to an electronical equipment factory and gave me a job packing completed parts into boxes, to be shipped off later. It was a simple task, an android could have done it, but at least it paid in energon and it was far better than starving to death on the streets. Just wasting away was not the proper end for someone like me.

A lot of the other bots who worked in the factory, the old guy had picked up from the streets too. We were the cheapest labor one could find, which saved him a lot of money. All he had to do was give us energon and we were happy. Well most of us were. I was still avoided because of my physical appearance. It was as if I had a plague of some sort. No one would come near me, much less talk to me…

Unfortunately, some of those old factories were also disasters waiting to happen… I never did find out what the old mech's name was.

How the fire started, Tracks didn't know. He only remembered smelling pungent smoke before the whole factory was enveloped in flames. Tracks was the only one in the packing room when the smoke began to waft in. immediately, he opened the door and rushed out. The blast of heat hit him like fumes from a smelter, as flames sprang up all around him. He could hear screams – of fear, of pain, of death.

Instinct took over common sense. He knew he had to get out of there before he was turned to slag. He remembered where he had seen a lone window and made his way to it. Through the flames he went, ignoring the pain as the intense heat began to melt some of his metal plating. He didn't care about his appearance anyway, he just wanted to get out of there alive.

He paid no heed to the cried of the other robots. He saw some lying injured, but didn't stop to help. Others began to follow him, he didn't care. He just had to make it to that window… and he did. With a swift blow of his arm, he shattered the glass. Flames rushed to fill in the new opening. Tracks heaved himself up, crawled through, and tumbled out onto the street below.

The medics got to me as soon as I came out and whisked me away to the other side of the road. They fixed my more severe injuries, but they could do nothing about my armor. Much of it had fused to my wiring, some of it had melted right off. They said I'd have a chance if I went to Iacon.

Only 4 of us escaped that fire. I suppose I could have saved more, but at that time, lets just say I felt they didn't deserve my help after the way they treated me. I didn't owe them anything. Would they have stopped to help me? I don't think so. It was basically every bot for themselves that day.

Do I regret it? Maybe. Its just that ever since I became an Autobot, I know better now. If it were to happen again, yes I'd stop and help, but back then, I didn't see the point. Of course it was wrong, I know THAT! That's why I'd never do it again, because most of these guys, much as I loath to admit it, most of them are my friends.

So what happened next? Well I was back on the streets, no shelter, no energon, and looking a whole lot worse than I did before. I was a pathetic sight. Several times I'd stop and ask Primus, "Why me!", though I never got an answer. I was just plain miserable. I hated my life, I hated my looks, I hated my luck.

Finally, I managed to get another job at a warehouse of sorts, though this one dealt with mostly junk and scrap metal. Well, at least if wasn't another fire hazard. It was there that I met Cliffjumper, and he was just as arrogant a little runt then as he is now. Walked around with an attitude, though rumor had it that he was high on the Decepticon hit list at the time, and was running scared. I was content to stay out of his way, but knowing my luck….

Tracks joined the line for the day's energon ration. He'd been sorting through junk all day and was too tired to notice that he'd been just one step ahead of the little red mech named Cliffjumper. He was suddenly shoved from behind.

"Move it buddy, I was here first," the mech said.

Tracks turned around. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, get the slag to the back of the line."

"I will do no such thing, and as a matter of fact, I was here first, not you. So you can either wait for your turn after me, or YOU can join the back of the line."

"You think you're so smart huh, slagger?" the little bot was bristling now.

"Well, judging by your attitude, I think I can at least say that I'm smarter than you."

"Oh yeah? Lets see if you can still feel that way with my fist in your faceplate."

At this point, someone else shoved Cliffjumper from behind and the mech let out a yelp of surprise and anger.

"Don't think this is over," he said, just before he turned to face his new antagonist.

Tracks simply rolled his optics and went to receive his ration of energon.

Oh yeah, he got me back. I guess I was a bit of a fool to not take his threat a little more seriously. About 3 days after the initial skirmish in the energon line, I was put in charge of one of the scrap-yards, and I had just come out of my little guard-house to let a couple of mechs in, when that little red terror showed up and proceeded to throw crude oil at me.

He went on to say that he told me he'd get me, and that I'd never be good-looking. I'd always be something the smelter spat up. To which I replied that I'd make him eat his words. That someday I would be admired, while he'd be seen as nothing more than a braggart little runt. And as sweet irony would have it, a couple of weeks later, we were all taken to military boot camp.

Seemed that the Autobots had greatly underestimated just how powerful the Decepticons were, and now they were running out of soldiers. So now they had to settle for a bunch of untrained mechs from the streets.

Coming back to the topic of me, with my luck, it just so happened that I was assigned to the same training base as Cliffjumper. I almost felt sorry for him. He couldn't run anymore, he had to pick up a weapon and fight back. The mechs there weren't exactly kind to him either, so just to prove them wrong he'd throw himself headfirst into any situation he was put into. I don't think he ever quite grew out of that.

But yeah, me. The bots in charge didn't know quite what to do with me. I was such a wreck, I couldn't even transform. If I could have, I don't know what alt form I could have possibly taken. I trained well though, and got pretty good with the guns. Did I get slag for looking the way I did? Everyday. But the better I got at shooting, the more they would stay away from me. It felt good to know that I was, for once, better at something than everyone else. And I had a good head for heights. They figured out this tactic where I'd jump on a flier and shoot from above. As a result, I became good friends with my flier partner.

The war came too soon for Tracks. They had barely finished their training when they got the call to prepare for combat. All the mechs in his camp thought they were ready, proudly showing off their newly acquired Autobot symbols. They weren't ready at all. Far from it. There was no time to even prepare a plan, so the commanders simply ordered them to scatter and fire at anyone who looked like a Decepticon.

Tracks preferred to fight from the air. At least then he wouldn't have to see all the bodies lying around him. He hopped on his flier-partner, Blue Wing, and they took to the air to engage the Decepticon Seekers. Brave, but foolish. A shot from Tracks clipped the wing of a white, red and blue Seeker, and did nothing more than enrage him.

All Tracks remembered after that was Blue Wing getting shot down from under him, and himself falling back to the surface of the planet. The impact of his body hitting the ground knocked him offline.

It was a grim slap in the face to me that war was no laughing matter. There was nothing prestigious about it. You fought, people died – and some of them you may have even killed yourself. Blue Wing was dead, a lot of my company were dead. The only reason I survived was because they all thought I was dead too. Either that, or they passed me off as scrap metal. Oh, and the 'Con who shot Blue Wing? That was Starscream.

So how did I get out of there? Back up arrived – a little too late, but it did arrive. They searched for survivors and found me. I knew my luck had to be turning for the better when one of them suggested that they take me to Iacon, and the others agreed. They loaded me up, and off we went.

When I woke up again I didn't feel any different at first, just really stiff – like coming online for the first time all over again. The place was certainly different though… and that's where I first met Hoist. He was standing in the room waiting for me to wake up. He seemed rather pleased about something, and as soon as I was steady on my feet, he took me over to a reflective panel, and I soon saw why.

Tracks gaped.

"Is this real?" he asked.

"Oh completely real," the green mech said. "There was nothing much left of your original body structure when they brought you in, so we had to give you a brand new one. What do you think? I think the blue suits you rather well."

"I look… nice. Gorgeous even. I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound conceited, but I never thought I could look like… like THIS!"

"Oh I understand. And don't worry, there's nothing you said that isn't true. You DO look quite stunning. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to attend to some other damaged mechanisms."

"Of course, go ahead. I'll find my way around."

Once Hoist was gone, Tracks looked at himself some more in the panel. He now had a streamlined build, slimmed down even more by the dark blue color they'd used. His face was still red, but now it was framed by a wider, white head-piece. The best thing now though, was that he could transform.

He was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. Other bots acknowledged him now, looked up at him as a thing of beauty, some even envied him. From that point forth, he swore he would let no harm come to this body, lest he go back to the wreck he'd been before. He would treat this body like a shrine, so that others would continue to accept and admire him.

The wings and the flames came later, just before I left for Earth actually. They are a tribute of sorts. I insisted on the wings, though everyone laughed at the idea of a land vehicle that could fly. I didn't care. Blue Wing was my only friend, and now everytime I fly, it's a tribute to him for making me feel, quite literally, on top of the world.

The flames. Everyone thinks I got it put on to make me look even better than I already was. In a way, yes, but they're there for another purpose. A reminder of the fire at the factory and the lives I could have saved, but didn't; a reminder to never let that happen again; a reminder of how I once looked, so that I'd never take this body for granted.

"Wow, didn't know you were capable of meaningful stuff like that," said Raoul. "I guess beauty IS only skin deep."