This update took a while, yet wasn't as long as my typical chapters. Odd. I will file it under life continuing to be busy.
As usual, it might be a good idea to reread my previous update before this one. With how long it takes me to find time to get these updates done, it's easy to forget what happened last time.
Thank you to all who favorited, followed or reviewed since last chapter.
TheSilentOne - Indeed he does.
thisgirlsaysyes - Thank you for the kind words and detailed feedback. I always appreciate when someone does that, whether it's good or bad.
KayleeChiara - That stems from finding out a few plots needed a lot more building up than I expected. Plus, Shadow's been in the same place the whole time. That means I need to be careful in how much I use him, otherwise readers will quickly get bored of seeing him in the exact same situation the whole time. And no, Booth is not from Mass Effect. Nor was I asking to add in Mass Effect characters; I was gauging reader interest in me writing another story.
And while this story is classified as SF, Fanfiction only allows me to use two genres. I picked the biggest ones, but there are times when I need to bled in a lot more. Just how my style of writing is.
Thanks for the review, and I hope you have a great day.
Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my
I paced from one side of my cell to the other, steps heavy, fast, and agitated even to my own audio receptors. I'd been pacing when Optimus walked in, distracted by the implications of finding out there was no record of Arcee or her sisters ever living in Kaon, but now I was focused on something far worse. Far more disturbing and terrifying.
Something was wrong with Optimus.
I didn't know what. I didn't know how I knew. But I knew the exact time when something went wrong: when he was walking to my cell and his his optics suddenly went vacant in the middle of the brig. One moment he had been his usual self, mannerisms, stance, and look on his faceplate so very Prime-like. The next he was confused. Distracted. Off. Like the wrong switch had been flipped in his CPU.
A switch that seemed so similar to the one Cold had flipped in me. But that wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Cold was after me. He wanted me because I was supposed to be the Xel'Tor, and that—whatever it was—was a position of power. One Cold himself once held. Being the Xel'Tor was the only reason he could even affect me.
… Right?
The Fall of One can lead to the Fall of Many.
I shook my head and stopped. Then I felt like I needed to turn around. To examine something. To study. Like a gentle voice in the back of my mind was telling me there was something I had to see. I turned.
The crates of Wildwing's drawings were there, stacked neatly off to the side. Most of the crates were still filled with strange and mysterious illustrations created by a sparkling who knew things he should not, but a few of them were a little further away from the others. They were the crates which I'd finished picking through, taking the drawings of true significance for further study while leaving behind the ones that had no meaning.
Only now something was telling me I needed to look through them again.
I moved to the crates and opened the one on top of the stack. The first drawing I saw was of a planet, half water and half desert, with a ring of debris orbiting it. No meaning. The next was a quasar, the accretion disk surrounding it a marvelous combination of blue, green, red, yellow, and white. No meaning. The third was a violet flower growing out of a mossy rock in the middle of a river, a great waterfall serving as a backdrop.
No meaning.
That was a common theme with the rest of the entire crate: no meaning. Not in the ships, people, planets, galaxies, and other celestial objects. I didn't hesitate in moving to the next crate. And the next after that. And the next. I'm sure Bumblebee was looking at me like I had gone crazy, but I didn't care.
What had I missed? Why did I feel as if I needed to find it so badly? Why was it important that I see?
Finding nothing of note in crate number four, I went to number five—the last one—and removed the lid. The first drawing my optics landed on was of an organic shoreline at night. Rocky, with small waves of crystal blue water lapping against the beach, and a stunning, grand white tower of intricate design in the background—the only visible structure of a mountain city far, far in the distance. Like all the other drawings I went through before it, this one held no meaning for me.
Yet it felt like it did.
I reexamined the drawing, then again. Nothing struck out. Wait… What was that at the top left corner?
Upon closer inspection, I found it was a wrinkle. So small it was invisible unless you happened to hold the paper at a certain angle. It seemed to have originated from the paper being folded at some point, but why just there? Why not in a symmetrical manner? I touched the wrinkle, and that small corner of the drawing popped upward, as if a weak adhesive just failed. There was another layer of paper beneath.
This drawing was not one—but two.
I carefully grabbed the corner of the first drawing—the only one I had seen—and peeled it back to see what was beneath.
The second drawing covered up by the first was a virtual photo copy of the brig. There Bumblebee sat at the desk, staring at the monitor. There the Decepticon laid in his cell, wounded and limited in his movement. There I was, kneeling in front of the crate, staring down at a drawing. In the exact same position I was now.
And there Cold loomed over my shoulder.
I snapped my head backward, spark hammering, thoughts fleeing, fear setting in. Cold wasn't there.
But it didn't stop my helm from pounding like a thousand fists were beating the inside of my head, trying to escape. Trying to break my helm. It wasn't the first time my head felt like this.
The pounding became a hammering. The fists became hands on the outside of my head that could turn metal to ice with a simple touch. Crushing, crushing, always crushing. Trying to break my helm. Trying to kill me.
Just as he had before.
I deserved it.
Untruth.
The hands went away. The hammering stopped. The faint trace of an echo told me I had been screaming, but I was okay.
What the frag was that?
I took a moment to recover on the floor, breathing heavily, then I sat up.
Bumblebee was staring at me. Door-wings hitched, in a guarded position. Optics wide and unblinking. Nervous. The Decepticon in the cell didn't seem to notice that anything had happened, but that was unsurprising; he was lying down in the opposite direction of my cell.
I hit the intercom. "You can relax, Bumblebee. It's me."
Bumblebee's door-wings remained hitched. "I don't know that for sure."
"Do you get the impression your spine would turn to ice if we kept talking?"
"No."
"Then you know."
The scout's door-wings relaxed, but he still stared at me, alert. "Should I contact Optimus?"
My immediate thought was yes, the one immediately after it was no. Had I not been feeling so strongly that something was off with Optimus, contacting him would have been a good idea. But if this feeling I had was right—and Cold was involved—contacting Optimus would be a bad idea. A very bad one. Still, someone needed to check out my head after what I just experienced.
"No, not Optimus; he's not a medic. Comm Ratchet. I want him to give me a checkup, just to be safe."
Bumblebee kept looking at me. The reasoning I gave was sound, but there was a particular suspicion in Bumblebee's optics that had me fearing he would contact Optimus instead, just to make sure he didn't do what I suggested.
He nodded, optics finally regaining their usual look. "Okay. I'll talk to Ratchet. Just sit tight."
"Not much else for me to do." I turned off the intercom and stepped over to my berth.
I stopped when I saw Wildwing's drawing on the floor, face up where I dropped it. The image of Cold seemed to pop right off the page. As if at any moment, he would turn, reach out, and grab me. Killing me again. Leaving him to do whatever it was he wanted so badly to do.
Vengeance is a Cycle.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting patiently on the cell berth, waiting. Waiting as Ratchet did his job.
He had different levels of focus when examining a patient. If the patient had done something stupid and gotten hurt, he verbally berated them while fixing the patient's mistake. If the patient was wounded and it hadn't been their fault, he was quieter. And if the patient was very seriously wounded, regardless if the patient had been foolish or not, he was a mixture of quiet and loud. Verbal and nonverbal. Loud in his instructions. Quiet in everything else.
He was like that right now.
The white and red medic was exceedingly meticulous. He had a mental checklist of tests to run. Systems to examine. Readings to study. He went through all of them with a practiced deliberation. Never rushing through a test. Never overlooking a system. Never ignoring a reading. I was glad he took my request for an examination so seriously.
Even though he made such examinations a priority simply due to the fact that if he didn't, and Cold came back, lives would end. Lives which would then be on his hands.
Finally, Ratchet concluded the last task on his mental checklist. He detached the medical tools he'd placed on my armor for more detailed scanning, and stepped back. I could tell from the look on his faceplate that he wasn't happy with what he found. "All systems read nominal. I can find nothing amiss."
Now I was unhappy, too. "That can't be."
"According to all my scanners and tools, it can."
"Then why did it feel like my head was about to crushed?"
Ratchet was silent a moment, looking at me with a measured look. As if thinking of how to word his next statement. At last he sighed and just went for it, "Best guess? Phantom pain brought on by PTS—Post Traumatic Stress—which in turn has been brought on by the series of severely traumatic events you've experienced of late, without time to recover from any one of them. Your abduction. Your stay on the Hammer. Your Protocol. Your experience with Cold. Your temporary offlining. It's not uncommon for Cybertronians to fall victim to PTS; our memories make us relive harmful events again and again."
I bristled at the idea my problems stemmed from me not having a hold on my own mind. As if I had failed at yet another thing. As if I was helpless to bring a stop to this. As if everything I went through was my fault.
I grinded my denta together to keep from snarling. My wings twitched back in a very seeker-like form of fury. My hands turned to fists. This was not my fault!
But then I took a breath. Forced myself to relax. Then I considered what Ratchet said. I admitted that some of my symptoms matched forms of PTS. I admitted that a lot of very painful, very horrifying things had happened to me recently, and I hadn't processed a single one of them, let alone all of them. I'd just been pushing them to a dark corner, where I wanted them to be until I had time to consider them. Problem was, since I'd been in this cell, all I had was time—and I didn't take them out of their corner. Maybe my problems really did stem from my own CPU. My own inability to accept that I had a problem.
I then had a feeling I needed to look to the floor. I did. There was Wildwing's drawing of Cold standing behind me. Why would Wildwing's status as a Seer guide him to draw that, if there was no meaning in it? Sure, most of his work had no point to it, but with this? I wasn't so sure. Why would he draw something like that if all if it wasn't Cold that was my problem, but my mind? Was it supposed to represent my mental issues? My problems that I pushed aside?
No, no that wasn't right. That didn't make sense. Cold came into the picture because of my problems. He wasn't one of them—not in the same sense. If the drawing was meant to convey my PTS, why use Cold to represent it?
It didn't fit.
"Shadowstreaker?"
I stood up from the berth and moved to the crates of drawings for the second time in the last half hour. This time, I knew exactly what I was searching for. But where had I put it? What crate had I put it down? How had I not seen until now?
I quickly reviewed my memory and found the drawing I was searching for. I went straight for the third crate, opened it, and pulled out a drawing I had seen several times before this cycle. Only now, I saw it.
It was a drawing of an alien landscape with a metal floor and floating groups of metal cubes in formations almost too large and complex to comprehend. Dark circuitry ran through the ground, giving it the appearance of panels. On those panels were shapes of beings, too small to see clearly. Above the floor and between the formations of cubes, a colossal sphere of green light floated in the air, with a small, circular platform below it. Tendrils of darkness and light circled it, seemingly fighting each other. The light, defending; the dark, attacking. They accented beautifully against a wall of white light in the distance.
It was a place that, until just now, I realized I had been to before. So had Arcee. Jazz. Ironhide. Optimus. And still there were Elita and Chromia.
My Animus.
"Shadowstreaker!" Ratchet's voice was loud now. Firm. He got that way when a patient ignored him.
I held up the drawing for him to see. "You know what this is?"
He examined the drawing for a moment, then raised an optic ridge. "A youngling's creative imagination at work?"
"It's a perfect image of my Animus."
Ratchet looked confused. "How can you know that? You were offline when the others entered it."
"Yes, but I—I…" Memories clouded my CPU. Of helplessness. Fear. Fighting against my will. The look I'd seen in Cold's optics. Thinking back to when he controlled me was almost too much, but I pushed through the pain. I had to. "I think I went into my Animus before they did."
That just confused Ratchet more. "What? You've never said this before."
Because I didn't want to. Because I didn't want to think about it. "I chose not to. Arcee knows; she managed to drag it out of me right after she came back. I asked her not to tell anyone."
"Why wouldn't you share that?"
"It's… Not nice to think about."
"I'm a medic; I need to know these things."
"I don't think this is the time."
Out of the corner of my optic, I saw the brig door open. I looked up, and Jazz was walking into the room. "Is Jazz relieving Bumblebee?"
"Yes. He's next on shift."
Perfect. This feeling I had said time was short. There needed to be someone out there who trusted me. The real me. Jazz did. "Ratchet. I'm about to ask something that breaks a more than a few rules: may I request to be temporarily released?"
Ratchet straightened, optics hardening. A wrench seemingly materializing in his hand. "No."
"I'm already scheduled to leave in twelve breems. What are your concerns?"
"My concerns?! Did you honestly just ask that? How about a repeat of the last time you were out? How about the safety of everyone in this base, and even the safety of everyone beyond? How about seeing one of my patients be taken over by something else?"
Okay, that hurt a little, despite the logic behind them. At least the last one resembled some concern for me. "I haven't displayed any Cold-like characteristics."
"Other than suspicious pain in your helm, which has happened twice, now. And the second time was worse."
"And on both occasions the pain went away. The second one without me consuming any of the altered energon."
"That just says Cold is playing with your processor."
"Cold doesn't play. He takes. If he had me, we would not be having this conversation; I would claim to not even know who Cold is."
"How can you say that for certain?"
"Because I can remember how I acted when Cold had me. What I said, what I did, what I didn't do. I was different. Scrubbed clean. Like suddenly everything that had bothered me had evaporated into nothing. Do you get the sense I'm like that right now?"
"It doesn't matter what I sense; what matters is what I know. And I can't know for sure if you're you or if Cold isn't just adapting his strategy to blend in."
I was going to have to appeal to a different side of Ratchet. "A fair point. But I ask this in turn: what point would Cold have in blending in, if I was under his thrall?"
"To trick us into letting him out."
"But why would he need to trick you? What stops him from breaking himself out?"
That stilled Ratchet. He narrowed his optics, hand tightening around his wrench.
"Think about it, Ratchet. You know what he can—somehow—do through my own body. Someone who can do what he can doesn't care about tact. Not once they have what they want."
"That's why we have the cell."
"Which isn't built to specifications."
Ratchet straightened, frame language alert. A small amount of fear entering his optics. "How do you know that?"
"I'm observant, Ratchet—I notice things. Such as whenever someone enters the cell, there are two layers of Hard-Light with a cold-plasma barrier between. That's technology we can break with normal weapons. If my Protocol went active and demanded I go out and save Arcee from some danger, I could probably break myself out, given enough time. If I can break something, Cold can break it, too."
The white and red medic seemed alarmed by this. He stared at me, frowning, wrench still in hand. He looked like he was considering hitting me in the head as hard as he could.
"I'm just stating a fact, Ratchet. Please believe me when I say I don't want to take chances with Cold. I don't want him coming back. I don't want people getting hurt by the things I do. But I need to see this."
"What do you even want to see?"
"Security footage."
"Can't that just be described to you?"
The Messages meant for One do not seem relevant to Another.
"No, Ratchet. I think—feel—that I need to see it for myself."
"That's not enough."
"Please, Ratchet—I wouldn't ask this unless I felt this was exceedingly important."
Ratchet sighed heavily. "You know how much trouble I will be in if I do this?"
"Yes, and if you want, you can say I forced you. It would be better that way—I would get more time under guarded observation."
"Why would you want that?"
"As I said, I don't want to take chances with Cold."
"And if this provokes Cold into trying to fight through the energon in your system?"
My mind went back to when Arcee first returned from my Animus. To our argument. The range of emotions we both felt. The pure moment of honesty and true reality that came from it. To the promise I forced her to make—to kill me, should Cold take over. To stop me from hurting anyone else. "Then I pray Arcee finds a way to fulfill a promise she made to me."
Ratchet stared at me for a long time, optics intense. He gripped his wrench a little harder, then loosened his hand. He sighed, again heavily, and put the wrench away. "I feel like I'm going to regret this. Wait here."
The white and red medic looked to Jazz—who had since taken over Bumblebee's duties—and the saboteur opened the inner door of my cell. Then the outer door once the inner door closed behind Ratchet. Then Ratchet moved to Jazz and started talking.
For his part, the saboteur didn't even seem surprised or confused by what Ratchet was telling him to do. Instead, he just typed in a short command into the computer. Then both doors of my cell deactivated.
That was the moment I felt uncertain. The second that I felt afraid. What if I was wrong? What if there was nothing to what I felt I had to see? What if Cold had somehow wormed his way back into my head, and had tricked me into getting the door open? What if I had just doomed all of us?
What if. What if. What if. So many ifs. So many doubts. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't leave. I couldn't. I didn't want Cold coming back. I had to stay in the cell; only in here would he be contained in some fashion. Only in here would I be contained.
The first step to Freedom requires a test of Faith.
Living my life in fear wasn't living, was it? I could stay in whatever cell I wished, locked away from all others. But in the end, it wouldn't matter. Everything we could do to keep Cold out of my head was already being done. If Cold got through, no amount of fear or worry would help. He would take over. I would die again, or be forever in a corner of my mind, helpless to do anything. That simple.
What was my fear good for right now? Reminding me to keep drinking my energon? To keep me watchful for Cold's influence? Or was it more simple—more personal? What if my fear was there to make me miserable. Payment for the things I'd done, and been an unwilling instrument in doing?
Whatever it was, I needed my fear to shut up for a second; I had something to see.
I took a breath, and stepped out of the cell.
Standing in an area so much larger than my cell felt a little strange at first. I'd grown so accustomed to my cell that it felt like I was breaking a law of nature by walking beyond its dimensions. The air also seemed to be a bit cleaned out in the open. Maybe it wasn't filtered as much.
I noticed the Decepticon prisoner was staring at me. I looked at him fully. He seemed unsure what to think of the situation. "Hi."
The Decepticon's only response was to offer a small, timid wave.
"Ya have a way meetin' 'bots for da first time, Shadowster'," said Jazz.
I looked back to he and Ratchet and stepped around to their side of the brig desk. "I try to."
Jazz leaned back in the chair, looking over to the screen that displayed the locations of everyone out on patrol. "So, what are we lookin' for?"
"Security footage from the cycle Cold took control of my frame."
"'Dat' an interestin' time. All cameras, or just one?"
"Start with all of them."
It took Jazz only a klick to bring up the feeds from the cameras that day. The brig computer's main screen was a respectable size, but even then each individual feed was small. We had a lot more cameras than I knew about. Guess I'm not cleared to know everything about the base.
"What' up first, Shadowster'?"
I went through my memories of the time Cold had me under his control. Through muddled, confusing things I saw. The feeling that said I needed to see told me to start at the beginning. "Storage Hanger Echo-3."
"Still got a dent or two from dat."
Jazz entered a command, and the feeds of several different cameras expanded until they took up the entire screen. All of them were paused on a time that had to have been before I entered the room; nothing inside was damaged.
"Move it forward to after Cold used me to fight you." I said.
Jazz did. Through the rapidly-passing images, I saw myself enter the room and start breaking open containers. Saw myself set up the trap that let Cold catch Springer and Jazz off-guard. Saw the battle that took place after.
Even after seeing footage from other parts of Cold's rampage, watching it again still made me sick to my tank.
Mercifully, Jazz got the footage to the part I requested. Where the battle was over, and Cold used that light to make a row of containers fall on top of Jazz and Springer. Now, it was at the point where Cold was the only one still standing. But unfortunately, the only camera that had an angle on me was far away and only had a view of my back.
There still had to be something here that I needed to see. "Play it in real time. With sound."
Again, the saboteur did as I asked. We watched in silence as I stood still in the footage, staring at the row of containers Cold collapsed on top of Springer and Jazz. I stayed like that for more than a minute, then abruptly moved to the Storage Hanger door. A camera that I stepped into view of showed my optics had been Cold's shade of crimson as I exited the room.
Nothing about the footage stuck out.
"Play it again," I said.
Jazz did. Again, nothing about it seemed significant.
"Don' look like much," said Jazz.
I agreed; however, the feeling in my gut said I'd seen what I needed to. "Change to the hallway outside Storage Hanger Beta-4."
The saboteur entered in a quick command, and the recordings from the cameras in Echo-3 were dismissed. The recordings from the new cameras I requested came up. Jazz accelerated the footage to the point where Cold's fight with Jetfire, Air Raid, Smokescreen, and the twins came to an end, and let it play at normal speed from there. This time, every camera had a clear angle on me. This had to give me something.
We watched as Cold's crimson optics faded and were replaced by my usual royal cobalt, before then just going dark entirely. Then I stood still. In the middle of the hallway. Motionless. Then several klicks later, Cold's crimson optics reappeared, and he moved my body with his own mannerisms. He stepped out of frame a few seconds later.
Nothing. Again.
"That's what you wanted to see so badly?" Ratchet asked.
There had to be something I missed. How couldn't there be? I felt like I'd been led to the drawings, and they held meaning. Why lead me to this, yet have nothing come from it? It didn't make sense.
Ah, who was I kidding? There was no feeling guiding me. I probably made subconscious connections with the drawings, and those subconscious connections didn't manifest until now. I went to the footage… Why? Because I wanted something to be there? That I wanted some glaringly obvious sign telling me how to fix my issues? Please. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was I?
The pounding came back. Not as seriously, not as painful, but there. I brought a hand to my head to soothe the discomfort, but it did nothing. I groaned, "Ow…"
Ratchet was on edge immediately. One hand brought out a wrench, the other turning into a syringe filled with a solution that would put me into stasis. His optics hardened, frame tensing up. He was preparing for a fight.
Jazz, however, couldn't be more relaxed. He even put his pedes up on the desk, still looking at the computer screen. "Ah' thinkin'... Why did ya optics go dark, Shadowster'?"
Still fighting off the pounding in my head, I asked, "What?"
"Ya optics. Why did they go dark?"
That feeling, that guiding force in the back of my mind, came rushing back at Jazz's question, drowning out the pain. It said I was looking in the right place, but in the wrong way. Why did my optics go dark? Not just powered down, but dark. Lifeless. I hadn't been dead at that point. What made them do that?
"I don't know," I finally said.
Jazz looked to Ratchet.
"There are a number of medical conditions that can interfere with a Cybertronian's vision centers." The medic shifted in place, keeping his attention on me. "Considering the circumstances at that time, Cold's presence certainly could have done the same."
What is Magic to those who worship Science?
An idea formed in the back of my helm, gaining traction and strength until it was all I could think about. "Play the footage again."
"No, no, no. You've been out long enough," Ratchet said. "You need to be back in your cell."
"Just one playback, Ratchet. Then you can drug me if you want to."
The medic stared at me for a moment, then grumbled and nodded to Jazz.
The saboteur moved the footage back to the start, and then started it again.
As we once again watched me stand still in the middle of the hallway, I leaned down toward the screen and thought back to when I was living the events we were seeing. To the rapid, nonsensical thoughts I had at the time. To Cold's constant, chilling presence. To the look in his multi-lensed optics whenever I even thought of questioning him. I thought of it all to track the time. I counted aloud, "One. Two. Three. Four..."
Right when the Mech of Light spoke to me, my optics in the security footage went dark.
I kept reliving things Ratchet and Jazz could not see. To seeing my Animus. To hearing the inspiring words the Mech of Light said. "Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine..."
I kept counting through everything I saw in my Animus. To when Cold kept telling me to forget everything the Mech of Light said. To the moment I decided I wasn't going to listen to Cold anymore. Then finally to where Cold's hands squeezed around my helm and crushed it. "One sixty-one. One sixty-two. One sixty-three…"
Right at the exact moment Cold killed me, his crimson optics reappeared in the footage, and he gained control of my motionless body.
At last, I finally saw what had been right in front of me. How had I been so idiotic? So dense? So very unimaginative?
I had been looking at my issues all wrong. You didn't put a band-aid on an internal injury. You cut your way below the surface, down to the root. You search for the wound in the messy, critical insides that keep us alive. You patch the wound. Fix the damage. Then you return, messy, but with the problem taken care of.
The same was true with how to cure my problem with Cold. I couldn't get at him from out here—the outside. I had go down into the mess. Down into my mind.
I had to go into my Animus. To the root of my problems. Not physically, but mentally. Only there could I get rid of Cold.
The question now was: how could I get there?
It wasn't somewhere I could walk to. Or fly. Or space bridge. This was an opposite state of existence. None of us—me, Optimus, the Dinobots—had the power to travel there.
The Past has more Answers than most Understand.
My mind went back to when I last saw the Pocket Universe, to the time just after the Primes sent me off. I had found myself in darkness—complete, oppressing darkness. There had been a holographic outline in front of me. I had touched the outline without thinking. Then I'd woken up.
That outline ended up being me. And my touching it had been representative of something I'd done unconsciously. Something I hadn't done before or since: tap into the Delphic's power. But what if it meant more than that? What if, instead of using the Delphic, I had done something else? Something more. Something that gave me an answer to my dilemma.
Humans dreamed. Cybertronians dreamed. Recorded alien races dreamed. Animals dreamed. Why? Why that commonality? Why would so many different species all have something linking them together?
Why would they all share a common trait, if there wasn't something more to it?
What if we understood the concept of an Animus more than we thought? What if we all knew more about it? What if the link between an Animus and the real-life counterpart was more intertwined than we would have ever considered? What if we all entered some outer part of our Animus' as we slept? If we did, what if all that was needed to enter a deeper layer was to be in a deeper sleep?
Like being put into stasis lock.
Even as the thought went through my head, I knew I was right. I could feel that I was, so strongly that there was a tingle at the back of my head. I had discovered something significant. Seen what I had been guided to see. There was no doubt in my mind, now.
I needed to face Cold. And to do that, I needed to be put into a coma.
"This is lunacy."
"When hasn't it been with me?" I asked. I had just finished explaining what I had discovered from the security footage, and what I was certain I needed to do.
Ratchet didn't like what I said.
"Too long," the white and red medic returned. "But I've had enough of this. You need to stop this line of thinking, and you need to stop it now."
"Then what? Sit in that cell and waste away for jours at a time if I get so much as a processor ache? Keep drinking energon that robs me of living like everyone else? You know how long it's been since I've been out of this base? How long it's been since I've been of any real use?"
"Stop thinking yourself as worthless. That will just exacerbate your condition. You need to learn how to keep those thoughts out."
"This isn't about therapy, Ratchet."
"No—that's not the point of therapy. Therapy teaches people to live with their problems. You can learn too, if you give it a chance."
"Only Cold doesn't give a damn about how I think of myself. I can start singing and dancing and painting rainbows and butterflies all cycle, and he'd still be there. Watching. Waiting. Ready to jump on any chance he could get to take control or outright kill me again. He isn't something you live with; he's something you kick out."
"'Dat ain' how Bright put it," Jazz said.
My optic ridges furrowed. "Who?"
"Da Mech 'a Light, as ya call him. Ah call him Bright. Thought da name fit."
I had to admit, it did. "Okay, then. How did he put it, when you talked?"
"He said it was 'bout guilt. 'Bout how ya need ta forgive yourself."
"I can say for certain that possibly the only thing that would make me seriously consider that, would be if I freed myself from Cold. Made sure he didn't make me do anything else. I've done enough on my own." I winced at a faint throbbing in my head, but quickly ignored it. I needed another cube of energon soon.
Ratchet sighed heavily, resting his forehelm in his hands. "Obviously, we haven't convinced you this is a bad idea."
"Correct," I said.
"Then tell me. If this is right—if, somehow, you've cracked a secret of a group of universes that are opposite states of existence to ours—how are you going to get there, when there is no danger of you falling into stasis lock?"
I just stared at him.
Ratchet caught on immediately. "Oh, no, no, no. You are not going to ask me to do that."
"Only way I can be in stasis lock is if someone places me in it," I said. "Medics have the ability to do that."
"For the good of the patient! To help them stay online when they are too heavily wounded for a field repair to save their life, not to test some theory. You are in perfect physical health. That means I have no reason to place you in a medical stasis. So, therefore, I will not."
"And what about my mental health? This could cure me, Ratchet."
"I've already told you about not looking at yourself as diseased."
"The word fits. I can't recharge, drink, talk, or do anything without having to worry about Cold coming back. I am a prisoner both in that cell and in my own frame. I finally see a way that I can be rid of him permanently, and I think it's important that we do it now, while there's time left."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've seen signs Optimus is being affected by Cold, too."
Jazz looked at me sharply for that, but Ratchet just sighed heavily and shook his head. "I've entertained this long enough. You need to get back in your cell."
"But Opti—"
"Get back in your cell, Shadowstreaker."
Defeat, betrayal, and a bizarre feeling of helplessness came over me. I couldn't convince him. I couldn't make him understand. Why was he dismissive of what I said about Optimus? Why didn't he at least ask me to explain myself? Why couldn't he see?
I let Ratchet lead me back into the cell without further protests. He wouldn't have listened to me, anyway; I think I'd pushed him too far with the comment about Optimus. Maybe I had laid it on too thick, let my own self-realization guide me too much. I hadn't done a good job of presenting my suspicions. I expected Ratchet to believe me, but I hadn't given him truly solid reasons to believe me. I probably would be doing what he was, if our positions were reversed.
But I still needed to figure out a way into my Animus. My head started to pound just after Jazz closed the outer door. I winced and rubbed a hand against one side.
Ratchet saw what I did and ran a quick scan over my helm. "Your energon is losing its effect. You need another cube. Can't leave your mind open to Cold."
Open…
The energon I drank was keeping my link with the Delphic cut off, which in turn cut me off from Cold and the Mech of Light. That link allowed them to influence me, but as long as I drank the energon, the link would never open.
But if I didn't drink the energon, then there were protocols Ratchet needed to follow to make sure Cold didn't come back. Protocols that would leave me in stasis.
Arcee was going to kill me for what I was about to do. And she would be in the right to do so.
"Once you're finished with this, I will go to the med-bay and make another batch." Ratchet picked up the cube of altered energon next to the cell's berth—the last one in the latest batch he made. He handed it to me.
I took the cube. Then I dropped it. The cube clattered on impact, a sound that echoed around the cell like an ominous bell signaling an approaching enemy. Its precious contents pooled at my feet, useless.
The pounding in my head became painful.
Ratchet looked at me in horror. "What have you done?!"
"Exactly what I needed to."
Realization appeared in Ratchet's optics. "You arrogant, idiotic, sparkling! It's not going to work!"
I ignored the doubtful thoughts that appeared in the back of my mind, the way my head pounded more and more with each one. No going back. "I guess I'm going to find out either way."
Jazz appeared just outside the inner door, hands up against the Hard-Light barrier, outer door open behind him. He was yelling something at me, but I couldn't hear it. No way I could.
Ratchet's servo turned into the syringe again. Upon injection, it would send me into a medically-induced stasis lock in seven seconds. "This isn't medicine."
"No."
"You're forcing me to do this. You're forcing me to break my code as a medic."
The mixture of anger and pain in his voice made me wince. I hated what I was doing, yet I didn't have a choice. Not anymore. This needed to happen. I had to get Cold out of my Animus. "I'm sorry."
"You will be when you find out this doesn't work."
The pounding increased. I brought my hands to the sides of my head instinctively, the action doing little to stop the rapidly-building pain in my helm. "Ah… Time's out, Ratchet."
Ratchet stood there for another moment, optics pained and angry. Then he moved forward and jabbed the syringe into my neck. Not too gently, either.
A feeling of numbness immediately started spreading throughout my body, sapping me of strength, energy, and thought. I fell to my knees, warnings appearing in my HUD. This was it. "Tell Arcee… Tell her… I'm sorry…"
The last of my strength left me just as the inner door opened for Jazz. I fell back as he shouted something that sounded like nonsense to my audio receptors.
Then everything went black.
Optimus wasn't sure why he suddenly stopped in the middle of his route.
One moment he was driving at a comfortable speed—half again the speed limit of the human road he was on—and the next, he had stopped. Totally and completely. A few vehicles behind him loudly swerved to avoid hitting him. Some honked their horns. A few few shook their fists at his cab. Spun out off the road. He paid them no attention.
For an odd reason he did not understand, he felt happy. No, not happy—more. Joyful. Excited. Why did he feel as he did?
He was sent an urgent feeling from the Matrix that he wasn't okay. It was drowned out by something sent by that louder, other thing he'd been feeling.
Forget the other nine. The one has tripped up…
Why did that thought and feeling make him gleeful?
Ned Booth watched the scientists work.
They were incredibly professional, and inhumanly efficient. In just the few hours since Booth and his group arrived, the scientists had already made significant progress in creating a new virus. At least, as far as Booth could tell; virology was one thing that went completely over his head. At the rate the scientists were going, Booth would have his weapon within days.
But something about it all made his gut twist.
Why was The Concierge helping him? Why was he ready to create all this for Booth, but hadn't gone the one extra step and retrieved the cybonic plague himself? It made no sense. And when something didn't make sense, you were being played for a fool.
Unfortunately, Booth had no idea how The Concierge was playing him. That in itself was something that made Booth worried. When adding in the seemingly infinite resources The Concierge had at his disposal, it became something Booth was certain would haunt him in his dreams.
But he made his choice when he gave up Carmine's life for The Concierge's support. He was committed, now. There was no going back. No second chances, as he had in taking out targets in his CIA and S.T.F days. This was the path he had to stay on, and any and all consequences of treading it would be his own fault.
He didn't like being placed in situations like this.
"Dinner is served, sir."
Booth turned away from the scientists and to the refined voice. Four men were walking toward him. All wore dark grey dress shirts, shined black shoes, with black ties and slacks. One was carrying a silver tray with one hand, while another other carried two wooden chairs. A third man carried in a small, circular table with a white tablecloth over it. The fourth man had two crystal wine glasses in one hand, and a bottle to match the glasses in the other.
How'd they get everything through the door so quietly?
"I'm not hungry," Booth said, crossing his arms as the servers set up the table and chairs.
"Forgive me, sir—but I do not think that true," one of the servers said, the same one who spoke before. He was young, but bald and clean-shaven. His eyes were hazel and had the same, hardened look as seemingly everyone else there. A white cuff link on his sleeve probably signified a higher position than the others. "You arrived hours ago, and, according to your men, you did not eat before departing the Bainsworth. That places your last meal at sometime this morning. You must, therefore, have quite an appetite."
That was putting it lightly, but Booth was ignoring his stomach. He didn't like eating when there was something bothering him. It tended to keep him alive. He'd once gone more than a week without food during a CIA assignment. He'd be fine not eating. "The body is good at using stored calories."
"Of course, but it is my job to make sure all present are fed and cared for," the bald man said. "Please, sir—sit and enjoy."
"I'll eat when I want to. Go away."
"Oh, let the boy do his job, Edward."
Booth looked to the door. The Concierge had just entered the old warehouse, and was walking slowly toward them, with none of his guards in sight. He smiled hollowly when Booth saw him. "I don't pay him to convince people to eat."
"I'm sure you don't. Doesn't change how I'm not hungry."
"Then you won't mind if I start without you, then." The Concierge sat down in one of the chairs, and one of the servers opened the bottle of wine and poured him a half glass. Another server removed the top of the tray, revealing two meals that looked like it came straight from a restaurant with three Michelin Guide stars. He looked to the servers. "You can go."
As one, the servers politely inclined their heads and moved to the door. Then it was just Booth and The Concierge.
The Concierge took off his fedora, showing his very short, brown hair. Then he grabbed one of the two plates, set it before himself, then picked up the knife and fork that came with the plate and started cutting into a small pork dish. "You know, the chef here is from Italy. Not one of the main cities or towns, but this little, out of the way comune named Moneglia. Beautiful place. Peaceful. Great beaches right on the Mediterranean. And the food, oh—the food is unrivaled. The perfect example of Italian cuisine. Truly, they make food an art in that comune."
"That so."
"Oh, yes. You try to find food that surpasses them, you'll be searching for a long, long time. I tried once, but ended up deciding that if it took so much effort to find better food, then it wasn't really worth it. So I went back to Moneglia, to the restaurant where I ate the most, and gave the chef there an offer: be my chef, name your price."
"Generous offer."
The Concierge laughed suddenly, shaking his head. "Oh, it was, but we still haggled back and forth for more than an hour. Me, offering him more money and benefits; and he, making excuses for why he couldn't accept the job with a great smile. His way of setting terms. Eventually, we reached an agreement. He and his family travel with me for half a year, cooking my food and securing the very best in drink. In return, I bought him houses in multiple countries, paid for whatever education he wished for his children, and give him the other six months a year off to run his restaurant back in Moneglia. On top of that, I pay him a seven-figure salary and provide his restaurant with whatever he asks. Sometimes, I wonder why I bothered hiring him." The Concierge raised the fork and ate the slice of pork he cut. He briefly closed his eyes and hummed deeply. "Then I take a bite of his food, and I stop wondering."
"Was that story supposed to convince me of something?"
"No. I just decided to share it." The Concierge cut another slice of meat, eyes focused on his plate. "Why are you still out here?"
Booth wasn't quite sure. Was it the environment? The waiting? The way The Concierge had forced him to give up Carmine? Or rather, was it Carmine's last words?
Saying Booth's name, and then followed by… Something. Something what? The Concierge's bullet had reduced the next word to gargles. Gargles, and lots of blood that, coincidentally, had been right where The Concierge now sat.
What had Carmine tried to say?
Booth gestured to the scientists and finally said, "Just watching. Taking in the magic."
The Concierge's hollow smile dropped a little. "You haven't seen magic yet."
Booth found his serious answer unusual. "Will I?"
"That depends on whether you manage to do what you intended to when you left the S.T.F." He took another bite, chewing slowly before swallowing. "You don't trust me, do you?"
"Should I?"
"No. Distrust is a healthy thing. It lets you set boundaries. Rules. You expect something to be done based on ability, not honeyed words." The Concierge picked up his wine glass and took a sip. "That said, paranoia just hurts you."
"Caution is not paranoia."
"Did I say I thought you paranoid?"
Booth knew he'd made a mistake when The Concierge asked that. He hadn't technically said Booth was paranoid, nor had he said Booth was being cautious. Booth had shown his mental state by jumping to an assumption when paranoia was mentioned.
The Concierge was good.
"Your silence gives you away." The Concierge took another bite, giving off another deep hum. "Oh, I must learn how Luca's secrets. There is no way mortal men or women can make so simple a dish so flavorful." He took a napkin and dabbed it against the corners of his mouth, then turned his attention fully to Booth. "Tell me: do you think I'll stab you in the back?"
"You said distrust is a healthy thing."
"I did. But do you really think that distrusting thought true? If you do, why? What do I gain from killing you?"
"What do you gain from keeping me alive?"
"Enough to keep you alive. Why else would I build all this, bring in all these people? To fool you? Ha! Please. Had I intended on taking what you had, I would have done so. And there would have been nothing you could have done to stop me."
Booth stared at The Concierge. On one hand, the untrained part of his mind was terrified by The Concierge's bluntness. The sheer honesty in those words. He believed the claim entirely. There was a reason why Booth's brain made him the priority threat whenever he entered the room, and he suspected the casual brutality The Concierge showed while killing Carmine was a small part of that reason.
Yet, Booth couldn't shrug off the feeling he was missing something very important. He'd been feeling that from the moment he shook The Concierge's hand hours ago. What was it?
The Concierge sighed. "Seems that won't convince you. How about this one? If I plan on killing you, I'll give you the courtesy of a fair warning."
That promise just made Booth feel more vulnerable. But, he needed to give The Concierge something. "So will I."
The Concierge looked at Booth for a second, then let out a resounding laugh. He eventually mastered himself, then picked up his glass and raised it in a toast. "You can try." After taking a drink, he added, "Now that we've been frank with one another, sit. Rest assured, I wouldn't dare ruin a meal like this by getting blood in it."
It had always been a strange thing, feeling myself wake up when something in my back of my head said I shouldn't be up.
Arriving in the Pocket Universe was even stranger than usual.
I was standing at that pond where I last spoke to the Primes. It was just as large as before, and had just as many boulders surrounding it. Yet it felt wrong. Empty. Completely lifeless.
Everything felt lifeless.
The distant mountains seemed even more desolate than before. The desert felt more empty than a dead universe. The air was stagnant. Odorless. Motionless. Like it had been sucked away. Even the sky, the light, and the constant clouds—usually rolling and boiling like a smoky, choppy sea—were motionless. Formless. Flat color coating a flat world.
It was then I realized I couldn't feel Solus. Or Megatronus. My bonds with them were as dull and flat as everything around me.
I felt so alone.
"Solus!" I called out into the wastes.
There was no answer.
"Megatronus!"
Silence.
"Prima! Alpha Trion! Vector! Zeta! Come on, you have to be hearing me!"
The only sound I got in response was a faint echo of my own voice.
Loneliness and fear gripped at my spark. What was happening? Why was I here? How could I be? Why can't I feel my creators? Why wasn't anyone here?
Where were the Primes?
Right in front of me, there was a blinding flash of light. I let out a cry and fell to a knee, hands over my optics that felt burned. It was a while before that feeling passed by, and I was able to see again.
The Being was in front of me, robes fluttering in a nonexistent wind. Its eyes were staring into mine. Piercing me like etheric blades of white light. "Again, you wander to a location you are not meant to travel. Unusual."
"Why am I here? Where are my creators? Where are the Primes?"
The light in its eyes intensified to the point it was painful to look into them, yet I found it was impossible to look away. As if they had a will of their own, and it must be obeyed. They returned to their normal level of luminosity in a moment. "Your mind is developing more quickly than we anticipated. Perhaps there is yet hope for you."
"Answer me!"
Its eyes lit up again, less intensely this time. A reminder—that's what it was. A reminder of who, or what, I was addressing. "We have suspended the Primes from their duties."
Wait, what? "Why? Where are they? What did you do to them?"
"They broke a boundary given to them. Beyond that is not your concern."
"What did you do to them?!"
It didn't answer.
I felt that loneliness and fear come roaring back. Stronger this time. Louder. I was alone. Truly. And The Being was responsible.
That was when a nearly transparent vortex appeared behind me. All that was visible was the faint blue of its outline, and its outline was twice my height and just as wide. It started sucking me in. Grabbing me and pulling me out toward the desert like I had a chain around my waist.
I grabbed a boulder and held on, but that only managed to make the portal pull at me harder. Sand started to fly. Rocks pinged off my armor. Wind whistled by my audio receptors. It was like being in the middle of a typhoon. "What's happening? What is this?!"
"You have grasped a basic concept that was shown to you, but you have acted rashly upon its discovery. You are now facing the consequences of your actions. You will regret them."
It raised a six-fingered hand, and I went flying back through the air. Over sand and rock and a land that felt dead, and into the vortex.
Nothing made sense once I entered the vortex.
I was pulled and pushed in each and every direction at once. Everything spun and twisted. Cracked and bent. Stretched and folded. Light itself became deformed. Sound echoed again and again and again. I went by doors. Windows. Portals. Stars. Galaxies. Myself. All shattered like glass when I looked at them. All dissolved and reformed a thousand times. All changed.
Then it all snapped back into focus.
Everything that was deformed returned to its usual state. Everything that was bent became straight. Light, sound, and touch became standard. It was normal.
Above me were the cube structures, larger and more complex than could be believed. Below, I was standing on a familiar black metal floor with dark circuitry running through it, dividing the floor into panels three square meters in area.
And in front of me and to my sides, there were copies of me.
Countless numbers of them. Some were performing basic tasks. Others were walking, using tools, or tapping the screens of data pads. Still others were just standing in place. Motionless. Optics straight ahead and dull, while they talked constantly. Sometimes as individuals, sometimes in groups of two or three.
"The Bearer shall return to Duty…"
"What can be done to save Freedom…?"
"Anger is Troubled…"
"Bravery requires Inspiration…"
"Concealment Adapts naturally…"
"Strength is weaker than they Appear…"
"Fear the Knight..."
"Fear the Knight..."
"Fear the Knight..."
I tuned them out, refocusing. I had accomplished what I set to do: I had entered my Animus.
Only something was wrong.
The cube structures were barely moving, ice covering them. The circuitry on the floor was dark—too dark. Nearly as dark as it had been when Cold had me under his control. So was the air. Darkness was everywhere. Surrounding me, engulfing me. Smothering me. It had a cold to it that was greater than anything I'd ever experienced.
This wasn't what I hoped it would be.
The air suddenly took on an even greater chill. An unnatural one that sent a shiver down my spine. As if a thousand unfriendly eyes were watching me all at once.
No.
A shapeless void appeared in the dark. Instantly, it became Darkness. Something more than a concept, but an actuality. Something that inspired fear.
No, no, no.
A shape nearly as dark as the void formed from it. It was a mech. Tall, with incredibly jagged armor and broad shoulders.
And multi-lensed, crimson optics that screamed a sickening, disturbing form of joy.
No…
Cold gave a short laugh that froze my spark and mind. "My favorite toy has finally come to play. How wonderful." He advanced toward me, looking from side to side, optics the only part of his face I could see in the Darkness that surrounded him. "But where is that toy? There's so many versions to choose from, but there's only one I'm looking for. Let me see… Is it this one?"
He reached out with one of his clawed hands and picked up one of the copies of me—one that had been endlessly working on a data pad. He held it up by the helm, bringing it up to his face. It didn't react to him. He shook his head. "Not this one."
Then he crushed its head in his hand.
Like he'd done to me once…
Its body crumbled to metallic dust, then reformed back into the same, complete copy. Cold moved on before it did, advancing closer to me, still looking around as if he couldn't see me. "Oh, favorite toy. Where are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are. I promise I just want to play. Are you this one?"
Another copy was lifted up into the air, this one a copy that had been endlessly talking. Cold sighed when he gave it a brief look. "No… Not this one, either."
He crushed its head, too.
This wasn't happening… This wasn't happening…
As the second copy crumbled and was rebuilt, Cold slowly looked directly to me. In that moment, I knew he was smiling.
And the thought of that twisted sight turned me to ice.
"Hello again… Did you miss me?"
I backed up without taking my eyes off Cold.
He followed me with long, casual steps. "What, are you afraid of me? You don't need to be. I don't mean to hurt you. At first."
I lost my footing and fell. I kept going backward by crawling, never looking away from Cold. Never. Bad things happened when you didn't see him.
"Took a tumble, didn't you? In more ways than one. What were you hoping to accomplish by coming here? To kill me? Throw me out? How do you think that's going so far? This all must be such a…" Cold vanished from sight, then in an instant was standing right over me, face right above mine, "Disappointment. Like you are in everything in life."
I froze in place, unable to move any further. I couldn't break away from his optics. Couldn't turn an audio receptor from his words. I really was a disappointment…
This time, I was close enough to see Cold's smile. It was even more twisted than I remembered. He stood straight and held out a hand. The Darkness gathered around his hand, and formed a dark, jagged blade. "I think it's time for you and I to catch up." He laughed, then swung his blade down toward my shoulder.
There was a flash of blinding light. But not just light, but Light. Something more. My vision went white, my hearing became muffled. There was a cry of pain from above me. Then two pairs of hands gripped me under the arms and dragged me backward. Quickly. Muffled voices spoke, which did not belong to Cold.
A muffled, angry scream echoed. The hands dragged me faster. Another scream, only this time it was suddenly cut off.
Then just as quickly as the Light and the hands appeared, they vanished. I felt my proper state of mind come back to me, followed shortly by my vision.
I was lying on a platform underneath a massive green sphere. The Mech of Light was standing over me, in the position Cold had just occupied. A short distance behind behind him were two very tall femmes. One intense rose red, the other an equally intense sky blue.
The Mech of Light's golden optics were grim. "You have made a grave mistake in coming here."
He was right.
I had been right about how to get into my Animus. You didn't need to physically travel to it to be there. I had done that. I was here. But Cold could affect me here, just like he could in the real world, if I didn't drink the altered energon.
Only here, there was no altered energon. No cell. There was no blocking Cold out.
I had indeed made a grave mistake.
A mistake, I wasn't sure if there was a way to fix.
So that happened.
This has been a plot that has been long in the making, yet, as I said in the top author's note, I found out I needed to build a few other plots up before I could really dig into this one. It's going to be a blast to write.
I am trying something different than just proposing questions to you, the readers. I am making a request of you, and while there is nothing making you do it, I hope you will. I provide this story out of my own free time, which, as I get older, is increasingly hard to find. At least, not without quitting my job... But that's kind of an important thing to have.
If you enjoyed this update, share the story with a friend. Tell them to read, too. And if you enjoyed it a lot, leave a comment. I understand it's sometime's hard to know what to say, but sometimes just talking is all you need to do. I always enjoy interacting with readers in some way, and this site's platform is quite good for it.
Only one parting question in relation to the chapter: what do you think of what has happened to Shadowstreaker? What do you see happening in the future?
This chapter's credit song is "Position Music - Distant Worlds" This is just a short, intense hybrid piece that suits the ending scene. I highly recommend this one.
Thank you for reading, and please consider my above request.
See you soon.