Slipstream: Chronicles

Chapter Four

Innocence Lost

Slipstream paced up and down the length of his holding cell, the cybertronium/adamantium box that had become the extent of his world echoing with the sound of his footsteps. It was no different to any other cage that Slipstream had seen or read about; sure, it was quite spacious, and was open at one end; the only thing standing between him and freedom was a set of barely visible energy bars, that would cut through his chassis with little or no effort if he was ever stupid enough to try to escape. The recharge couch in the cell was halfway comfortable, and they had even allowed him a television, just to while away the time.

But, at the end of the day, it was still a cage, and they had pretty much thrown away the key. Slipstream needed to be free, and he needed it now.

They, his former Autobot colleagues, had tried to be understanding. They had tried to be kind. They had performed a gruelling array of tests, hoping that some kind of cure could be found for Slipstream's condition. But that still didn't stop the hatred from showing in their optics. He could see it even now, reflected back at him from the optic plates of his two guards. They tried to stay impassive, to show that they upheld Autobot ideals, that they were kind, and understanding, and sympathetic to his condition. But all Slipstream could see was disgust, revulsion for what he had become, and what he had done to try and survive that transformation.

Vampire. The word echoed around Slipstream's mind, whispering into his thoughts like the phantasm of a forgotten dream. He had tried so very hard to escape the fate that had overcome him. He had fought to contain the beast within, to control its constant need to feed. He had lost. Eventually, he had given in to it, to its alluring, seductive embrace, and the Slipstream that had been was lost forever. Slipstream tried whispering it to himself, to get a feel for the strange human word.

Vampire. Every time, it left a cold and bitter taste in his mouth. A taste of loss and defeat.

O o O o O

Wheeljack sat at the main workstation in his lab, absent mindedly tapping the side of his head with the fingers of his right hand. He had both arms leaning on the desk, his chin nestled in his right palm. It was late, and he desperately needed to recharge, but Wheeljack could not seem to tear himself away from the puzzle that lay in front of him. The display screen had shown the same image for six hours, and Wheeljack had been staring at it for very nearly the whole time, as though by will alone he could look past the conundrum and see the answer.

On the screen, a high resolution schematic of Slipstream rotated slowly, occasionally highlighting different sections of his structure. For four days, Wheeljack and Ratchet had been looking over the schematics and running every test he knew how to do, hoping to find a reason for Slipstream's condition. Nothing seemed apparent. He had even contacted one of his counterparts on Cybertron, asking for the youngster's original blueprints. Sadly, they had been of no help.

Wheeljack was just giving consideration to turning in for the night, when a thought struck him. At first, the idea seemed preposterous, little more than fiction, but the more he dwelled upon the idea, the more it made sense. Wheeljack considered calling Optimus Prime on the spot, such was his excitement at the possibility of a breakthrough. But his theory was still in its early stages, and after a moments further thought, Wheeljack decided to review his idea in the morning, before contacting Prime. After all, if he was right, and he prayed to Primus that he wasn't, then there was no hope for Slipstream at all.

O o O o O

Slipstream awoke from recharge, and immediately sensed that he had a visitor. His internal chronometer told him that it was early, about an hour before the morning changeover. Right on time. He didn't need to see who it was; he knew exactly who would be standing on the other side of the bars. Optimus Prime had been visiting him every morning at about the same time since his capture. Slipstream kept his optics off-line, hoping that the massive mech would just leave. He could feel Prime's presence, hear the energon pulsing through his huge frame, and the thought made Slipstream smile briefly. Whilst Slipstream was beginning to find the visits tedious, there was still a part of him that enjoyed tormenting his former idol.

"How long do you plan on standing there, Prime?" Slipstream finally ventured, without getting up from his recharge couch. His voice had changed since his capture, the young innocence in his voice gone, replaced with a much darker, deeper timbre. Prime had found this fact quite unnerving, and Slipstream knew it.

"As long as it takes," Prime replied quietly. He moved closer to the bars, before continuing. "I have to know. I have to be sure that the Slipstream I knew has gone for good."

"Of course he's gone," Slipstream crooned, his voice becoming low and menacing, losing the last of its sardonic humour. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch so that he faced Prime. His deep red optics met Prime's cool blue gaze, and he smiled, clearly displaying his fangs. "You have to know that, Prime. Deep down, you have to know it's true."

"I can't believe it."

"Why not?" Slipstream asked, rising smoothly and walking slowly up to the bars of his cell. "Why can't you let go of the idea that the Slipstream you knew was anything other than a cover? Are you really so blind? Is the great Optimus Prime so sure of himself that he will ignore the truth, even when it is staring him in the face?"

Slipstream raised his left hand, his fingertips coming within a hair's breadth of the lethal energy beams. He looked at his hand, then up at Prime, giving him a wry smile. I'll prove it to you, the smile said. Slowly, Slipstream began to trace his fingertips over the bars. There was a faint pop, followed by a sizzling sound as the energy beams began to eat into the material of the young mech's black-plated hand. Slipstream continued pushing, his face a mixture of controlled agony and grim determination, until his whole hand had been nearly obliterated. Finally, panting through the pain, Slipstream pulled his ruined hand away, raising it for Prime to see.

"Eventually, you are going to have to realise that there is nothing here," he hissed. His hand was already beginning to reform, thin arcs of energon playing over the metal surface as it regained its original shape. Before long, the black armour plating was once more whole. "Nothing, that is, but a monster..."

O o O o O

"Prime, glad you could see me," Wheeljack said as Prime entered the science lab.

"Not a problem, Wheeljack," Prime replied, taking a seat in a corner of the lab, coming to rest with his arms resting on his knees. "You sounded as though you had something for me."

"I do," Wheeljack said uncertainly. "Or, at least I think I do. I might have a theory on why Slipstream is the way he is."

"Go on," Prime urged quietly, leaning forward slightly.

"I've run a full comparison between Slipstream's original blueprints and the scans we've taken over the last few days," Wheeljack began, tapping a control and bringing up the blueprints on a large display screen. "I've found a few very important changes. Firstly, the fangs. They're made of a cybertronium/polycarbide composite alloy, similar to the armour piercing shells favoured by some snipers; Bluestreak, for example. It means that he can bite through the armour of almost every mech in the base.

"Secondly, there are several major changes to his power matrix. His storage cells seem to be almost incapable of keeping a standard charge; instead they only accept an altered charge, one that has been pre-processed by another system. This we already knew, or had at least guessed. Thanks to the plans here, we know he wasn't created with these defects. And I checked with Ratchet's files as well. Slipstream had a full work up on arrival, and his specs matched the originals almost perfectly."

"So he's changed since arriving here," Prime whispered, half to himself. He sat back in his chair, and heaved a deep sigh, lost in thought for a moment. "The question is how?"

"That had me stumped as well," Wheeljack admitted, shrugging lightly. "But then it hit me last night. What's the one traumatic event he's been through since he got here, six months ago. Traumatic enough to do something like this."

"The space-bridge?" Prime asked, sudden realisation crossing his features.

"The space-bridge," Wheeljack echoed. "You know how the bridge works. It works on the same principal as most short range teleportation devices; matter reintegration." Prime's slightly puzzled expression told the scientist he had nearly lost his audience. He tried a different approach.

"In short," he continued, "the bridge works by taking an object apart at the molecular level, translating its matter into energy. It sends that energy in a form of signal to the receiving post on Cybertron, where the energy is re-assembled as matter. The whole thing takes just a few minutes."

"Okay, I'm with you so far," Prime said, nodding slowly.

"What if, when the space bridge got hit at that battle, it was triggered briefly, just before the explosion. We know Slipstream was inside its area of effect. The bridge could easily have scrambled his matter, then put him back together without sending him to Cybertron, leaving him in the state he's in. Which leads me to the next part of the theory. Slipstream wasn't alone in the accident. Someone was in there with him."

"That's right, Ratbat," Prime said, before motioning that Wheeljack should continue.

"Indeed," Wheeljack confirmed. "The Decepticon fuel auditor. It makes sense, after all. Just think; armour piercing fangs? A fuel tank that can process non-standard fuels? Who does that sound like? I think that the accident somehow merged the two of them, leaving us with our vampire."

"It sounds plausible," Prime said, whilst rubbing the right side of his head with his hand. "The trouble now is, can we fix him?"

"That, sir, is a much more difficult question to answer..."

O o O o O

Jazz checked his chronometer, wondering how much more of his watch was left. The time showed up as two-thirty-seven in the morning. Or, more to the point, exactly three minutes later than it had been the last time he had checked. Jazz chided himself for feeling on edge; he had been on edge since starting his shift, and the stress was starting to show. He half considered playing some music to while away the time, but he knew better than that. The security on Slipstream's cell might have been lowered a little, but that didn't mean that the monster was any less dangerous. Jazz needed to be alert.

The reason for Jazz's stress was currently sitting at the back of his cell. For the last three hours, Slipstream had been doing everything within his power to make Jazz miserable. He had stood at the bars of his cell and stared at Jazz, he had talked to him, he had shouted, jeered, laughed, cried, screamed, howled, begged and every other adjective in the dictionary. And all the while, that same, mocking look had been in his eyes. Three hours later, and Jazz's nerves were frayed to the point of breaking.

It was a shame, in a way. Jazz had liked the young mech; everybody that had got to know Slipstream had liked him. For a while, he had filled a gap that had formed in the Autobot ranks, the role of everyone's surrogate little brother. Bumblebee had grown up a little in his time on Earth, and Jazz had enjoyed the chance to share his love for pop music with someone again. In their own ways, almost all of the Autobots had taken Slipstream under their wings, and he had apparently adored them for it. But not any more.

Slipstream had switched the lights off in his cell, and had retreated to the back, out of clear sight. If Jazz stared hard enough, he could make out the soft, blue glow of Slipstream's optics. The young mech was quiet for the moment, a fact that Jazz was thankful for. He shifted his weight slightly, from one foot to the other, and stifled a yawn. It was then that Jazz noticed the sound; Slipstream was crying again. Jazz let out a sigh, exasperated by the fact his peace and quiet had been so brief.

Jazz decided not to react, no matter how tempting it may be to tell Slipstream to shut up. After a few minutes, though, the noise had not risen above the level of a soft, gasping sob. The forced mockery that had been present before was missing. It sounded genuine to Jazz's mind, but he was so tired and edgy he couldn't be entirely sure any more. After a few minutes, Jazz decided that he had had enough, and took a few steps toward the cell.

"Pack it in, would ya, kid?" he called into the cell. No reply came, save for more crying. Jazz moved closer to the bars, and tried again.

"Just give it up, Slipstream," he said angrily. "You're really starting to damage my karma..."

The crying slowed, then stopped. Jazz could hear Slipstream taking a few gulping breaths, as though to steady himself. Jazz could just make him out in the gloom of the darkened cell, sitting on the floor with his knees tucked under his chin. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, as though trying to make himself smaller, like he was hiding from something. His position made the wings from his jet form stand out prominently on his back. The whole image had the effect of making Slipstream seem almost child-like. For a brief moment, Jazz felt a great swell of pity for the young mech. It was quickly stamped down, however, by the memory of what Slipstream had done.

"Jazz?" Slipstream's voice had changed, sounding much more like his old self, albeit drenched in sadness. The vampire turned his head to face Jazz, and it was then that the master saboteur noticed something: Slipstream's optics weren't red any more. They were blue.

"Is... Is that you, kid?" Jazz asked.

"For now," came the hushed reply. "It's asleep. I don't have long, Jazz. It'll be awake again soon. I just wanted to say... to say that I'm sorry. I tried to stop it from killing those people. But it was so strong. So very strong..."

"Listen," Jazz began, "we're going to get you sorted out. Wheeljack and Ratchet are working on it right now. If anyone can do it, they can."

O o O o O

Optimus had known it was going to be a bad day from the moment he woke up. Upon waking, Prime had received a message from Jazz that had been sent at around three o'clock in the morning, telling him that an important development had arisen with the prisoner. Prime had gone down to the brig immediately, even skipping his morning energon ration. At precisely seven thirty in the morning, Optimus Prime once more stood outside Slipstream's cell.

The trouble was, Slipstream was no longer in it.

The cell was instead occupied by Jazz. When Prime had arrived, he had been greeted by the sight of his special ops agent standing behind the energy bars of the cell, begging Wheeljack and Inferno to hurry up and let him out. The controls for the cell entry had been destroyed, and Wheeljack was busy trying to bypass the system and let his friend out of the cell. When Prime had demanded an explanation, he had not liked what he heard.

Jazz had explained about the events of that morning, of how Slipstream had spoken to him. He had then described how, an hour later, Slipstream had started convulsing, before collapsing on the cell floor. Jazz had called for help, but when no-one had answered he had lowered the forcefield protecting the cell entrance and gone in, to check that the prisoner was still alive.

"The next thing I know," Jazz finished, "I wake up in here with a banging headache, and Inferno's yelling at me that Slipstream has gone. I'm sorry Prime. It was a rookie mistake, and I shoulda known better." Jazz shook his head in shame.

"That's okay, Jazz," Prime sighed. "At the end of the day, you did what you could, what most of us would have done. You couldn't have known he was faking the seizure. After all, we know so little about his condition still. One thing is heartening, though. The fact that Slipstream didn't kill you shows that there may be a little of the old Slipstream left after all. After what you told me, though, he might be losing that battle."

O o O o O

Hiding in the air duct above the brig, Slipstream watched as Optimus Prime left the room. He had heard everything, and the sheer naivety of it all made him want to laugh. To a certain degree, they were right. He could feel the original 'Slipstream' personality writhing impotently in his head, screaming to be let out. But he was too weak to stop the creature that he had become. Listening to the youngster's cries as he pounded on the walls of his own mind, the new personality smiled to itself, deriving a sick pleasure from the torture of it's host.

There will be a reckoning between us, Prime, the creature thought to itself, barely controling the urge to snarl out loud at Prime's retreating form. Your troubles are just beginning. You think that you can just kill me, to save this whelp? Fine. Try, if you can. I'll be waiting...