3. Master

The orn after my conversation with Prime, Starscream pronounced me of sufficient aerial skill to discontinue our daily lessons. "But that's only the tip of the iceberg." I had no idea what an iceberg was, but I got the idea. "There's more I can teach you, if you'll deign to show up every so often."

It seemed I wasn't as free of Starscream as I'd hoped. During the following orbits he seemed to be everywhere I went, with the exception of my private quarters. I did my best to ignore him, but curiosity finally got the better of me. I cornered him after our most recent "coincidental" run-in, the streets just outside of the Academy.

"Why are you still here?" I demanded. "Don't you have duties to attend to?"

He stared at me for a klik, then proceeded to laugh. I scowled, missing the joke. When he was through, his face was still lit with amusement. "You are my duties."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Didn't Prime tell you?" I shook my head and he quirked an optic ridge. "I'd hate to spoil the surprise. Why not ask him?"

Optimus acted like this was obvious. "Because he's yours," he said. I must have looked as astonished as I felt.

"What… mine?"

Prime nodded. "He's belonged to you since you were a sparkling."

"Wh… but why?"

"I gave him to you the orn you were Sparked."

"But…" That didn't really answer my question, but Optimus could keep his secrets when he wanted to. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What use would a protoform have for a slave? Think, Nova. How would you have treated Starscream?"

I opened my mouth to speak, remembered the beaten, hate-filled Decepticons bound to other Autobots, and closed it again.

"You see?" Optimus went on. "To hold another mech's life in your hands is a grave responsibility. Our conversation showed me that you are now mature enough to take on that responsibility. I'm not asking you to change immediately… only remember that, though they wear a different symbol and have optics of a different color, Decepticons are as Cybertronian as you."

"You might have told me," I accused Starscream later.

To which he replied in his usual insolent manner: "Why, so I could have spent the past twenty vorns fetching you rust sticks?"

"I don't need this," I grumbled. I didn't stop to think that several vorns ago I would have leapt at the opportunity to own a slave to show off to the other Autobots.

"I'm not finished with you. There's more I can teach you, if you'll believe me."

"What can you teach me that the Academy can't?" I scoffed.

He raised an optic ridge. "If you hear only one side of a story, you'll never know the truth."

"I know the truth," I growled, unsettled. I knew the only side of the story that mattered… didn't I? "I don't need you twisting it."

Starscream turned away with a shrug. "When you get curious… just ask."

Eventually I began to notice things.

It started with Starscream. I saw more of him than any other Decepticon—than any other mech, really. The way even his smirks had moods: the pleased smirk, the amused smirk, the ever-infuriating "I know something you don't know" smirk. The way his optic shutters were slanted to shield the sensors from high-altitude sunlight. The glyphs engraved into his helm and along the upper edges of his wings, spelling out what made Starscream who he was: speed, agility, freedom.

Over the vorns all his quirks and habits became familiar. I learned something of his history, scattered references to a far-gone time. I learned of his wingmates, Thundercracker and Skywarp, closer than family. I couldn't imagine being completely connected to two others, much less being separated from them. I also heard the designation Skyfire, though this character in Starscream's past remained shrouded in mystery for some time. And occasionally he referred to another mech.

"If he were here," he would murmur to himself, or "I wonder what he would think of that…"

Then, to my utter horror, it was the other Decepticons. I began to recognize them, to remember their designations and personalities. My optics grew to see that they were as diverse as the Autobots in size, shape and altmode. I saw faded colors beneath vorns of grime. Their optics varied in shade, ranging from deep purple to pale pink to nearly orange.

Starscream was right: though I occasionally found some menial task for him, teaching was the most valuable service he had to offer. He showed me complex aerial maneuvers and instructed me in the ways of Seekers, despite my protests that this knowledge was useless. He never repeated his offer to tell me what the Autobots allegedly had to hide, but I didn't forget it. "When you get curious," he'd said… slag, anyone would be curious after that.

Having Starscream as a near-constant presence wasn't as aggravating as I feared. He would complain mightily and do as he pleased, to a point… but if I told him to be quiet, he didn't speak a word, and if I told him to leave me alone, he vanished until I sought him out.

I graduated from the Academy on schedule. My lines were humming in excitement all decacycle; I was eager to get this ceremony over with. Optimus had promised that I would be upgraded into my adult form. A real body at last, one not towered over by Prime and Ironhide and Starscream, one worth caring for and modifying.

A decacycle before graduation, I went with Optimus and Starscream to choose my new body. Ratchet, one of Prime's close friends, would oversee the transfer. Despite my general aversion to medics, I liked him. He never treated me like a sparkling. Even better, he'd never remarked on my wings or my optics.

Optimus and Starscream stopped outside. When I looked back in confusion, Prime said, "He's waiting inside."

"You're not coming?"

"Make yourself who you want to be," Optimus said. "It will be easier without us looking over your shoulders."

Ratchet was waiting when I entered, red-and-white arms crossed over his windshield, one pede tapping impatiently. "There you are," he said when he saw me. "You're late."

"Traffic," I said.

"You've got wings, use them." He beckoned me to follow him. "Given any thought to your new body?"

More like an endless back-and-forth argument in my processor. For most of my life I would have given anything to be like everyone else: wingless, wheeled, groundbound. If it meant an end to the staring, the muttering, the utter humiliation of being a Seeker, I would have swapped this form for that of a normal Autobot in a nano-klik. If it meant separating myself from the slaves, disposing of my accidental resemblance to a Decepticon, I would have done it.

And yet…

Now I knew flight. I had fired up my thrusters and shot into the air, sliced through clouds with ease. I had felt wind rushing over these wings that had caught the subtle currents of Cybertron's atmosphere and carried me into the sky. Could I give up that? Could I keep myself tied to the surface forever?

The same questions had chased themselves around and around in my processor for vorns. It would be impractical to take wheels now that I'd learned to fly. But I could adapt. Optimus would disapprove. But he would understand. Starscream would disapprove. But who cares?

Make yourself who you want to be. But who did I want to be?

By the time we reached Ratchet's workshop, I had come to a decision. It was less logic than gut feeling, but after all, my mind could change someday. My Spark wouldn't.

While I was offline, I dreamed. Sometimes a mech's processor ran active during recharge, flitting half-conscious through old memory files or spilling nonsense patterns from imagined optic images. Perhaps because my processor had been roiling with thoughts of flight, I dreamed of the sky, endless blue with gold-pink clouds scudding across it.

When I emerged, I took great satisfaction in seeing their faces: Prime's smiling, so proud that it warmed my Spark; Starscream's shocked at first before sliding into a knowing smirk.

"Not even blue optics?" he teased.

"It suits you," Optimus said.

I lifted my chin proudly. In my new form I was taller than Starscream, but still smaller than Optimus. In make and model I strongly resembled Starscream, with enough personal touches to set us apart. I didn't want a bright or optic-catching color scheme, so I had been painted mostly silver, with highlights of intense red. The Autobot sigil held a place of prominence on my wings—that should get their attention. Let them stare. I had made my choice, and I wouldn't turn back.