By Tomorrow's Grace

Chapter IV: Creator

Iacon was falling.

The main perimeter had failed under just a few volleys, the hastily erected defenses torn asunder like paper in the wind, and still the barrage kept coming. And the 'soldiers,' frightened civilians who had never fathomed living in wartime, alone picking up arms and fighting for their lives, shouldered their paltry weapons and walked into the battlefield of their home city.

Optimus had been right. This was no battle—it was slaughter.

The All Spark was frantic. Every breem, more and more of his creations, Iaconian defenders and militant invaders alike, were extinguished in agony. He was helpless to do anything but watch. The All Spark had no body to protect his young ones with, nor any voice to scream for them to stop.

"Oh Primus, oh Primus, someone help me…"

Another of his creations was writhing in his own life fluids, begging for help that would not come. The All Spark remembered this one well, recalling how fondly he'd cradled the gentle young spark as he crafted his shell. He had trusted that his older creations would take care of this one well, but they had punched a hole through his chest instead and thrown him into a ditch to fade away in pain.

"Help me, help me. Please, please someone come for me. I didn't ask for this, I don't want to die…"

With great difficulty, the All Spark pushed down the bitterness welling up inside him and wrapped his consciousness around that of the dying mech's. The struggles slackened, and comforted by the presence of his creator, the mech sobbed in relief.

'Thank you, thank you.'

There was little the All Spark could do for him but to ease his passing. This one did not deserve such an end, yet all around them the gross injustice of it all was being repeated again and again, perpetuated in the screams and rumbling booms of cannon fire.

The ailing spark flared once, twice, clinging to this existence despite its cruelty. It was painful to see how dearly it wished to live, but the All Spark whispered to it kindly, promising another chance someday in a better time. After a moment, it turned and melted into the warm embrace of its creator, and this time it shuddered in relief before fading into darkness.

Whereas the journey to Sam's location had been spent in tense silence, the mood on the ride back to Diego Garcia was less easy to define.

Each of them had their questions about the youngling resting in stasis between Ratchet and Ironhide. Some of them were subtle about it (Ironhide cast wary but discrete glances in his direction, rubbing his forearms agitatedly as though ready to whip out his cannons at a moment's notice should the strange mech spring to life) and others less so ("Twins, if you try to lift his mask one more time, my hand might just slip during your next tune-up," Ratchet bit out, to little effect), yet beneath it all there lay an unspoken but unanimous undercurrent of fresh grief.

From his seat in the far end of the aircraft, Bumblebee paid none of them any attention. The little tarp-wrapped bundle was still cradled in his hands, but the scoutbot would neither unwrap it nor let any other mech close to it.

'What happened to Sam is not something you can blame yourself for.'

Optimus had told him this, knowing that Bumblebee would not believe him now, but hoping he might come to accept it someday in the future. After so many vorns at war, loss was no new thing to Optimus, nor to any of his Autobots, but that did not negate the pain they still felt after losing one of their own.

Bumblebee was young—by Cybertronian standards he had barely entered adulthood—but he was by no means naïve.

Loving a human was often equal parts joy and sadness, though for the humans' sake, Bumblebee had only let them see the joy. He'd been there when Mikaela had found her first grey hair, and while the girl had mock pouted and laughed off Sam's snide comments, Bumblebee had felt his spark freeze for an instant. When Sam picked up Mojo one summer afternoon, commenting in a casual sort of way that the little dog seemed to be getting slower with age, Bumblebee had wondered when the day would come that he thought the same of Sam.

The span of a human lifetime was almost negligible to the Cybertronians, who measured their history in eons and millennia, but Bumblebee had made peace with this. Sam and Mikaela were young still, and if all went well, Bumblebee would have them for another fifty, sixty years.

But he had not gotten even that.

The bundle in his arms had grown stiff and rigid as a wooden plank, but Bumblebee had no desire to look and find out why. Part of him wanted to uncover Sam's face—look at his closed eyes and pretend just for a moment that he was merely sleeping. But Sam's face had been mutilated too, those soft brown eyes Bumblebee loved gouged out and made a mockery of.

Had Sam wondered, in his last moments, why his guardian had failed to save him? Had he prayed for Bumblebee to come for him, waiting, as his lifeblood drained from his failing body, on futile trust and naïve faith? Had he regretted ever meeting Bumblebee and the Autobots in the first place, wishing that he had never been caught up in their endless war?

Bumblebee glanced over at the unconscious white mech lying next to Ratchet, and his spark flared with fresh anger. The Decepticons had wronged him before. They had demolished the youth sectors when Bumblebee was nothing more than a small sparkling, made him a war orphan, and time and time again, had taken the lives of mechs he had called friends.

But this—the sparkless slaying of his little human family, who by all rights should have had no part in their conflict—was a crime that would not be forgiven, one that would be paid back ten-fold.

Bumblebee raised the stiff, lifeless corpse to his chest, hoping perhaps that the warmth from his aching spark might chase away some of the icy-coldness that gripped Sam's body. You deserved so much better, Sam. Destroying the ones who did this to you will not bring you back, but it is the best I can offer.

Upon arrival at Diego Garcia, the white youngling was brought to Ratchet's medbay and placed in a special containment chamber, isolated from the other mechs occupying the repair berths. Whatever his circumstances, no one was willing to risk the safety of the recovering Arcee and her sisters, who had been mostly repaired since Egypt but were still resting in forced stasis under Ratchet's orders.

But those in the medbay were the lucky ones, for they had at least escaped peril with their sparks intact. It was difficult not to think of the ones he hadn't been able to save, like Jazz, whose body he had spent months painstakingly repairing before laying to rest in the deepest level of the base.

As Ratchet ran passive scans on the strange white mech lying before him, Optimus stood to the side waiting patiently for the medic's prognosis. Ratchet said nothing for a long time, working quietly and quickly with the confident ease that marked him as a first class medic. When at last he spoke, his voice betrayed the slightest hint of bewilderment.

"The preliminary scans would suggest he is in perfect working order, but he needs energon."

"Energon?" Optimus's surprise was audible, and Ratchet could not blame him.

Energon was the fuel that every mech needed in the very early stages of their life, but the dependency was almost always shed by early younglinghood, and certainly by the time a mech received his adult upgrades. That this youngling still needed it would suggest he had only been activated very recently, and given the destruction of the All Spark, it was difficult to imagine this to be possible at all.

"Yes. A simple transfusion from one of us may do for now, but if we are to keep him functioning, we will need a long term supply of energon."

That would almost certainly be problematic. Though energon could be converted from solar energy, as the Fallen had attempted to do with this planet's sun, the Autobots had neither the resources nor the expertise to build such a machine, not even on a small scale.

"We don't have the means to getting energon."

"I am aware of the problem, Optimus. I fear that without the reestablishment of NEST to act as a channel to the human government and the timely arrival of Perceptor or Wheeljack, this youngling will be trapped in stasis for an indefinite period, or simply deactivate."

Optimus frowned at that. "That is unacceptable. The All Spark is gone, and yet this young one exists. If we can learn how he came to be…if there is a way to spark without the cube, then perhaps not all hope is lost for our race."

The open incredulity on Ratchet's face was reflected in his tone. "You're speaking of miracles, Optimus."

"If this is a miracle, we must not squander it." Optimus held out his arm, letting the armor of his forelimb shift and fold on itself until it exposed the inner workings. "Do the transfusion. Bring him online, Ratchet."

Sam stood at the edge of a high open balcony, and spread out before him was the golden city that haunted his memories.

There was nothing on Earth that resembled the magnificent metal spires arching up against a bronze sky, gracefully folding and uncurling their leaves like giant flowers towards the sun. Vehicles zipped by both below and above his head, navigating the precarious walkways with practiced ease, and there were mechs scaling the dizzying heights of the spires like insects on a tree. Everything as far as the eye could see was utterly alien, and yet it all struck a chord of poignant familiarity inside him.

Looking down at his own hands, Sam was only a little surprised to find that they were crafted from black metal, with intricate joints and tiny moving parts peaking between the seams. The rest of his arms, and as far he could see, his entire body, was plated with white armor that gleamed in the soft amber light. Though Sam was not vain by nature, even he could appreciate the pristine flawlessness of his new body.

"So," he said, half whispering to himself. "This is me now."

Yes.

Sam turned and found himself looking up at a strange mech. He bore no insignia, nor resemblance to any mech Sam had seen before, but his voice, which was deep and resonant with an undercurrent of ancient strength, was instantly recognizable.

Though the stranger was probably twice his height, Sam had no fear of him.

"Hi."

The mech didn't exactly smile, but there was a definite warmth in his golden optics as he knelt down on one knee as though to see Sam better. Hello, little spark.

Sam peered up at him curiously. The other's features were as alien as the city—he had no discernable mouth and two broad, sculpted plates where his nose should be—but his expression was gentle. "What's your name?"

The mech made a soft rumbling sound, and it took Sam several moments before he realized it sounded almost like laughter.

Designations are only a superficial means of identification. You and I have no need for them. At Sam's bewildered look, the mech smiled in that strange way of his again, with no mouth but kind optics. But if you must, you may call me Creator.

It was a strange name, but then, so were all Cybertronian names.

Sam looked back out at the golden city, feeling his spark pulse just a little bit faster at the dizzying heights and endless horizon. Creator moved silently, with surprising grace for a being so large, and sat down beside Sam with his long legs dangling over the ledge.

This city was always your most favored, Creator rumbled gently. I suppose that is why you choose it even now as the focal point of our meeting.

"I don't know what you mean," Sam protested.

I suppose you wouldn't. Your memories are with me, after all. Your mind may not remember, but your spark certainly does.

Sam looked up at his companion, confused and a little worried. Had he forgotten something? He couldn't remember, but it must have been terribly important. At his expression, Creator only laughed and ran a palm down his helm.

Don't worry. I'll keep them safe until you've finished what you set out to do. The golden optics smiled again, and Creator stroked Sam's face thoughtfully for a moment. You look just as I had imagined you would, although… He hooked a finger under a plate near Sam's chin and gently lifted it upwards. Automatically, the mask shielding Sam's face split along the seams, coming apart and folding in on itself with soft clicks of metal on metal. I did not design you with a mask. Was that your own addition, my Creation?

Sam reached a hand up to feel his face, running the tips of his fingers over the intricate contours of the metallic features. "I don't know."

It's alright. But a mask cannot be worn for too long, lest you forget it is there and it becomes your face.

Sam nodded wordlessly, but his attention soon turned again to the cityscape before him.

The sky was growing darker, the fading light casting a deep amber glow on the city's slowly rotating spires. The city's sounds—the click-clacks of moving spires and whizz of vehicles zipping by—were as faint as though heard through a wall of cotton. It was as though someone was pulling the shades on Sam's vision and muffling his ears.

He looked back to Creator as though to ask him what was happening, and the noble face regarded him with a solemn but kind expression.

It is time for you to return now. Your Autobots are very anxious to meet you.

A thin shudder rippled down Sam's back, and he recoiled under the echoes of pain and screams and maddening sorrow rising to the fore of his mind. The last thing he wanted was to return to out there. Out there were things that wanted to hurt him, things that already had hurt him, and the promise of more pain to come. He wanted to stay here, to watch this living, breathing city under the quiet companionship of Creator.

Creator must have noticed his reluctance, for he laid a hand on Sam's back as though to still the tremors. You must go back. There is still much you have to do.

Sam wanted to disagree, but the golden city was fading right before his eyes, and he realized that the choice to stay was no longer in his own hands. Even the ground under his feet felt less firm and somehow insubstantial, as though it would soon drop out from beneath him. He turned, half afraid that Creator would disappear as well, and snatched his hand as though doing so was enough to keep him there.

"Why? I don't understand!"

Gently but firmly, Creator lifted Sam's metal hands. You may come back when you wish, but this is only a sanctuary, not an escape or a replacement for where you are truly needed.

The reassurance allayed only a little of Sam's fear, but he could sense an urgency elsewhere, a tugging sensation hooked around his entire being that threatened to pull him away from Creator despite his denial. "You'll be here?" he prompted urgently.

Creator dipped his head, just as the last of the light left the city and shrouded Sam's vision with darkness.

I'll be here.