Chapter Three: Damaged
- Five days ago -
Night has fallen. The streets are empty and dark, the houses silent. A single streetlight hums at a corner, a swarm of bugs flit around it. Across the street sits an abandoned construction site. It's been blocked off by a wooden fence, but the wood is old and worn, rotted in a few places. Several planks are missing.
Sideswipe isn't sure what to make of it.
He grumbles to himself and runs another scan. Again, it comes up negative. He settles down on his tires.
Hidden amidst the usual organic slag—remnants of human machinery and transmissions bouncing through the atmosphere—he's picking up an energy signal: energon. It's faint, but it's there. What he's not picking up—not on his scanners, anyway—is a spark signature.
The slag?
Not on his scanners. Not by sensor. Nothing official. Not something another 'bot would detect. What he's picking up is a trace of himself, his other half: a ghost of Sunstreaker.
Come on, he thinks.
Sunny should have noticed him by now. He should be lighting up every, single Autobot scan for a hundred metras. Sunny has to know he's here.
The construction site is still and silent.
The frag is he doing?
A deca-cycle—three planetary rotations—he's been looking. It's taken Sideswipe that long to pinpoint his brother's signal and he finds him not buried in a human lab somewhere, not in Decepticon clutches, but here, in a settlement in the middle of nowhere, hiding in the dark next to a bunch of rusted machinery.
((Sunny?)) he comms.
Come on, glitch-head, he thinks. You're starting to freak me out.
It's not just the radio silence, either. Everything about this is wrong. Why here? Why now? If Sunstreaker has been here this whole time, why hadn't he contacted anyone? Why hadn't he set out a distress signal when he escaped?
Sunstreaker's presence should be lighting up in Sideswipe's mind like a nuclear fragging detonation. He should be able to see where Sunny is.
But he can't. Sunny is barely there, a whisper, a suggestion.
And Sideswipe needs to know why.
He eases into the street.
There are no humans out to see him. The whole neighborhood is quiet, the natives in recharge. He makes no sound as he comes to a stop outside the fence. His headlights cast long shadows through the missing slats. Light glimmers on standing pools of water and a collapsed pile of metal beams.
Nothing stirs.
((Last chance, bro,)) he says.
No response.
Fine.
The fence is held shut with a locked chain threaded through two boards. Sideswipe digs his tires in and charges. Wood breaks over his hood, pieces go flying; the gate pops clean off and lands about a metra away in a cloud of dust. And then he's in.
The main structure is half-finished. Rusted metal reaches up to the sky. The lower section has walls, dotted with small squares leading into the empty darkness inside. A small hill of gravel leans against some sort of digging rig. Piles of building material are stacked here and there—more wood, warped and curved into bows; a set of concrete tubes as big around as his thigh; thin, ridged lengths of steel. And there, tucked into the gloom beneath a crumbling awning, is a yellow car.
Sideswipe knows that shade. He'd know it blinded.
"Sunny!" he says.
Sunny doesn't move.
Sideswipe starts forward. The ground is pockmarked with craters and sink holes. He thinks better of it about halfway across.
Ah, frag it. It's not like there's anyone to see me.
He transforms. Arms shift into place to push him up onto two legs. Before he's done, before he's even got hands, he's walking toward his brother.
"Sunshine!" he says. He's grinning. He's lifting a rearranging hand to wave.
A flurry of movement as Sunstreaker's back splits apart and his missile launchers fold out.
"Get away from me!" Sunny says. Only it's not Sunny's voice.
Sideswipe freezes.
Sunny inches back, creeps closer to the building. His launchers are trained right on Sideswipe. He can feel his brother's targeting systems locked on.
"Whoa," he says. "Sunstreaker, calm down. It's me. It's Sideswipe."
"I don't' care who the fuck you are!" Sunny says. "You stay away from me."
"Easy. I'm not gonna hurt you. You know that. Just… just put those away, will you?"
"The hell I don't. You take one more step and I'll blow your goddamn head off."
Something cold and sickening twists around in Sideswipe.
"Hey," he says. "It's okay. Sunny, it's me. It's okay. Listen—"
Sunny sinks on his tires.
"Listen to me," Sideswipe says. "You're not making a lot of sense right now. Please. I just, I want to talk to you, alright? Just calm down. Put those—"
Sideswipe has stared death in the face more times than he can count. He's stared down his brother and those launchers once before. It's not something he ever wanted to do again.
A bright flash. A burst of smoke. Sideswipe drops to the left as a missile roars overhead. Heat washes over the back of his head. A grinding cough and he looks up and sees Sunny's tires spinning in the gravel. He's running.
"Sunstreaker!"
He won't catch him. Not on four wheels, not now.
Sideswipe's jet-pack ignites. Flames lick the back of his legs. He leaps up, kicks it into full throttle, and takes to the air.
The launchers swivel. Three missiles fire.
He tucks his limbs in and spins to the right. Too late. Two of them streak past. But the third…
The explosion bats him out of the sky. He plows into the ground, skidding, bouncing, ripping gouges out of the dirt. He smacks into the pile of concrete tubes. He lays there for a moment, trying to figure out if his arms still work.
Spinning tires. A flash of yellow as Sunstreaker makes a break for the open gate.
Sideswipe pushes himself up in a pile of debris. One of the tubes rolls off his chest. He shakes his head. The armor on his back shifts. His ion cannon folds out, lifts up, and settles on his left shoulder. The barrel spins, the weapon hums. Sideswipe takes careful aim.
A hot, blue beam shoots out. It hits the ground a metra in front of Sunny. It burns a trench into the dirt. Sunny fishtails and swerves. Then Sideswipe is up, out of the hole, and racing toward his brother. Before Sunny can right himself, before he can take off again, Sideswipe bends low and hits him.
He catches him in the undercarriage. Sunny's own momentum carries him into the air and flips him up. He crashes onto his side, rolls onto his roof.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
What? Sideswipe thinks. He didn't catch himself. Why didn't he catch himself? Something's wrong.
Sunstreaker has always been fast and precise. He should have been able to catch himself. He should have transformed, rolled with it, landed on his tires or even onto legs.
Sunny explodes into transformation. His car form falls apart and rearranges into arms and legs, hands and feet, a chest, a head. Those ridiculous head-fins; Sideswipe can't help the smile he feels tugging on his face when those stupid sensor-arrays slide up onto Sunny's head.
"Finally," Sideswipe says. Sunstreaker rolls onto his knees, his back to Sideswipe. He picks himself up. "Now, you mind telling me what…"
Sunny turns. Sideswipe's words fall out of his mouth. That sickening twist inside him punches him right through the chest.
"Sunny," he says. "What… what happened?"
His face is gone, replaced with some horrible imitation, a mockery. Rigid pieces sit where features should go. There are gaps in between, places where he can see past his brother's face, into his head.
"I told you to stay away from me," Sunny says. "But I guess you couldn't do that, could you?"
His arm changes. He pulls out his pulse rifle and aims it at Sideswipe.
"Say goodbye, robot," Sunny says.
It's wrong. All of it. Not just Sunny's face but his voice, the way he moves, the way Sideswipe can't sense him.
What did they do to him?
Sideswipes' fingers dig into his palm. He's shaking. Sunstreaker's rifle whines.
Someone… someone has done something to his brother. Someone has hurt him. Someone is going to pay.
Sideswipe's fist catches Sunny under the chin. His head snaps back. Then Sideswipe is on him. They both go down. Sunny flails. His fingers dig into Sideswipe's face, almost take out an optic. Sideswipe grunts and wrenches his brother's hand down. He wraps his legs around his torso, pinning Sunny's arms to his sides.
Sunny shouts and curses. Sideswipe ignores it.
Sunny is better on his feet—not that Sideswipe will ever admit that to anyone—but on the ground, in a close-up grapple where speed doesn't count as much, Sideswipe's greater strength gives him the advantage. He pins Sunny against his chest. The top of his brother's helm rests just below Sideswipe's chin.
He has to know. Sunny doesn't recognize him, doesn't even seem to realize he's an Autobot. Sideswipe needs to know why.
There's only one way to get information out of an uncooperative 'bot.
"Sorry," Sideswipe says, "but this is for your own good."
He tilts Sunny's head forward, exposing the data-port hidden beneath his helm. Sideswipe's hand shifts—fingers slide back as a data-jack extends from his wrist. Before Sunny can thrash or snarl, Sideswipe plugs in.
Their worlds start to meld. Sideswipe starts to sink into the familiar territory of his brother's mind. And then Sunny screams.
- Present Day -
The control room doors hiss open and Sideswipe trudges in dripping river water. The hall lights come on automatically. He moves aft, dragging his cargo behind him. Jetfire was a scientist—his ship contains a top-notch lab. This is where Sideswipe goes.
There's one medical berth in the room. He hefts his cargo up, onto it, and activates the restraints. The sides of the berth jumble out and latch onto arms and legs. It's not going anywhere.
The thing groans. Its fingers twitch. Its optic covers flicker and power up. For a moment, it lays there and Sideswipe can hear its optics moving as it looks around.
"Ugh," it says. It tries to lift an arm. The restraints catch it. The thing pauses and then says, "Oh god. Not again."
Sideswipe doesn't respond; not yet. He lets it thrash a bit, lets it feel just how stuck it is, lets the situation really sink in. Only after the back of its head thunks on the table and it shuts up does he move away from the wall. The moment he takes a step the thing's head whips toward him.
"Hello?" it says.
Sideswipe is careful to keep his gaze on the façade of a face. He doesn't look at its hands, he doesn't look at the fins, he doesn't look to the chest where the Autobot symbol should be.
"Who are you?" the thing says. "Where am I?"
He circles, watching its optics track him as he moves around and comes to a stop at its side. He waits, lets it get a good look at him, and then leans in.
The face doesn't move. Sideswipe can see no expression in it, no emotion. Only the flicker of movement behind glowing optic covers.
"What am I doing here?" it says.
Sideswipe straightens. The restraints creak as the thing tries to track him.
"You're a Headmaster, right?" Sideswipe says.
For a long moment the thing doesn't answer. Then it says, "I guess."
"You guess?"
"Yeah," it says. "I guess. Who are you? How did you find me? Where are we?"
The thing pulls at the restraints again. It thrashes a few times. Sideswipe waits. After a few kliks it slumps.
"You've talked to other Headmasters?" it says.
"A few."
"Where? When? I didn't know there were any more."
Sideswipe doesn't even try to hide his grin when he says, "There aren't."
He doesn't have to say "anymore." The way it stills tells him that it knows exactly what he means.
"Here's the deal," he says. "I've got a few questions for you. All you have to do is answer them, capiche?"
"And then what?" it says.
"That all depends on what kind of mood I'm in. You cooperate and it'll make me happy. You don't, not so much."
It stares.
"Question one," he says. "Where's your other base?"
"I don't know what you mean," it says. "What other base? In Florida—"
"I'm not talking about that slag-heap in Florida," he says.
He stops and forces himself to ease back. He pries his fingers away from the edge of the table and carefully re-folding his arms. He resumes walking. "That warehouse is gone. There's nothing left. I want to know where the rest of you were supposed to go afterward."
"Wait, slow down," the thing says. "The warehouse is gone? When?"
"Doesn't matter. Answer the question."
"I… I don't know. My memory is kind of messed up—"
"Then you'd better start clearing it."
"Look," the thing says. "I'm not what you think I am. I'm not one of them. I'm not part of Machination."
Sideswipe twitches.
"Please, you have to believe me," it says. "My name is Hunter O'Nion. I'm a… I was a human. I was with the Autobots here, on earth. One of them, Ratchet, he rescued me and two others and brought us to his ship. But then Ironhide and Sunstreaker—"
Sideswipe swings his arm before he has a chance to register it. His fist slams the thing's arm just above the wrist. Armor shatters. Something inside cracks. The thing screams and bucks up against the restraints.
"Don't say that name!" Sideswipe says. "Don't you dare say it!"
He has no idea if it hears him. It's too busy writhing and making agonized little screeching noises. Sideswipe takes two steps back and offlines his optics.
"See?" he says. "Not happy."
"Fuck!" the thing says. "You fucking psycho! What the fuck was that for?"
He powers his optics back up. "I told you to answer the question. Not give me your sob story."
"It's not a sob story! I was with—I was captured too. They did this to me. Machination did this."
"You think I care?"
The thing struggles, arches up, off the table. "Damnit, I don't know anything! I was a goddamn guinea pig. They didn't tell me anything; they just cut me up, turned me into this!"
Sideswipe grabs the thing's head and slams it against the table.
"You've got five seconds before I lose my patience," he says.
"I. Don't. Know. Anything," it says.
"One."
"Jesus Christ, listen to me!"
"Two."
"I'm after them, too. I broke out, I escaped—"
"Three."
"They tried to kill me. Right before you tackled me off that bridge—"
"Four."
"You stupid asshole! Just stop and listen to me for two—"
"Five," Sideswipe says.
"Argh!" the thing says as Sideswipe lets it go. "Please. I'm their enemy, too. I want to take them down just as much as you do. Please, listen to me. They had me there, at that place in Florida. They tried to brainwash me but I got out and I think they did something, I think they tried to stop me and I think that's why I can't remember anything last week. And just now, just before you brought me here, I think they tried to kill me. It—what are you doing?"
Sideswipe has stepped around to stand behind it. While the thing has been babbling, he's been fiddling with the controls. The edge of the berth folds in, under itself, leaving the back of the head bare.
"Hey," the thing says.
His tanks churn. He shakes his hands a few times and tries to stop himself from cringing. Then he grabs the head with one hand and tilts it up.
"What are you doing?" it says.
His right hand reformats. He lines the data-jack up to the port. He can't stop the shudder that runs through him.
He plugs in.
The thing on the table convulses. It lets out a garbled scream. Sideswipe cuts power to his audios.
It takes a moment to merge. The organic mind is too different, too fluid, it doesn't think right and it takes a while for Sideswipe to orient himself enough to navigate.
His first impression is panic. The fragile mind of the meat-bag is not meant for this. He detects a spike of electrical impulses in the thing's squishy head. He only has a few kliks before the disruption becomes too much and it all goes haywire.
A smell. The organic mind identifies it as cinnamon. Sideswipe sees the face of another organic with long, orange-red fibers growing from its head.
Megan, the thing identifies. Sibling. Sister.
Sideswipe backs out of that memory. He moves somewhere else, somewhere—
—screamed as the jet screeched overhead. He grabbed the oh-shit handle over the door and wondered whether the ambulance could feel it. Suddenly, Ratchet swerved. Something long and silver streaked past the window. The side of the road blew apart.
Verity screamed in his ear and he tried to pull away but Ratchet veered to the left and the girl was thrown against him, mashing him to the window. He—
—"That'll be nine dollars," he said. He shifted from one foot to the other as the man dug around in his wallet. The man—
—season one, episode ten, Fallen Angel. An alien crashes in Wisconsin. Mulder tries to get in to see it alone.
He could hear a high-pitched whir. It sounded like a dental drill. He couldn't move. His arms and legs were lead weights. He couldn't open his eyes. Everything was fuzzy. He thought he could hear voices, three men, but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Someone tugged on his leg. He felt no pain but he could tell something was wrong. Another tug, this one harder, and something popped in his hip. Terrible pressure and then… nothing.
Season one, episode eleven, Eve. The government sets up a secret program called the 'Litchfield Experiment' to create super-soldiers—
—"Awestruck" wouldn't be accurate. This went beyond that. This was change-your-pants awesome. The robots were huge; two-stories tall. And even though they had what could only be weapons pointed at them, Hunter couldn't keep the grin off his face. He—
"—where to?" Sunstreaker said.
Hunter stared out through the window at the trees rushing past. He knew he was moping. He knew he should stop it; he was acting like a little kid. It was hard, though, when he saw the sign up ahead and the knowledge that he was leaving, going back to everything he'd tried so hard to get away from crashed down on him.
"Tulsa," he said. "Oklahoma."
"What's there?" Sunstreaker said.
Hunter sighed. "My life."—
—couldn't think about it. Don't think about it.
He looked up at the head hanging from the ceiling and tried not to wince. Sunstreaker kept fading in and out, his words slurred, his gaze distant. Hunter wondered how he could still be alive.
Oh god, oh god, he thought. This is wrong. This is so wrong.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to start throwing things. But he couldn't. He could see the room on the other side of the glass, could see the technicians gathered around a monitor, watching Wheeljack being chased by Headmasters. They were laughing and cheering. He had to get out. He had to find Ratchet and the others, had to get Sunstreaker out of there. But how? How was he supposed to—
—stepped into the machine in the wall. He heard a rapid clicking and a deep thrum that made his teeth vibrate. A blast of cold air washed over him. Clamps folded over his arms and legs and he swallowed and looked up at Sunstreaker.
"Ah… anything else I should know?" he said.
Sunstreaker didn't answer right away. He stared into the dark corner of the room.
"Yeah," he said. "It's painful."
Hunter's stomach dropped out. "Oh great. Now he tells me."—
Sideswipe trips over something. He loses himself for a moment and the squishy's thoughts swirl around him. He bats them away, starts to retrace his steps. It takes longer than it should; he can sense the thing's systems starting to malfunction as its brain patterns begin to scramble.
What is that? he thinks.
There's something embedded in there, a solid object stuck in the mass of chaotic, organic memories. Sideswipe gives it an experimental jab and, to his surprise, it opens up.
It's a data file.
Among the intangible stuff that is the human Hunter O'Nion, a new presence bubbles up and takes form. This is solid. This is warm. This is painfully familiar.
"Sunny?" Sideswipe says.
In Hunter's mind, Sunstreaker whispers, "Hey, Sideswipe."
His legs give out. Pain jolts up his knees as he hits the floor and the world drops away.
The phone is ringing.
Dr. Paul Berkman lifts his head, blinks, and peers at the glowing numbers of the clock on the nightstand. He grunts and lifts himself up on one elbow, reaches over to grab the phone.
"Hello?" he says. His voice comes out rough. He coughs and says, "This is Berkman."
"Sir?" he doesn't recognize the voice at first. It's not until the man is on his third sentence that it clicks.
"Whoa, whoa," Dr. Berkman says. "Hold on, slow down. Johnson, right?"
"Uh, yes sir," Johnson says.
"Okay, would you repeat that last bit a little slower this time?"
Thirty minutes later, he storms down a hallway in a sweatshirt and the pants he'd worn the night before. He bangs through a set of doors into a bustling control room. Technicians scurry along a row of monitors against the far wall. The air is filled with voices. Dr. Berkman spots Johnson almost immediately and, to the assistant's credit, the man drops what he's doing and makes a beeline for Dr. Berkman.
"It started about thirty-five minutes ago," he says, pulling out a smudged piece of paper. It's still warm from the printer. Dr. Berkman ignores it and brushes past him, over to one of the computers facing a large window and a dark room beyond. "We haven't figured out what started it or what, exactly, it is."
Dr. Berkman waves him off. He pulls his glasses out and studies the monitor. It shows a sharp spike in activity. Though the item in the darkened room isn't moving—it hasn't for the last two weeks—it's clearly doing something.
"Could it be broadcasting?" Johnson says.
"No," Dr. Berkman says. "We've got all frequencies blocked. There's no way this thing is talking to anyone."
"Then what—"
"I don't know. Has anyone contacted Mr. Dante yet?"
"He said he's on his way," a woman says.
Dr. Berkman nods and stares through the window. The only source of light within comes from the glowing pink lines running up through a pedestal. The room is empty, save for the single object inside.
"What are you doing?" he wonders aloud.
Enclosed in the room, the robotic head is silent.
Thanks again to everyone who added this to their favorites. And thanks to Starfire201 and lildevchick for taking the time to review. You probably do have an idea of how much that means to me. Another thanks to KayDeeBlu for making sure I didn't embarrass myself with this chapter.
Next chapter: No Choice