His mind was shattered, wandering through the cracks within Time. What once was, what is, and what will be blended together into a disparate unity of fragments, each one stabbing pain throughout his frame.
And he had been through so much.
A city burned in the middle of a plain, black smoke rising to choke the sun's rays into nothingness. Light and Dark collided as several armies met on the battlefield, clashing against one another while Death watched.
Immortality was at stake.
And suddenly, he realized that he himself was on fire, engulfed in the flames that ravaged the landscape. Pain and rage lanced throughout his mind, destroying his sanity. In the midst of his throes, he lashed out against those who would consider themselves his betters.
He knew better. Knew that they were but remnants, echoes of a far darker and more uncertain time.
How could they know? They weren't there.
But he was. And he stood before the gates of the burning city, wreathed in the fire of his rage and desperation. All who looked upon him recoiled in horror, for he was their nightmare personified.
He was the inferno that raged at the end of all things, burning away all the hope and life and fear and death of existence, for he himself was born of fire and metal.
They knew what they had wrought.
He awoke within a metal cage, his servos bound in shackles and chained to the floor. Instantly, fear began to rise within his spark as he cast his gaze about with wild optics. The prison within which he was contained was dark and damp, with drops of moisture dripping from the ceiling to collect in a pool near his chain, which was bolted into the hard and unforgiving floor. Every inch of plating was gunmetal grey, adding to the depressed gloominess of the atmosphere.
Outside the cage, the room was cast into darkness, with only a lone yellow light providing illumination as it hung over the prison. He couldn't see the corners of his room, and the door was nowhere to be seen. Gradually, however, he heard a soft rumbling, not unlike those of a starship's engine. If he had not remained silent, he doubted he would have heard the sound, but there it was.
It took all his effort not to panic, but eventually he calmed down. When he did so, he tried to think back, and remember how he got here. Nothing came up in his memory banks. Even after sitting for a while and staring at the wall until his processor ached, no light could be shed on his origins. There was, however, the dream.
He couldn't remember much of it now, and some details had faded, but one image stood out amongst the rest. Fire and metal…
He had seen a burning figure, flames rising from his armor, standing in front of a gate. Behind him, an entire city had burned, as its buildings fell upon one another. Plumes of dust burst upwards from the wreckage, pouring outwards to block out the sun. As the whole scene plummeted into shadow, the figure became a terrifying contradiction of light and dark, the molten cracks on the armor contrasting with the obscure outline of its very being.
The nature of this persona frightened him to his very core. Why, then, was it so familiar?
A sharp rap on the bars startled him, bringing him back to the present reality. His expression must have betrayed his emotions, because the being leaned closer towards him and chuckled. His captor's chassis was colored red and orange, the torso more closely resembling the pectorals and abdomen of an organic being rather than the flat plating of a Cybertronian. His arms began with the norm of square shoulder plates, and then continued the trend downwards until reaching the forearms. Once there, the structure grew softer, once again emulating organic structure with artificial muscles that rounded out the limbs. On each forearm, a square sheath attached to the wrist held a pair of pincers that extended outwards, while a gun barrel poked out the front of each sheath. The servos were also organic in appearance, more closely resembling metallic gauntlets. The legs followed a similar diagram, with square thighs and rounded calves, though the feet were once more square, blocky treads suited to tough terrain.
What was most distinguishing about the being was his faceplate, however. Green optics, edged with a combination of malice and disgust, peered at him as if debating whether or not to tear him apart. His smile was edged with razor-sharp teeth that bespoke of a carnivorous lifestyle. The expression on his faceplate, combined with an intimidating helm of razor-sharp spikes that substituted for what would have been hair, combined to create a truly unpleasant sight to look at.
He recoiled further within the cage, ignoring the mocking laughs of the observer. He had no idea where he was, and to provoke this being would be to visit more trouble on him than he was prepared for.
"Stop, Repugnus. I need to talk with him."
He looked for the source of the voice, though the speaker was nowhere to be seen. Most likely, the mech was hiding in the shadows. Repugnus shifted uncomfortably as he spoke to someone – or something – behind him.
"Are you sure, boss? I don't trust him –"
"It matters little what you make of him," the voice replied evenly. "I am captain, not you."
Repugnus started to walk out of the room, grumbling about having rank pulled on him, though he was stopped by an upraised servo. Despite peering through the bars, he noticed that the servo was pitted and scarred with frequent use, and rough patching.
"I will still need to introduce him. Gather the rest of the team, and come in if I tell you so."
"If? You're really that sure about trusting him?" Repugnus had his faceplate twisted in uncertainty.
"Who said I trusted him?" replied the captain, a hint of amusement in his voice.
His subordinate pondered this remark in silence for a few seconds, and then grinned as widely as his faceplate would allow. His optics had widened in deranged anticipation as he chuckled slightly.
"Whatever you say, captain," Repugnus said playfully, before saluting, one fist over his spark, and striding out the door. The red and orange mech giggled the entire way, smiling like a demon.
"Now, then…" said the voice. "My designation is Lockdown. My function is defined by my employers, though I am most often a bounty hunter…" The voice paused, allowing the words to sink in. "…But on this ship, you will address me as captain. Understood?"
The being within the prison nodded, his processor pondering the implications of his captor's statement. A bounty hunter, huh? He briefly wondered whether he was going to be turned over to some other mech, or sold as a slave.
"What is your designation, prisoner?" asked Lockdown.
He thought hard for a moment, once again combing whatever was left of his memory banks. Nothing turned up once again, and his mind went blank. Trying to contain his frustration, he lifted his helm to speak. Then, as if out of a half-remembered dream, a name floated to the surface of his psyche, drifting on the still waters of his unformed memories.
Silverbolt…
"Silverbolt," he whispered, rolling the syllables around on his tongue. Then he raised his voice, deep and raspy from disuse, and repeated: "My designation is Silverbolt."
Lockdown was silent for a few moments. Silverbolt could not tell whether the being was pondering the significance of his name, or simply choosing a way to kill him. Either way, his life was at the mercy of a bounty hunter, and he didn't know what course of action his captor would choose. Then Lockdown stepped out of the shadows surrounding the prison, and the prisoner sucked in his breath.
The mercenary was covered all over in pitch-black and grey plating, allowing him to blend into the darkness. His lithe frame had also allowed him to remain silent, as it paced towards him like an insidious snake, weaving from place to place as his cold, green optics studied his prey with the unwavering gaze of a predator. His overall frame was sleek, almost organic in its structure, and it performed smoothly, its pistons and plating sliding in and out without a sound. It appeared to be a standard frame, however, with few combat modifications to be seen on him.
Silverbolt wasn't fooled. He was sure Lockdown had several hundred weapon and armor enhancements hidden beneath his plating, ready to be deployed in the split second it took for its user to issue a neural command.
Lockdown's skeletal faceplate remained blank, though the prisoner could tell that his mind was hard at work dissecting his words. Then he spoke again.
"What, then, is your function?" he asked with cautious trepidation.
Once again, Silverbolt searched his memory, straining to bring up even one facet of his life. This time, the waters of his memory remained impassably calm, a flowing mirror that separated his mind from its murky depths. He could tell that the very bottom was dark indeed, but he could not reach its depths to properly explore it.
"I… I can't remember," he stated to Lockdown, an expression of genuine confusion written upon his faceplate.
"Explain," ordered Lockdown. He crossed his arms across his chest, his optics silently doubting Silverbolt's words.
"I just don't know. Every time I try to remember, everything comes up blank," Silverbolt said. "I mean, I remember the basics. How to recharge, how to talk, and even how to transform." His faceplate twisted into frustration as he continued. "But when I try to pull out specific details, such as how old I am, or where I'm from, my mind… It just locks up on its own. I don't even know what my alt form is."
Lockdown nodded slowly, mulling over Silverbolt's words. It made sense, really, that he didn't remember anything. Otherwise, his prisoner's reaction to his presence would have been quite different. Scrap, the prison bars wouldn't have been an obstacle at all.
He didn't give any indication to his thoughts, maintaining his blank demeanor, yet his posture changed slightly. His body relaxed just the smallest bit, settling into its familiar stance. After a few more seconds of contemplation, he made up his mind. Striding over to the locking mechanism that held the door in place, he tapped on the touchscreen, and then entered the precise combination, his servos gliding over the Cybertronian codes. After it was entered, he pressed his servo to the scanner, where it read his cyber-metrics and evaluated his identity. A red beam of light began at the bottom of the scanner and moved upwards, creating an outline of Lockdown's servo within the square block that held the sensors.
The enormous, heavy bolt holding the door in place slid upon with a loud boom, jolting Silverbolt into a defensive posture. At the same time, the cuffs that had bound the prisoner's arms to the ground clicked open, releasing him. Then, creaking slowly with age and rust, the door swung outwards, banging into place at the end of its arc. Lockdown stood to the side of the door and held his arm outwards as a chauffeur would for a passenger, and then dropped it to his side.
Silverbolt, realizing the opportunity he had been granted, slowly crept out of the cage, before straightening upwards into a bipedal stance. He stretched, holding one arm up as the other bent in relief. Then he dropped both arms to his side and turned, looking into Lockdown's face with equal measures distrust and confusion.
"So," he began. "What's next?"
"Originally, I had planned to keep you locked up in here, and let you rust for ages until you deactivated," explained Lockdown. "But, against my better judgment and every principle I stand for… I will allow you to go free." The bounty hunter sounded almost disappointed, as if he'd wanted an excuse to keep Silverbolt in captivity.
"I hear a but," replied Silverbolt.
"But," agreed Lockdown, "There will be a condition for your release. You must work as a member of my crew, and undertake each and every task I assign you. Loyalty will be expected, as will be competency. Failure," the mercenary looked back at the dark cage, driving home his point, "will land you right back where we started. In the grave."
"Then I have no choice but to accept," Silverbolt said. "What will be your first orders?"
Lockdown typed a command into a wrist-mounted display, before turning to face the wall. A slit of white light opened at the bottom, and then rose higher and higher, forming the shape of a door. Blinded by the sudden brightness, Silverbolt squinted, but was unable to make out much detail beyond the obvious glow. Lockdown, on the other hand, activated his faceguard, its polarizing visor lowering to dim the glow.
"Before you can follow my orders, Silverbolt," Lockdown said, his visor reflecting the white light until his faceplate could no longer be seen, "you must first understand why you are here. And to know your place, you must first meet my crew."
Silverbolt paused for a moment, his optics adjusting to the brightness. Then he glanced uncertainly at Lockdown.
"Aren't you going to go on ahead?" he asked.
"I believe it would be better for you – and my crew – if you were to make introductions first. You are the new recruit, after all."
Silverbolt looked back towards the open door, and then, slowly, paced towards the brightly lit room. As he came closer and closer towards the light, it surrounded him, reflecting off his chassis until he himself glowed like a star. The brilliant illumination stripped away all detail, until all there was to be seen was a blinding starkness. The condition echoed throughout his mind like a promise, at once full of hope and torturous in its potential.
You must first understand why you are here…
Lockdown waited until Silverbolt had left the room before he allowed his faceguard to retract. An expression of worry had stolen over his faceplate, and his optics regarded the open doorway with scrutiny. If he was to believe what he knew, and that happened often, then his entire ship was in danger.
Scrap, his life was in danger.
As he watched the retreating back of Silverbolt, Lockdown planned through every measure he would need, evaluated every tool he had at his disposal. Methods were shuffled through and pruned based on merit, until Lockdown had amassed a tactical arsenal. Most of the materials needed for these countermeasures were already on his ship. The trick was gathering them discretely, without anyone noticing.
If Silverbolt gave him a single excuse, Lockdown would offline the mech.