Title: Origins 2 - Heights

Author: Kit SummerIsle

Rating: T

Continuity: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

Warnings: mentioning of abuse, mind-wipe, violence (not detailed)

Summary: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

Note: I originally intended this fic as a one-shot, but when it was finished and I re-read it a few days later, I started to think. If one of the Aerialbots had a story that is not the canon, then the others must have one too. And I started to write.

Heights

Struggle

He was the slowest of the batch, in fact the whole fleet and it meant not only the derision of the officers but his wingmates' too. What did it matter that he could rain destruction on the Autobots when he was struggling to simply get there in time and they never lined up nicely for him to throw his bombs effectively. He sometimes managed to catch a slow or already injured bot with his bombardment, but it really meant nothing in the ongoing competition where all the Seekers were expected to deactivate dozens, not individuals. So, in effect his ration was always smaller than everyone else's even though his bigger frame would have required more, not less. In time he improved his technique and consequently his kill rate marginally – it was hard work to find out everything on his own, but no mech in the Decepticon army cared to teach a lone bomber of tricks or techniques.

Iceberg shifted uncomfortably on the berth that was hardly big enough for the other fliers and therefore hopelessly small for him. Being comfortable was not something he ever remembered experiencing; only some of the triple-changers were bigger than him but they were all valued soldiers and thus worthy of amenities that were forever denied of him. Bad enough to be a batch sparked flier, but to be the most worthless one was simply Pit worthy. Not that he accepted his fate meekly, because he didn't. He trained harder than any of the other Seekers, he tried to study aerial tactics to find out how he could be useful, he strained above and beyond his design specs in battles – but when one is ordered to be in a Seeker wing by officers who's never before seen a bomber, neither of it counts anything really. And in all Seeker wings he was forced to be in, even the most incompetent youngsters were faster and more maneuverable than him.

"Worthless cargo plane" and "Slow-poke scrapheap" He heard it enough times to be proficient in the taunts and derisions. Hardly anyone knew what his designation meant but even those said it in a tone that meant useless, worthless, cumbersome and coward. He towered over his fellow – hahh… as if any of them accepted him… - Seekers like a mountain of snow and winter would to a bunch of penguins milling in an icefield; but instead of being regarded as a novum, a feared force of nature he was considered as a bumbling idiot of a giant, carved out of innocent, white snow. Why had he to be, on top of everything against him, so light, so white, so innocent-looking even in tone? White, gold and light red weren't exactly Decepticon colours as he learned quickly. Far better to be dark, purple or blue, like the more fortunate jets of his batch.

Plan

He would change his fate. The decision came after one particularly awful orn, during which everything happened to him that made his functioning a Pit one by one and by the end of it he was close to giving up. Sitting on a low wall by the landing field, he was watching the real Seekers, the old ones that everyone secretly envied flying in a way few of them could even come close to – and he most certainly wasn't one. They all scorned the batch Seekers more or less. The grounders to, be them officers or simple grunts. Bad enough to be part of a group that everyone looked down, but to be the one even they derided was intolerable. What could a lone bomber do where he was not wanted, not accepted and couldn't even be useful?

He took to going to the town library in his meager free time. Somewhere among the datapads there must be a solution for his predicament. Or so he hoped. But if it was there he couldn't find it. Next he took to visiting the town's temple for Primus, even as he was laughed for it. Somewhere, among the prayers there must be an answer for him too from the God. Or so he hoped. But if it was there, Primus did not deign to make it clear for him. He even tried high grade, as much as his pitiful credit chips could allow; the harshest, impure, punishing brews that only brought oblivion, humiliation and no answer either.

The solution, when it came was as unexpected and shocking as a kick in the aft. One orn all the fliers were ordered to the big square of the compound, lining up in row after row behind and around their officers and waited silently as a mech was dragged to the middle and chained to the gibbet. His crime was read next by the base commander himself. He used to be a spy, trying to gain secrets from the Autobots, until he got enticed by their viles. He turned coat and sold their secrets instead until he was discovered. He paid for that long and hard while they were watching the energon-splattered scene unmoving.

Iceberg had accidentally known the mech before this. They hardly talked more than a few words over some high-grade and no secrets at that, but the flier knew that he was no traitor, no defector for gains. He truly believed that the Autobots knew it better, had it better and were in the right more than the Decepticons. Had anyone even suspected that they talked about it, he'd've been chained beside him sharing his fate and no proof would have been demanded.

But his outcast state was to his advantage there as nobody suspected that he had a slowly forming idea in his processor. Autobot literature was of course unavailable anywhere where he could freely read it, but the Neutral town nearby came handy, as he could get hold of datapads that would mean his painful deactivation too. His resolve solidified a bit every orn. There was no reason for him to stay and accept abuse and derision for simply existing. There was nothing in the Decepticon credo that was not an empty slogan or a lying statement interspersed with mistrust, hatred, prejudices and opportunism – he saw their falseness and lies every orn.

The first opportunity he could do so safely enough, he would defect. It cannot be anything worse than they had already thrown at him – or so he thought. He wasn't so naïve to think they would accept him immediately. No, he'd be prisoner, not trusted, having to work for their trust and acceptance. But that would make all the difference in the world – here, he had no chance of being anything else than a worthless scrap, while there, he could in time be useful. He hoped.

Failure

"First wing, target is at the following coordinates, copy."

"Target coordinates received commander." – the wing-leader's voice echoed in their radio, notifying them of the coordinates but not requiring – indeed not allowing for answer. They followed him in the set course, in the ordered formation, just like they always did, like they always had to. Iceberg pushed his straining engines up to a notch just to keep up with them. It was always so. Soon, they would have to do some kind of an evasive maneuver and he would not be able to follow fast and agile enough, as he was neither. But this time it would be different, he swore to himself. He was not going to take slag any more. He would find his chance.

The Autobot town's fortified walls came to their sights. They were formidable and many a Seeker felt some fear at the massive cannons that stood ready to spew death to them. The wing's formation wavered a bit as the fliers suddenly had their nerves to contend with. The radio-waves crackled with silence and they all wanted to hear orders – orders that they were taught would make them safe, make them victorious. But the consoling words didn't come. Instead the massive defenses came to life and roared their fearsome power towards them.

"First wing ascend above the barrage. Second wing, evasive and wait for orders."

They rose. That was about the last thing that Iceberg registered clearly. He ascended with the others, or as near to them as he could. Vertically he wasn't that much slower than the others, so he straggled only a tiny bit. Still it was enough for the defenders to find him. After all he was the biggest target. The first shots reached his wings when he thought to be almost high enough to be safe. The damage was enough to loose altitude and fall into the thick of the anti-aircraft fire, where he stood no chance. It hurt like Pit as the missiles tore his wings apart, ruined his chassis and made his engines explode. He looked down at them, pain drawing a haze on his optics as he fell. There went the chance to defect, to have a chance of a normal functioning, indeed any kind of life after this.

It was a long way down until the ground. A long way to curse Primus, that slagger who condemned him to this world, this existence, this Pit.

Retry

"He is totally scrapped."

"But still functioning… I wonder what keeps him alive."

"Determination, mostly…" – the medic's voice was strained. He was so much smaller than the crashed flier that he could easily move around on the torn and broken body as he worked to stabilize his systems.

"We can use some determination. He has to be rebuilt anyway."

"Affirmative. We have no use for a bomber."

"I can't take away so much of his protoform to be the same as the others."

"There is no need. They'll need a bigger one anyway."

The broken plates, fixtures and mostly everything else was removed, until barely more than his spark chamber and the still damaged and leaking protoform remained. It was transported to the moon base, more or less fixed while the scientists came up with the plans for the reformat and the subjects to perform it on. He didn't dream. He was in forced stasis, woken up only to hack his processor and see his base personality. He was strangely cooperative, all the time trying to tell them that he wanted to defect anyway and please let him prove his worth. It was deemed irrelevant and it was not mentioned in any reports. No reason to stir the conscience of the Prime, he was uncomfortable enough with the project as it was.

The reformat went without a hitch for his part. For his new form, they went back to the older tetrajet format which was bigger than the present variation; it was slower but still had better specs than the bomber plane. He wouldn't be the faster of the group anyway, it wasn't what they planned for him; the experimental weapon that they included would make up for the speed and the bigger frame would provide psychological role in the gestalt. Their former lives were deleted from every record, the secret of their origins remaining among a small group of scientists and medic who as the war went on fell one by one. In a few vorns it was forgotten by almost everyone.

Remember

"Status report." – the voice was devoid of emotion or compassion as he looked down the slowly onlining tetrajet. He created a work of art, an actual flight-capable gestalt from the riff-raff of the captured Con fliers and he was definitely proud of his achievement – but he felt nothing towards the jets themselves. They were merely a result of his work, soldiers and not companions. He would never get attached to them like lesser scientist did sometimes. He did his work and research and he wasn't sentimental about it.

"Status: operating within normal parameters." – the answer was automatic, like programmed into him as the flier ran the checks on his frame and programming; and when it was done, he tested the link. It was silent still, as his brothers… he paused for some reason for a nanoklik but the thought continued… his brothers were just booting up too and not yet speaking. They would do that soon enough he knew – and from then on silence would be a rare thing for them. He would never again be alone, although why that was important he wasn't sure.

The big flier proved to be perfect for the role they intended him to play. He was compassionate, conscientious, hardworking and a perfect image of an elder, even though he wasn't a groon older than his gestalt mates. They all loved him and obeyed him instinctly in matters professional and personal as well. He kept the gestalt together and provided them a focal point to make up for their individual insecurities and private peculiarities. He was considered almost too good to be true by the scientists… at least until their first flight and the nervous breakdown when he rose to cruising altitude; the fear and terror that forced him to land, his teammates milling around uncertainly; and what they couldn't make him forget ever after.

Silverbolt of course didn't remember that last fateful order through his radio to rise above the Autobot barrage. He didn't remember the way he slowly dropped behind the faster ones in his wing, the Seekers not even glancing behind to his progress. He didn't remember the Autobots behind the anti-aircraft cannons following him, the straggler, the easy target. He didn't remember the cruel fire shredding his great wings and the long-long way down until the ground harshly embraced his broken chassis. Nor did he remember screaming at the top of his vocal range until the ground. His memories were shredded, his coding changed, the totality of both checked many times. There was no way he could remember.

But his spark did anyway.

Note2: I admit that the designation 'Iceberg' is certainly a strange one for a Transformer, especially for a flier. I was just thinking of a suitable designation when I came across a short article, about an albino killer whale called Iceberg - and I simply knew that I had to use this name. I rationalized it later to myself that if they can have an 'Icestorm' then why not an Iceberg?