Chapter 3
"Wings"
She had an appointment to keep at Complexius's clinic. The novelty of it didn't wear off. At all. She'd never had to do anything like it before. There was no need. Doctor? Appointmen? Not her; not with... Gecko.
Hawkmoon almost collapsed on the spot. The anger and sorrow was too heavy to bear. It was crushing her. She couldn't stand it.
But, she nonetheless had an appointment to meet. And she couldn't miss it. Not for anything. Not even to mourn.
Phosphora had to get back to work, so Overwatch was going to take her. He was just as supportive and helpful as his 'sparkmate,' but not quite as vocally involved. She read him like a book: the kind of man who was satisfied with a mundane life, charitable in passing but otherwise unremarkable. It was people like him, the average civilian, whom she fought tooth and nail to protect - to keep from the jaws of bloodthirsty aliens. Or rather, had fought tooth and nail to protect.
But that was back on Earth. Back where most people were flesh-and-blood humans. Or flesh-and-blood Awoken. And the odd Alkahest-and-steel Exo, like she was. Had been. Not cybermatter-and-energon Cybertronians.
In truth, the difference was marginal. The Cybertronians she'd met thus far had all been ordinary. Not all that different to humans in a great many respects. Sometimes she liked to think that Cybertron was just another Bray fantasy-made-real. And that every metal person she met was just a new kind of Exo.
And that she was a new kind of Exo.
But a new Exo body couldn't replace the old.
"Hawkmoon?"
She looked up. Overwatch was standing by the door. His smile was cautiously encouraging. "Are you ready?"
Nothing else for me to actually do, so... "Yeah." She followed him out. The sun was up and it was pissed. It furiously beat down on them without relief. Lennox/Hawkmoon readied a grimace and stepped out into the Mercurial heat... to find it didn't bother her in the slightest. Not even a little.
If the new body really was Bray work, then they had more than outdone themselves.
Outside the house was a quaint alien street, complete with a wide asphalt-ish road fit for a highway. Hawkmoon felt she shouldn't have been so surprised, and yet she was. There was no one in sight, but it was far from abandoned. It was too clean. Too... lived in. The town, city, whatever it was, it was alive. A far cry from the countless human settlements on Earth just left on the wayside to rot away.
Her optics found Overwatch patiently waiting on the metal pavement. Everything was built of either metal or crystal. It was mind-boggling.
"It isn't far," Overwatch told her. "Can you transform?"
"Transform?" She wasn't sure if she heard right.
Overwatch wore a smile that was equal parts supportive and concerned. "Yes, transform."
"I don't know-"
Then he folded over upon himself in a wretched show of contorting metal. Hawkmoon stumbled back, eyes wide and stomach (or her Cybertronian equivalent) churning. It didn't last long, but every moment was filled with torturous horror. When the thing that used to be Overwatch finished up, it was left in the form of a blocky vehicle with four wheels.
She just stood there, looking at it. And the car (because that was exactly what it looked like) waited. Finally, it said, "Are you ready?"
Hawkmoon shivered. It was Overwatch's voice. Whatever had taken control of him had his-
The car came apart once more. It was sickening. This time, though, the end result was Overwatch's form, with a troubled frown to boot - and that quickly morphed into sheepish embarrassment.
"Sorry," he said. "So you can't transform?"
"Transform?" she whispered again, taken aback. Her optics were wide. It looked like him... It sounded like him... But was it really him?
Overwatch hesitated. "Don't worry, Complexius will explain everything. We'll... we'll walk."
Walking she understood. Walking was easy. Somewhat. Her wings hampered that, took a shot at her claim, but she figured she could summon the ability to stroll wherever they needed to go. She watched Overwatch like a hawk as he hesitantly went ahead, not entirely convinced that he was... well, him. Her mind was engulfed in a flurry of wild conclusions - she couldn't believe what she had witnessed. It beggared belief.
Hawkmoon filed the information away to mull over later. Most of her life consisted of the impossible already - what was one more mystery added to the pile?
Overwatch walked. She struggled to keep up. Her weight was off. The wings offset her balance horribly. Her new body was strange, but she could get used to it. Wings? Not at all.
At least, not for the time being.
Maybe she could ask Complexius to remove them. They weren't doing anything for her.
The clinic wasn't that far from Phosphora's and Overwatch's home, but that was only in retrospect. Actually walking it felt like taking a hike through the Outback all over again, while laden down with a trove full of stolen tech.
In short: it was too drawn out to be anywhere near pleasant.
Overwatch pressed a button built in beside the door. They waited. Eventually, it slid open and yet another mechanical person peered out at them. It, he, was painted almost entirely red, from foot to helm. His face was left a stark white, clad in a helmet-like growth the colour of blood. Where his bright crimson plating didn't cover his metal form, there greys and blacks reigned supreme.
"We're here to see Complexius," Overwatch announced.
The stranger nodded. "Are you? I'll clear it with-" He caught sight of her and paused. His optics widened. He smiled "Oh! The lost Seeker, eh? Please, come in!" He stepped aside and swept his arm out, as if welcoming them into a mighty palace rather than a weathered old clinic.
Overwatch frowned. Hawkmoon, for her part, didn't see what the problem was.
The red mech picked up the pace and walked with her. He smiled widely. "And you are...?" He ventured.
"Hawkmoon," she replied, flushing her voice with a confidence she didn't feel. "You?"
"Knockout." He bowed his head - helm, whatever - in what she assumed was a welcoming gesture. "Complexius has spoken about you. It's good to finally assign some faceplates to the myth." He had a smooth voice. It paired well with his sleek, almost dangerous appearance.
"Myth?" She tilted her helm - got it right that time! - and tried her best to frown. She loved how expressive her new face was.
"Precious few Seekers pass through here," Knockout elaborated. He looked her up and down. She subconsciously crossed her arms. "And, uh-"
The door at the end of the hall slid open. Complexius poked his helm out. "Ah! You're here!" He looked past them. "Hello, Overwatch."
"Complexius," the other mech greeted.
"Come in!" Complexius disappeared back into his office. Knockout smiled and motioned to the door.
"Charmed," Hawkmoon muttered. She fixed him with the most intense, scrutinizing look she could muster and delighted in the way his grin faltered. She went right ahead.
The office wasn't overly large, and there wasn't much in it beyond a desk, a computer terminal, a shelf full of datapads, and five chairs - the largest of which was behind said desk. That was where Complexius sat. Hawkmoon took one at random and grimaced as the back of the chair pressed against her wings. They had fast evolved from a reminder of her ongoing existential crisis to a more tame (in comparison) irritant.
What did she even have them for?
Overwatch took another seat, and Knockout waited by the door. Complexius put his elbows on the desk and interlocked his fingers together. "So," he began, "how are you feeling?"
What a question.
"Lost," she admitted, "but a little less panicky."
"That's good." The physician-robot hummed. "And you walked all the way here?"
"I did," she confirmed, nodding.
"Very good. Your basic motor functions are returning?"
At that, she nodded again.
"And optical and auditory sensors are fully operational?"
A third nod.
"Have you attempted a transformation sequence?"
This time, she gave a hesitant shake of the head - helm, dammit! - and tapped the edge of the desk with her sharpened fingers. She wasn't particularly fond of staying in one place too long. The wilds still called to her. What wilds Cybertron possessed, she didn't know, but a part of her was eager to find out.
The rest of her, most of her, just wanted some damn answers.
"So what's the deal with transformations?" Hawkmoon asked. She tried to phrase it as nonchalantly as she could. It didn't fool anyone, not least Complexius.
"You can't transform?" he questioned, his tone one of concern. His eyes flashed bright. Hawkmoon had no idea what it meant. "You're no femmeling," he muttered under a breath that wasn't there. "And your t-cog is operational..."
"What is transformation?" She pressed, a tad more urgently. "Overwatch... well, he did a thing."
"A thing?" Overwatch echoed. He sounded torn between amused and baffled.
"Yeah. You... I don't know, changed. Rearranged."
"I transformed into my alt mode."
"Alt mode?"
"Alternate mode."
"Yeah, I picked up on that," she said dryly. She turned to Complexius. "What in the world is an alternate mode?"
He frowned. "We are Cybertronians. The ability to transform into an alternate mode is... integral to who we are."
A civilization built on the ability to shapeshift. Splendid. An Ahamkara's paradise. "Ah," she said, feigning some measure of understanding. "And... I have this?"
"I expect so. You must have flown into the Sea of Rust. Or you were sent there by a ground-bridge, but that-"
"Hold on." A brief spike of excitement ripped through all her simmering qualms. "I can actually fly?!"
His frown turned upside down. "Yes, you can," he affirmed with a smile. "You are a Seeker."
"That... doesn't mean anything to me."
He pointed behind her. No, not behind. At her wings. "Seekers are like you. Those who inherit flight-enabled chassis."
"How do I..."
Complexius' hands - no, servos! - shot up. "Don't!"
Hawkmoon froze. "What?"
"Don't. Not inside." He stood up. "And not without the supervision of a professional."
"But..." The excitement began to fade. In a last ditch effort to hang onto one of the few positive emotions she'd happened upon since arrival, she blurted: "Wait a... When I awo- When I onlined, you said my flight protocols were intact. Doesn't that mean I can fly right now?"
Complexius's frown returned. By the Traveler, he liked to frown. Not that she could blame him. Frowning was great fun when you had the face to do it. "Ye-es... But it would be irresponsible of me to allow you to do so unaided. I'll check in a call to city officials. Perhaps another Seeker can-"
"No!" she said quickly. It was louder than she intended. The last thing she wanted was for 'officials' to get involved. They might figure something was awry and... well, she imagined it would only end in unpleasantness.
And unpleasantness was bad. Especially for the Lightless. Hawkmoon found herself fearing even the most trivial of damage to her new chassis. She didn't have the means to effortlessly shrug pain and death off like they didn't even matter. Not anymore.
Being Lightless was a uniquely terrifying experience. She didn't like it one bit.
"No," she said again, but more calmly. "I can figure it out myself."
Complexius shot her a look full of disapproval. "That's... incredibly dangerous."
"I'll take precautions."
"If something goes wrong, I'll be the one soldering you back together.
Hawkmoon winced. Soldering didn't sound fun either. "Then I'll try not to let anything go... wrong?"
There was a snort from the door. Complexius looked past her. "Enjoying this, Knockout?"
The chuckles died away. "Uh... no sir. Sorry sir."
"Well, excuse us for boring you. Should I find you some work?"
She could almost hear the other metal-guy's cringe. "No sir!"
Complexius smiled in a self-satisfied manner and leaned back. "Then, perhaps, you might keep your vocalizer silent."
Knockout didn't reply. Hawkmoon supposed if he had, Complexius would jump on it. The physician had a grouchiness about him that even she didn't want to test any further.
Unfortunately, the grouchiness saw fit to seek her out. "What you propose is... ill-advised. I'll tell you that here and now: it's dangerous."
"I don't care," Hawkmoon shrugged. But she did. Danger had a whole new meaning for reality without Gecko. Still, though, it was a risk she had to take. To invite the attention of powerful players she didn't know of-
"And what of your memory cores?"
"Mem-" The amnesia. "Nothing."
"Pity. Not even a designation?"
"I call myself Hawkmoon."
"Hawkmoon... Did you remember that?"
She shook her helm. "No. It just... felt right."
"... 'Felt right'?" Complexius quoted incredulously. He sighed. "Maybe some fragments of memory survived. I'll search for a missing person's report with that designation. We might return you to your family-unit yet."
Family? Her family was a shy green Ghost with a love for logistics and kittens. Her family was an old, reserved Warlock with a penchant for speaking Eliksni and casting Nova Bombs at shapeshifting dragons. Her family was a reserved Titan who liked tossing burning hammers at Hive gods and wrestling Colossi bare-handed way more than he should have.
Hawkmoon tried to swallow past the lump in her alien throat and numbly nodded. There was no family to find, because it had been torn asunder with a burning blade called Xol, Future-Murder-Victim.
After a few more meaningless questions, Hawkmoon was allowed to leave. She and Overwatch returned to the latter's home, where she retreated to her room and sat on the bed-thingy to think.
Not five minutes later, according to her body's inbuilt chronometer, she walked back down the stairs and announced, "I'm going to fly."
Overwatch, who had been furiously typing into a datapad by the dining table, gawked at her. "Now?"
Hawkmoon shrugged. "Yeah? Better sooner than later, right? I've got to get my bearings."
"You... want to fly?"
She thought that had been obvious. "Yes."
"But... you can hardly walk!"
Hawkmoon blamed that on conflicting motor-protocols - the ones from her previous Exo body argued incessantly with her new Cybertronian ones. And, considering she'd never flown before (salvaged jumpships and stolen Threshers didn't count), she was confident her flight protocols would function without a hitch.
The idea of the whole transformation thing unnerved her. That was the only downside. But, as she so recently discovered by peeling away at her body's ingrained operating system, her flight protocols weren't solely restricted to an alternate form. Apparently, the thrusters and wings on her back had a function even in normal form.
Which was great!
She made it outside, walked onto the garden-esque area in front of Overwatch's and Phosphora's home (devoid of organic plants, of course) and offlined her optics. Hawkmoon delved within to gingerly poke the flight protocols and ghost over all they entailed. She stayed far from the one including a transformation.
Right, prod that, do that, let that happen, and...
It was slow to start, if only because she was being extra cautious. Hawkmoon began by powering her thrusters with as little energy as she could give them. Her wings moved, almost automatically, to work with them. It was frighteningly close to muscle memory.
Her body already knew what to do, then.
They twitched and folded and readjusted here and there. She could feel everything with them - every breeze on the air, every wave of pressure emanating from her thrusters, every dust particle that landed upon the sensitive metal. It was... surreal.
Hawkmoon increased the power. Her weight lifted, but she didn't leave the ground. Her body felt as light as a feather.
More power.
Then, then, her pedes rose up. She onlined her optics.
She was flying.
Her spark/heart/core rapidly beat with the thrill of it all. It wasn't frightening in any way, because she knew what to do. She could fly just like that.
Her wings tilted down and she shot up. Hawkmoon paused the moment she raised over the house in which she was staying. Overwatch stood by the door, watching her. She could see everything - his troubled look, the way he crossed his arms and tapped his digits against his elbows, how he discreetly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Damn, these optics of hers were powerful.
Hawkmoon swooped down and landed with more grace than she thought she could muster. Flying was like riding a bike. She never truly forgot. Even if she'd never actually learned in the first place.
Hawkwmoon beamed. "There!"
"There..." Overwatch trailed off. "Are you going to try your alt mo-"
"No!" She shook her head. "I'm not going to test my luck."
"Good," he muttered, relieved. "Good."
Dinner (if that's what Cybertronians called it) was a light-hearted affair. Overwatch quickly brought up the matter of her flying, this time with more approval, and Phosphora and Daybreak both congratulated her with honest, supportive smiles.
It was... nice.
It couldn't replace the hole in her heart - she preferred to call it that over spark, if only to retain what remained of her humanity - but it was nice to have all the same.