A/N: It ate me. I don't know where this bunny came from, but it ate me. That is, it ate my mind, and I couldn't concentrate on anything else until I'd started this.

As usual, nowadays, Xahtonnoj should be acknowledged for being my "idea beta." Haha. Because he asks annoyingly tricky questions and insists on filling plot holes and gives me titles and names. So in some alarming and non-romantic way, Nova is sort of... our sparkling. O.o

I wasn't sure about putting a story in first person with an OC, but that's how it came. And hopefully Nova is a worthy character... we've worked hard to make him so.

This comes long after the continuity of the Megatron Origin comic, but not necessarily G1. The war is over.

1. Nova’s World

oOo

My earliest recorded memory is of the sky. I was a tiny protoform then, my armor still soft and malleable. In the memory I was lying on my back on the ground, feeling Cybertron’s hum rather than hearing it, but my thoughts weren’t tied to the surface. It was a clear day and above me everything was the purest turquoise, uninterrupted by skyscrapers or clouds. I remember spreading my arms and stretching what would eventually become my wings as though to embrace that endless blue, and I wanted nothing more than to escape Cybertron’s gravity and fly away. That desire was wired into my Spark from then on.

One other thing occurred to me then, I remember: a feeling that I was meant for great things. Somewhere deep inside of me, I already knew that I was destined to become something. And though those feelings were buried under vorns of mockery, I never quite forgot it.

oOo

My second memory is Prime. “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” he told me, and that lesson stayed with me too.

oOo

There was a time when I liked my wings. I was proud of them. They set me apart, made me unique. The other sparklings would stare and they would all come to me as though drawn by gravity, all wanting to be me.

But all protoforms grow up, and as the vorns passed we all learned what my wings were. Their creators told them what my anomalies meant and they retreated en masse, admiration turning to disgust.

The first thing I did when I learned was go and have the twin red sigils seared into my now-hated wings. It made no difference to them—they saw only the wings and not the insignias they bore—but to me, it was a necessary step. It was a way to prove to myself that I was an Autobot. I was a citizen of Iacon and the Prime’s ward. I was no slave.

When it became clear that my efforts to gain my classmates’ respect were in vain, I begged Optimus for permission to reformat my frame, to exchange my disgustingly scarlet optics for blue ones. But no, Optimus Prime wouldn’t allow it. “You were Sparked that way,” he said, and that was that.

“You were Sparked that way.” How I hated that phrase. I was Sparked as a freak. I was Sparked sharing the frame design of a Decepticon. I was Sparked looking like a slave.

Needless to say, as I matured into adolescence I hated the lowly Decepticons more than your average Autobot. In my processor it was their fault that I looked the way I did. Optimus disagreed. He was always treating the slaves as equals… it was well-known that he despised slavery, but only kept slaves because it was his obligation as Prime. It was humiliating. I liked to think that I made up for his pitiful beliefs with my open disdain. The Decepticons, our history datapads proclaimed, deserved everything that they got. They had always been inferior to Autobots, our teachers assured us orn after orn. Astrocycles ago they had attempted a pathetic uprising, led by some glitch-head with one or two circuits loose in his processor whose name wasn’t even worth recording, and had been put down with ease. They were second-rate, barely more than drones, and existed purely to serve Autobots.

My hatred for the Decepticons ran deep in my Spark, but I restrained my hostility in Optimus’ presence. I had lived with the Prime for as long as I could remember, though I was not his sparkling. He never mentioned my creators when I asked, but only said that he had promised to raise me well.

There was no mech I held in higher regard than Optimus Prime. In spite of his strange ideas regarding the slaves, I loved him as my own creator. Though he was, of course, fabulously wealthy, he never flaunted his riches, and he passed that trait on to me. He was surrounded by trusted friends and I envied him for his ability to establish a friendship with anyone. He was a just ruler and the wisest mech I knew. Under his guidance, Cybertron flourished. Though he had many duties, he was never too busy to spend time with me. All that I knew of politics and of dealing with others I learned from him.

That wasn’t to say that I couldn’t be justly annoyed with him if he were being as insufferable as he was now. He had called me to his study and now watched me with that considering look that made my Spark sink. Whatever he was going to say, I wasn’t going to like it.

Sure enough, he said the seven words that I had been trying to pretend would never come.

“It is time you learned to fly.”

“What?!” I yelped.

“Those wings aren’t just decoration,” he pointed out, merriment dancing in his optics. I tried pleading my case with logic.

“No Autobot flies.”

“That isn’t true,” Optimus corrected.

“I don’t want to fly. Decepticons flew. I have enough trouble with this frame as it is.”

Optimus said the other words I had been dreading. “You were Sparked that way. I’ve already arranged for you to be taught.”

I scowled. “By who?” Optimus’ brief hesitation made me shoot to my landing struts, optics flaring in fury. “I’m not taking instructions from a slave.”

“You’re going to learn,” Prime said patiently, “so you may as well learn from the best. The Aerialbots live far from Iacon, and besides, a Seeker is different from other fliers. The mech you’ll be learning from is the most skilled flier I’ve ever seen.”

“But I can’t take orders from a Decepticon!”

“You can,” Optimus said, stern now, “and you will. And you will be respectful.”

“But I—!”

“He is your teacher, like any of your instructors at the Academy. No ordering your way out of lessons, and keep your complaints to yourself. Now, come with me.”

oOo

In spite of the Prime’s orders, I let my irritation radiate freely from me, walking unnecessarily slowly, scowling indiscriminately at everyone we passed, and giving short, monotone replies whenever anyone spoke to me. We descended to the slaves’ quarters, walking through dim halls and rooms inhabited by wretched mechs with faded purple sigils. Sullen scarlet optics tracked us from the shadows. The closest mechs bowed to Optimus, but the others didn’t bother. Optimus paused at a door and knocked. I shook my head incredulously—why knock when he could simply enter a code?

The mech who answered the knock was disconcertingly similar in build to me. His color scheme had once been vivid red and black, but the paint had faded to almost grey over vorns of neglect. He was clearly designed for maximum efficiency in the air; his frame was all aerodynamic curves and smooth plating and his wings were sleek. He was much smaller than Prime, nearly as small as me. In my mature frame, I would stand a head taller at least. His face was thin and elegant, his mouthplates set just short of a sneer. He held himself with confidence, looking us over coolly with no signs of deference to his master. His entire manner exuded arrogance. I bristled as the bold crimson gaze swept over me. “Well?” he demanded, his voice high and slightly hoarse, as though he had a damaged vocalizer.

“Nova is ready to learn how to fly,” Optimus said, outwardly oblivious to my glare in his direction.

“It’s about time,” the Decepticon answered. His optics held cool condescension as he looked me over again. “You’ve put it off long enough.”

I wanted to snap at him or strike him for his impudence, but I knew that Optimus would be angry. Prime didn’t reprimand him either, but gestured to him. “Nova, this is Starscream. He will be your instructor.” He turned back to the Seeker and I frowned in momentary confusion. He hadn’t introduced me. Then again, slaves were expected to know their master’s family. Still, Optimus was always treating the Decepticons like people…

I focused in time to see Optimus giving something to Starscream. It looked like the permit he’d given me on the way down, but there was more to scroll through. “A temporary flying permit,” he said. “It’s only effective when Nova is with you.” I noticed that Starscream held the datapad like a priceless treasure as he absorbed its contents.

We took a shuttle to the outskirts of Iacon. I was still miffed at Optimus, but secretly I felt a tingle of excitement in my fuel lines. I was going to fly. I was going to defy gravity, escape from the comforting safety of Cybertron’s surface. How many of my contemporaries could do that?

Optimus saw us off of the shuttle and gave me one last short lecture about obeying my instructor before bidding us farewell. I felt horribly abandoned as the shuttle left. I schooled my expression into aloof unconcern before turning to face my unwanted companion. I would take his instruction, but I was still ten thousand times his superior. The red symbols on my wings were all the proof I needed.

But the look was wasted, because the Seeker was already walking away and I had to hurry to catch up.

A/N: Sooner or later I'll be posting designs for Nova and Starscream, at least. (Sooner rather than later.)