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

Xahtonnoj should be acknowledged for asking annoyingly tricky questions, filling plot holes, and giving me titles and names.

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

My earliest recorded memory is the sky. I was a tiny protoform then, my armor soft and malleable. In the memory I lay on my back, 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.

Another thing occurred to me then, I remember: a feeling that I was meant for great things. Somewhere deep inside, 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.

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

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 gravitate towards me, all wanting to be me.

But all protoforms grow up, and as the vorns passed we 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 have the twin red sigils painted onto 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 necessary. It was proof 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." 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.

I matured into adolescence hating the Decepticons more than the average Autobot. To me, it was their fault that I looked the way I did. Optimus disagreed. He always treated slaves as equals. It was well-known that he despised slavery, but kept slaves because it was his obligation as Prime. It was humiliating. I liked to think that I made up that with my open disdain.

The Decepticons, our history datapads proclaimed, deserved it. They were inferior to Autobots. Astrocycles ago they had attempted a pathetic uprising, led by some glitch-head with one or two circuits loose in his processor whose designation wasn't worth recording, and had been put down easily. They were second-rate, barely more than drones, and existed to serve Autobots.

My hatred for the Decepticons ran deep in my Spark, but I restrained my hostility around Optimus. Though I was not his sparkling, I had lived with the Prime for as long as I could remember. He never mentioned my creators, but 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 about Decepticons, I loved him as my own creator. Though he was 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. He taught me all that I knew of politics and of dealing with others.

That wasn't to say that I couldn't be justly annoyed with him if he were being 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 words 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."

"I don't want to fly. Decepticons flew. I already have enough trouble with this frame."

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 hesitated. I shot 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. Your teacher 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. You will be respectful."

"But I—!"

"He is your teacher, like any of your instructors at the Academy. You may not order your way out of lessons. Now, follow me."

Despite the Prime's orders, I let my irritation radiate freely, walking unnecessarily slowly and scowling indiscriminately at everyone we passed. We descended to the slaves' quarters, walking through dim halls 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—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 white, 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 I. In my adult 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 to fly," Optimus said, outwardly oblivious to my glare.

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

I wanted to snap at him or strike him for his impudence, but didn't dare. Prime didn't reprimand him either, but gestured to him. "Nova, this is Starscream. Your instructor." He turned back to the Seeker and I frowned. He hadn't introduced me. Slaves were expected to know their master's family, but 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 with more to scroll through. "A temporary flying permit," he said. "Only effective when Nova is with you." 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 classmates could do that?

Optimus saw us off of the shuttle and gave me one last lecture about obeying my instructor before bidding us farewell. I felt horribly abandoned as the shuttle left, but 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.