A/N: AUGH this was long and annoying. XD But I hope it was worth it.

Two general notes: "bot" refers to anyone, short for "robot," perhaps. " 'bot " with the extra apostrophe is short for Autobot. In case that ever matters anywhere, which I'm not sure it ever will. XD

And the Seekers' altmodes resemble the ones in the Reign of Starscream comic... for those who haven't read it, they're like... a cross between the old-style tetrajets and Megatron's 2007 altmode. Very cool overall, anyway.

(This one's for you, lemur, in honor of... wait for it... over 2000 e-mails exchanged in what, two months?) OH! THAT REMINDS ME! Dancinglemur, everyone, has written several rather silly tidbits in the universe of Rise and is posting them little by little (as soon as the crack contains no spoilers) under the title "Rise Crack." I highly recommend that you go dash on over there and read it!

Enjoy!

7. To Be Whole

I spent much time away from Starscream in the following orbits, flying about to give myself time to think. And think I did, long and hard. I thought about Cybertron, about the Autobots, about the Decepticons. But there was only so far I could go with the information I had, and I didn’t know how much of what others told me I could trust. So I went to learn what I could with my own optics, exploring the city outside of Prime’s home to observe the daily lives of the Decepticon slaves. I kept out of sight, hoping to see how they acted without an Autobot around.

What I found out surprised me. Like Autobots, they refueled and recharged. Unlike Autobots, they had little time to themselves outside of serving their masters. They fought among themselves often, with such nonchalance that I grew to understand that it was simply their way. War was their freedom, Starscream had said, and maybe keeping their skills sharp was a false freedom, a taste of that which they no longer had. Also unlike Autobots, the Decepticons got by on one or two cubes of energon per day. They weren’t living, I realized. They were only surviving.

I also read the Axis Decree, which had sentenced the defeated Decepticons to slavery, and the resulting slave code. All my life I’d had a sense of what Decepticons should or shouldn’t do—speak when spoken to, don’t look your master in the optics—but only now did I realize just how many things that they couldn’t do. They couldn’t buy, sell, or trade anything without special permission; they couldn’t travel faster than 30 astros per cycle; they could only gather during certain times of the orn and then under strict supervision; any slave speaking before a group would be executed. In fact, an uncomfortable number of these crimes were punished by execution. There were more model-specific laws—weapons to be dismantled, flight disabled, some of the more formidable alt-modes suppressed, certain abilities removed. The Autobots truly had taken every precaution, right down to splitting up all former teams, trines, and gestalts, dispersing them to the furthest geographical position possible.

I became agitated, disturbed without meaning to be. It wasn’t right. The Decepticons were fuel lines and circuits and plating just like the Autobots were. Only our ideals separated us. Only minute differences in programming or construction set us apart.

We’re all Cybertronian, Optimus had said once. Cybertronians enslaved Cybertronians, ran them into the dirt. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for Starscream, unable to fly for a hundred vorns, separated from those closest to him… I couldn’t. I tried to imagine living on a cube a day, that burning ache in my fuel tank, but I couldn’t. I had never lived that way. I had lived an easy life, uncaring of those beneath me, exactly like the Autobots before the War.

This could not go on. Optimus knew it, Starscream knew it, and now I knew it, too. Something had to change, somehow. Prime trusted that things would reach their natural, inevitable conclusion, given time; Starscream and I had a somewhat more cynical view on the situation. There were some Autobots, perhaps, who believed in Prime’s “freedom is the right of all sentient beings” philosophy, but not enough, never enough, and the Senate cared nothing for the Decepticons except that they were free labor. The Neutrals—I knew nothing of the Neutrals, I realized, but I’d always looked down on them with only slightly less disgust than I had the Decepticons.

And the craziest idea I’d ever had bloomed in my processor. Something had to be done. Someone had to do it.

-

Starscream was the key, I knew. He was already preparing for a change, an upheaval of some sort. It wasn’t enough to have his servitude… I needed to gain his trust. It wouldn’t be easy; Starscream wasn’t the type to give his trust lightly. I had to find some way to get well into his good graces… and I got an idea, something that seemed so simple once it occurred to me that I was surprised it hadn’t come to me before.

I had a generous allowance from the Prime, an account full of credits that I hardly ever used, and a hundred vorns of buildup had left me with a small fortune. But there was one problem, one that I couldn’t ignore. However, I knew a way to get around it.

Prime’s mask was off when I entered his office. He greeted me, laying aside the datapad he’d been reading from. I took my usual seat and began without preamble.

“I’m going to buy two slaves,” I told him. The saddened, disappointed look on his face would have broken my Spark if my intentions had been any different.

“You don’t need my permission,” he said softly.

“But I do need your help,” I answered, and explained the rest of my plan. By the time I had finished, he was smiling, optics radiating pride.

“Of course I’ll do what I can,” Prime said. He observed me for a moment. “Here’s such a change!” he murmured at last. “Only a few vorns ago, you’d never have considered anything of the sort.”

I pondered that as Optimus searched the records. I had changed. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact date, but sometime over the past five decavorns I had changed, so slowly that I’d barely noticed. Optimus, however, had noticed… I wondered if this was what he’d hoped for all along. I wondered if this was what Starscream had intended.

“Here,” Optimus said after a time, watching the console. “Gygax and Praxus. Would you like to download the specifics?”

I uplinked to the console for the rest of the information. “Thank you.”

“And I’ll take care of everything with the Senate.”

I smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Optimus.”

-

Starscream wasn’t happy about staying behind, but he had no choice except to obey. I took care not to let him onto my plan, much to his aggravation.

I was faster in my altmode, so I transformed as soon as I was out of the main city and pushed myself to top speed, enjoying the feeling of wind rushing over my wings. At this velocity, Praxus was three megacycles from Iacon. Long and lonely, especially for a solo flight. I disliked flying alone. It was part of my Seeker programming screaming for a trine of my own, which was, of course, impossible. Whenever I flew on my own I was distinctly aware of the void gaping open behind me, yearning for wingmates to fill it. But I’d never flown across this territory before, so I had plenty to distract me. Although my altmode had no true optical sensors, I could “see” the shape of the land below me, the type of metal and the odd formations and chasms that covered most of Cybertron’s surface. I passed high over cities, not wanting to attract too much attention or send anyone into a panic.

I transformed back to bipedal mode as I came into the city-state of Praxus. It didn’t look much like the glittering spires of Iacon. Shorter, but still bright, the main city was constructed in a regular grid pattern, unlike Iacon’s loops and swirls. It was silver, rather than golden. The streams of traffic were the same, individuals on the streets and shuttles in the air. The mechs themselves were of Praxean make: short, bulky, made for heavy work. The fashion of the time was black, white, and grey color schemes—at least in color I would fit in here.

Overflying the city, I headed instead for the outskirts. Here dirty, faded mechs worked in lines. Some chopped and pulled metal from the ground. Others carried the extracted metal into the massive building pouring smoke. Faces stared up at me as I passed over, ‘cons pausing in their strutbreaking work to watch in awe until their overseers compelled them to continue. It had been a hundred vorns since they’d seen a Seeker in flight, I imagined.

Upon landing, I was cautiously approached by three or four armed guards. The red sigils on my wings gave them pause. Finally, one of them was nudged forward by the others. He looked like he was desperately trying to hide his terror.

“This area’s restricted,” he said, attempting to conceal his fear behind a mask of authority… and failing miserably. Praxus was poor, and I looked rich… perhaps I could use that to my advantage.

“I have business with Axlerod,” I answered, checking the information Optimus had found for me. “I could go elsewhere, if he doesn’t…”

“No, no!” the unfortunate ‘bot said quickly. “I’ll take you to him right away.”

He waved his fellows away and led me inside the factory. It was blazingly hot and smoky, forcing me to clear my vents in a cough several times. Seekers’ vents were extraordinarily delicate, so I didn’t fancy staying in here for very long. It was filled with clanging and crashing sounds. I pitied the grimy mechs I saw through the haze and wished my guide would walk faster.

We went through a door into a corridor filled with clean air and light. I cycled a few grateful intakes, trying not to be too obvious about it, as the mech showed me into a small office and ducked back out.

Axlerod was a thick-limbed yellowish mech with wheels on his upper arms enhancing his bulk—his altmode was probably a hefty load-bearing truck of some sort. He had an unpleasant smile, an oily voice, and twitching fingers. After I had introduced myself and my errand, a greedy light came into his optics. I was hard-pressed to hide my loathing. When it seemed too much to bear, I looked out of the window behind him at the leaden sky.

“Looking for a slave,” he echoed—he had a habit of slowly repeating my words. “Did you have anything special in mind?”

“I’d like a mech who shares my capabilities,” I said.

“A flyer, then?” he oozed.

“A Seeker.”

“A Seeker,” he pondered, sitting back. “Terrible workers, Seekers… no offense meant… distractible. Not built for heavy lifting… terrible attention span… no offense meant…”

“You sound as though you’ve had some experience.”

“Experience? Only one… the code’s pretty strict on that point. But I’ve heard the same from other businessmechs like myself.” He smirked. “Work crew’s no place for a Seeker… no offense meant… get them in the berth, no compare… no off—”

I shot up, optics blazing furiously. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this sort of crass humor, but nobody had ever dared to say it to my face. “I can take my credits somewhere else,” I snapped. He raised his hands in supplication, apologizing profusely, and I sat back down, unmollified.

Axlerod sent for the Seeker and spent the next few cycles giving me unsavory tidbits on keeping slaves in line. With each one I felt a growing desire to purge my tank, and I determined to delete each “tip” from my processor at the first opportunity. Before long, mercifully, a guard entered with a filthy grey creature barely recognizable as a mech under the grime. Even so, the shape was familiar from Starscream’s databursts. He stared right back at me… would anybody ever not look at me like they’d seen a ghost?!

“Designation?” Axlerod asked dispassionately. The Seeker glared without speaking until the guard cuffed him over the helm.

“Skywarp,” the ‘con answered in a growl.

“Ah, of course,” Axlerod said, turning to the console and bringing up a file. “A troublemaker. Spends more time in solitary confinement than he does at work. Disrespectful as they come. We haven’t broken him in yet… but given time, I’m sure he’ll… see reason.”

It felt wrong to be haggling over the worth of a fellow mech, especially one who was still in the room. The occasional casual reminder that I could take my business elsewhere smoothed the way somewhat… I couldn’t let this repugnant mech see that I was in fact here for Skywarp specifically. I parted with a respectable amount of credits.

“And I’ll need his thrusters re-enabled,” I added when the deal had been sealed.

“You’re letting him fly?”

“How else am I getting him back to Iacon?” I replied acidly, finished being polite to the despicable Axlerod.

I waited for several breems in the corridor outside the scrap heap that passed for a medbay around here until Skywarp hobbled out.

“Perhaps we’ll be doing business again sometime…?” Axlerod ventured. I gave him my best haughty Starscream-chilly glare.

“We’ll see.” Like the Pit we will, slagface.

As soon as we were out of that building, Skywarp and I took better stock of each other. Under the grease and grit, I could see that his washed-out purple-and-black paint was marred by patches and weld lines. The metal of his wrists was fractured and dented. Seeing where I was looking, he sneered at me.

“Didn’t you hear Slagface?” Great processors function alike, they said. “I spent lots of time in the stasis cuffs.” He coughed through his vents, which were probably clogged from a centivorn in that awful smoke. A good fly should change that. He was still looking at me strangely… I was almost used to it by now. “All the beatings in the world won’t ‘break’ me, just so you know.”

“I’m not interested in beatings,” I answered, to his surprise. “My designation is Nova. Come with me… I’ll take you to your wingmates.”

Skywarp’s mouth opened in shock. I unsubspaced a cube of energon and offered it to him.

“Do you think you can fly to Gygax? Can you transform?”

He nodded. “Gygax? You said we were going to Iacon.”

“Gygax is where we’ll find Thundercracker.”

-

It took longer to reach Gygax than it had to reach Praxus, mainly because Skywarp’s thrusters were still recovering. We reached the city in the second megacycle of the afternoon. I gazed in wonder at the strange domes that comprised much of the city until I remembered that they had likely been re-crafted by Decepticon slaves.

The warden of the stockade, Surefire, was nearly as opposite to Axlerod as it was possible to be. He stood tall and stern, blue optics shining from a white face, red Autobot insignia on his chest standing out against his blue armor.

“Designation Thundercracker,” he mused, his optics dimming as he perused the databanks in his processor. “Yes… he’s been here for a few decavorns. He was caught skulking about outside his master’s property after dark. He’s cooling his turbines in here until he gives a satisfactory explanation.” He looked at me doubtfully, a hard edge to his mouthplates as he swept his optics across my wings, lingering on the red symbols for several kliks. I stared right back—I’d already shown him the message I’d brought with the Prime’s seal. He had no reason to assume anything! “You’re sure he’s the one you want?”

“Certain.”

Surefire led the way down the lift tube and through some dark passages lined with cells, lit only by the dangerous red energy bars. Sullen mechs watched us pass, or rather, watched me pass; their stares prickled on my wings. Some shouted at us. The guards stationed at the end of each row moved to intimidate them into silence. How many of them had committed an actual crime, and how many were in here only for a violation of the harsh slave code?

“He’ll come cheap,” the warden was saying when I bothered to pay attention. “Technically he’s government property, cheapest of the lot—no one wants a rebellious slave.”

He stopped before a cell, signaling for the guards. The winged mech inside was only slightly less dirty than Skywarp, faded blue paint peeking out through the accumulated muck. He wore a pair of gleaming stasis cuffs.

“Designation Thundercracker?” Surefire barked. The Seeker looked up, optics glowing into deep red life. “That’s him.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll need his thrusters repaired.”

“But he might—”

“Do as I say!” I snapped, angry and frustrated after a long and trying orn of dealing with these mechs.

Either the promise of credits or the fear of the Prime’s disapproval kept Surefire cooperative. None of them quibbled with me after that, but performed the necessary transactions quickly. When Thundercracker emerged from the medbay, it even looked as though they’d hurried him through the washracks, though it would take a thorough scouring to get him completely clean. He didn’t wait for me to speak.

“Who are you?” he asked brusquely, his voice deep and smooth—quite the contrast to his wingmates. His optics were equal parts wary and curious.

“My designation is Nova—”

“But who are you?” he repeated. “You look like… but you’re an Autobot.”

That stung, somehow. “I’m a Seeker,” I asserted. “I’m the Prime’s ward. Follow me.”

He kept up easily, silently, still watching me closely until we reached the chamber where I’d left Skywarp fidgeting under the watchful optics of the stockade’s guards. Thundercracker stopped suddenly. Skywarp’s optics widened and he flung himself forward, using his thrusters for an extra boost. They collided with a crash, Skywarp landing on top of his wingmate. The guards look scandalized, but after glancing at each other, they turned away. Skywarp dealt a blow to the side of Thundercracker’s helm.

“You fragging bastard!” I was unfamiliar with the term, but I determined from the context that it was derogatory. “I’ve been so slagging worried about you, afthead!”

“It’s not like I could just drop in to see you,” Thundercracker answered. “Get off me, you’re filthy!”

“I don’t care! A hundred vorns and this is how you great me?!”

Thundercracker grabbed the back of Skywarp’s helm. “No,” he growled. “This is.” He pulled his wingmate down and crushed their mouthplates together in a hungry kiss. After a klik, I realized I was staring and averted my optics.

“Primus, TC, I missed you,” Skywarp gasped when they were done.

“Me too. Now get off me.”

They picked themselves up—yes, a trip to the washracks was definitely in order when we got home— and as they did, Thundercracker voiced a quiet question to his wingmate. “Where’s Starscream?”

Skywarp shrugged and they both looked to me. I smirked, noticing that they glanced quickly at each other. “To Iacon,” I directed.

-

They flew close together, wings nearly touching. I knew that if they could have, they would have been talking over their comms. Since the slave code called for slaves’ comm systems to be disabled, being close to each other was all they could do. This line of thought carried a realization… how had Starscream been able to supply me with databursts if his comm was supposedly offline? If I’d been in bipedal mode, I’d have shaken my head wearily—Starscream was a law unto himself.

The flight was another four megacycles. Darkness had fallen by the time we arrived in Iacon; the moons were up, illuminating the city more thoroughly even than its own lights. We transformed as we came in towards Prime’s spire, the others following my lead… almost like having my own trine, I reflected, and part of my programming mourned the wingmates I might never have.

I saw Starscream waiting on the landing pad… so did Skywarp and Thundercracker. I landed and had just enough time to see Starscream’s shocked face before Skywarp gave a wild cry of delight and slammed into him, followed by Thundercracker, and all three of them tumbled wings-over-turbines until they crashed into the wall. There followed a frenzy of hands and wings and excited voices, punctuated by happy clicks and trills whenever the joy was too much to process into true words.

Finally, the three disentangled themselves. Starscream approached me, the strangest expression on his face, nearly speechless.

“You…” he tried. “I… how?”

“Because…” and I found myself at a loss for words. The gaps at my sides didn’t often show themselves, but when they did they yawned widely. Instead of saying anything out loud, I clenched my hand over my Spark, Seeker body language approximated translated as “whole,” referring to a trine. Understanding glimmered briefly in his optics. Then, unexpectedly, he knelt before me, bowing his head. Thundercracker and Skywarp imitated him, all three Seekers expressing their deepest gratitude. I felt the circuitry behind my faceplates heating up in embarrassment.

“Get up,” I muttered, quite flustered. Starscream obeyed at once, the others following, and I had a feeling in wasn’t only because he was sworn to. In reuniting Starscream with his trine, I had successfully gained three allies… and perhaps a friend.

A/N: Woohoo! Questions? Comments? Weather forecasts?