A/N: And so it begins.
Let me tell you right now that I am not a hardcore Transformers fan. Supermoose just recently got me into it, but I am not exceptionally knowledgeable. If I screw up your favorite character, I'm really sorry. Supermoose tried to guide me in characterization, but she can only do so much with someone as stubborn as I am.
This fic is an AU with lots of fun, made-up history to fill in the blank spots that TF Wiki didn't tell me about. It's closest to G1. It's also the first multi-chapter fic I've ever posted. I'm excited. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I know I'll enjoy writing it.
And now, without further ado, the story.
When he came back online, it was eerily still. His optical sensors flickered on and off as he struggled to reboot and run diagnostics.
His damaged optics detected traces of energon spilled around him. Further investigation revealed that traces was the wrong word—huge swaths of the floor were slick with it. That went a long way toward explaining why the diagnostics results indicated he was functioning at thirty-three percent capacity. He would have to redirect energy from all non-essential functions, but that wouldn't be a problem. His most basic programming screamed at him to fight, to attack whatever had damaged him, but he considered his weapons systems, the most draining of his functions, superfluous. They would not be missed in the short time it would take to repair his fuel tank.
But first, he needed to ascertain what happened. His memory banks were frustratingly slow to reboot. They were on a mission—the Council actually supplied the ship, despite their disapproval. They were deep in the uncharted reaches of the galaxy, examining one of the planets there. Something happened… a storm? That seemed right. He remembered detecting it on the ship's sensors. It was of moderate force, easily within the capabilities of the ship to withstand, or so it had seemed.
Something went wrong. The ship… The planet was young and its surface was unstable. Emergency landing was impossible and chances of surviving an impact were miniscule. If they could get out of the atmosphere they'd be safe, but it would be risky and difficult to-
Jerking with a horrible, sinking sense of dread, he struggled ponderously to his pedes and staggered to the back of the cabin. He typed in the access code to open the blast doors—he didn't know when or why they'd been closed—and a warning flashed across the screen.
ACTION DECLINED. UNSAFE CONDITIONS.
He snarled in frustration and punched in the necessary override code.
The blast doors inched reluctantly onto… nothing. Just the empty blackness of deep space and the charred remains of the back of the ship.
"Skyfire!" he screamed uselessly into the empty vacuum. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.
How could this have happened? The ship survived unscathed a worse storm less than a vorn ago. It was top-of-the-line, provided by the Cybertronian Council itself. They wouldn't cut corners with Cybertron's finest scientific mind on board, no matter how much they disapproved of Skyfire being on the expedition.
That was the strange thing, but then, the entire mission was strange. They hated him, hated that a war-make was breaking into the field of science, but why were they upset about Skyfire, the very model of what a scientist should be, insisting on joining him? And when had deep space exploration become so important to them? They'd never paid any particular mind to that branch of science before. It just didn't make sense-
It struck him as he was absentmindedly fingering the scorched edges of the ship. Scorched, though there was nothing flammable where they were. Scorched, and with his sensors picking up traces of Cybertronian explosives on the twisted metal.
He closed the blast doors and began plotting a new course on the ship's navigational systems. His first priority was to get to the energy deposit they discovered on the way there. He needed to become fully functional as soon as possible. It seemed he'd be needing his weapons systems after all.
A/N: Wow. I'm amazed with the response this has gotten. After three days, my 571 word prologue has three favorites, four reviews, and eight story alerts. Clearly, I've been writing for the wrong fandoms.
I hope I don't disappoint you.