TWDTH Outtakes
47.5 – Flyboy

Author's Note: Unlike the main "Things We Don't Tell Humans" story, the chapters here won't be connected to songs. Instead, they're just going to be descriptive of what will be within the chapters. They'll also be shorter than the normal TWDTH chapters, more or less drabbles of thought that don't or wouldn't fit into the storyline as I write it. With each chapter, I'll let you know where it falls in the manner of "Chapter 2.5" or something of the sort.

But . . . since you asked for it . . .

I give you Faust.


Gravity was a problem.

Wincing as he crinkled the edges of his new wings, Faust rolled over onto hands and knees, hearing bright encouragement from his parents as he got used to his new frame. Nobody had said that it was going to be this hard to transition between frames. Well, maybe. Ratchet had warned him that the size difference between his two frames would mean that he would have quite a bit of a learning curve. He was two days into his frame, and he was not enjoying his lack of coordination.

Which was why he was practicing basic hand-to-hand (mainly evasion) with Bluestreak. The Praxian understood how sensitive wings could be, and was careful to avoid them. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see the grey and red mech offer a bright grin before giving him a firm shove backwards.

Face lifting into a snarl, Faust felt innate reflexes take over and he executed a neat back-handspring, settling himself firmly upon his feet and watching Bluestreak's form.

Or rather, where Bluestreak had been.

He now faced Barricade.

Looks like he had either leveled up, or had tempted the imp of the perverse for far too long.

The shock trooper and frontliner grinned ferally before darting in and shoving at the flier, moving too quickly for clawed hands to grasp his armor and use him as a hand-hold.

Tumbling to his aft, the Youngling hissed and spat a curse out in Cybertronian.

"Where did you learn that?" Prowl demanded from somewhere behind him.

Faust winced, then shrunk inwards very slightly. The last thing he had wanted to do was to torque off the very mechs he idolized. "Uhm. Ratchet?" But he wasn't above throwing another Adult under the bus. Standing, he looked at Barricade and then took two running steps closer, moving as fast and as sudden as his frame would allow him at this time. The black and white agent merely blinked before catching him around the middle and taking him off-balance, knocking the air from his vents and systems with a firm blow to his torso. With fans stuttering, wings screaming with pain where one of them had crumpled in half under him, Faust coughed to get cool air to his core, glaring at the older mech, his sensory-crest flattened to his helm to protect the sensitive array.

Shrugging, Barricade shook his head. "You're young. Unless you know what you're doing, never attack a mech head-on. It'll get you killed. I could have put my hand through your Spark chamber if I was an enemy. Get up. Try again."


Tilting his head curiously amid the sudden silence, Barricade asked, "No? Are you disobeying your teacher?"

"You aren't my teacher, Barricade. You aren't even a tutor." Rolling to his feet, his unique-to-fliers legs moved to a point where they were firmly planted under him. He pointed to Prowl. "I will accept his teaching." Pointing to Ratchet, Wheeljack, First Aid, Kup, Bumblebee, Optimus, Elita, and then to a few of the humans, he stated, "I will learn from them. I accept their bids to teach me. But you? You don't have the right to teach me anything. Not until I'm sure you can be trusted." With each sentence and each moment of irritation rising, the crest of sensors also rose into an intimidation posture.

"All those mechs you pointed to? They trust me, Sparkling."

"That's them. They've known you all your life."

"With that argument, shouldn't you trust their judgment?"

"No. I prefer to make my own decisions upon whom I should trust. They made their decisions to trust you long ago. I just got to meet you recently. That doesn't mean that I like you or trust you."

Barricade let his face turn upwards into a gentle smile, startling Faust. Walking over, the Adult held one hand out. "Good. Trust them, though. And always follow your Spark's promptings. At the behest of Prowl, I volunteered to test you to see how you would respond to that situation."

Tilting his head to one side curiously, the fanned crest of sensors falling down half-way into a state of thoughtful restfulness. "If my Spark prompts me to trust an enemy, then what?"

"Test that out carefully," Optimus replied, coming onto the field. He shook off Ratchet, who was trying to adjust one of the junctions where his flight tech attached to, but to no avail as the medic spat a hiss of static at him and pulled him close again to continue his work. "Many of my generation have a lot of hate and pain associated with many Decepticons. Your generation does not have those negative emotions attached to you. Therefore, you may be able to make a clearer decision regarding one whom we may dismiss as an enemy."

"Do be careful, though," Kup said from where he sat with several of the Sparklings gathered around him. They were all quite fascinated with Faust's new frame, and how he was adjusting to being in it. A few were jealous, but most were just in awe and anticipation of their own upgrades one day. "Balance out what your Spark feels and what information your processors are giving to you. Don't hesitate to act with extreme cautiousness if you feel that he mech in question is dangerous."

Faust nodded, stretching his wings and crest to their fullest ability. He knew from the frame information that was loaded into his processor that the wings he sported were primarily for stabilization during flight, and not much else. His main boosters, located upon his back, were his source of propulsion.

He wanted to fly within a week. As he smiled down at his Caretakers, as he crouched to hesitantly touch Dana's arm with careful fingertips, Faust knew that someday soon . . . he would be able to fly her and Tom to wherever they desired.

One step at a time, though. And he hated the slow-moving process.