(New story, new character, new setting, new stuff, lets roll. Its short, duh, but its also the prelude in a sense. Anyways, enjoy. I'll try and make up the next chapter soon; I hate doing preludes; they're always a pain in the ass. Chapter one, the prelude of Forever And Always. FAA… hmmm… where the hell do I come up with these weird ass acronyms? GIBTH? OITS?
Hmm… well, at least FAA is pronounceable, right?)
I don't really remember anything from being born, but I was told that it was messy, gross, and awing all at the same time. My mech creator, Nitrostreak, had told me that I didn't make a peep when I was born. I had stared up at him with blue optics, he said, as if I was judging his worth as a father. I honestly think it was a load of slag, but my creator defended that thought until his ending times. He said that when I finally decided to make a sound, it had been a piercing shriek, as if I was announcing that I was there, I was cold, and he had just been staring at me like some sort of dumfounded idiot. Nitrostreak said I was a strong child, something to be expected of a fighter, and something he was proud of as a parent.
The time I was born into was so very different from the Golden days. There was no one to rule us, to guide us, so rag-tag bands of bots would rove the planet, fighting to become the leaders of our race. During their petty squabbles, thousands of small settlements and towns were torn to shreds. Many Cybertronians died daily. The ones who were tough enough to protect their own were the ones who could have a family. My creators, for many generations back as well, had been bots of strong physique and mind; we were born and literally bred to create fighters who could hold their own against anyone who tried to harm us. That such trait, many generations back, is what led our family to pit fighting.
My earliest memories are of my youngling days, days past so long ago that none but myself remembers. It was warm, I remember, as I was nestled against my carrier's chest plates. Shadeburner, my 'mother' as humans would have dubbed him, was showing me the ring, where I would spend most of my days in Tyger Pax. I recall him telling me about it, but I don't recollect just what he was telling me. At the time, I was perhaps the equivalent age of a human toddler, and the words he spoke to me were lost to my young and quite frankly uninterested mind. Shadeburner's voice had lulled me to sleep not too much later, the vibrations of his voice soothing me as the thrum of his spark below me had as well, as he spoke my name softly, trying to rouse my attention.
The name that I was given hadn't been made known to me until I could understand words well enough to speak. My mech creator had wanted to name me Loudspeaker, but my uncle, and my mech creator's twin, Windstrider, managed to avoid my designation becoming what it could have been. Nitrostreak, as Uncle Windstrider told me, left the decision up to him, since he wasn't good with names. Windstrider named me Nightstrike, on account of the fact I was almost the spitting image of Shadeburner.
Uncle Windstrider had joked about me needing a strong name to fight in the pits, and to fight through the strife ridden times that was the age before the Golden times. He never could have guessed what battles I would face, what things I would fight. But he said that once one is born a fighter, being a fighter is all they'll ever really be.
I believe he was right in some manners. I'll leave those up for you to decide, though. Perhaps you will see what he did not, and what I am for all intents and purposes blind to.
I am who I was back then, and I am who I am now. Forever and always Nightstrike, heedless of the changes forced upon me, and the fights that I partook in.