6Check my profile to find information on why this fic was deleted and is being reposted. I changed my username from RedRequiem to AutumnCaskette, so don't think this fic is stolen. There will be weekly updates, either on Thursday or Friday.
This fic is dedicated to Ha-HeePrime from deviantart. Because she is awesome, and is as close to Op in human form as any of us will get.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. Hasbro does. Where they got the balls to claim ownership over giant alien war-prone robots is beyond me.
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Optimus staggered back as the white-hot light scorched through his chest. It cut through his armor and into Megatron's like a blade, slicing a neat circle with the precision of a scalpel. His optics made contact with his rival's, and he saw his own confusion and pain reflected there.
His fingers had still been knitted in Megatron's as they grappled, but when the blinding beam of white ceased, their grip slackened and the Decepticon fell flush against him. The weight forced Optimus backwards into the pillar behind him. He was aware of it crumbling and of the flames licking its surface, before he hit the ground and his vision failed him completely.
"What… did you do?" he heard Megatron's hoarse voice whisper.
"It wasn't me…" he murmured weakly, the pain of his wounds sapping the strength from his words. "It was the Matrix. And… maybe…" Optimus lost consciousness before the thought that he had heard Primus' voice inside his mind had fully formed.
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At first, he thought he'd gone blind.
He could feel heat searing the air around him, penetrating deep into his armor. There was something heavy weighing down on his limbs and chest, and he suppressed the violent urge to convulse under the pressure.
He tried once more to light his optics, desperate to know where he was… desperate to know anything.
Gradually, a grainy picture came into being, corrupted in part by smoke. The twisted metal frame of a building stretched above him, an ominous silhouette against the ash strewn sky. Flames were slowly eating their way through the structure, surrounding him in a closing semi-circle.
Fear shot its way through his systems as he realized that the pressure on his body was a mech, his white armor seeping a dangerous amount of energon over his own. He started to cover one of the other's wounds with his hands, desperate to slow the flow of energon. A threatening pain flashed across his awareness when he tried to move, and it was then that he knew not all of the energon belonged to the stranger.
He bit back a scream and rolled the two of them over. The other mech didn't stir, and panic surged through him as he considered the possibility that the mech might be deactivated. "Hey," he choked out. He brought his hand to the side of the stranger's face. There was no tell-tale chill of death in the white armor, and that relief calmed him slightly.
The corners of the stranger's mouth curved in a grimace of pain. Red optics flickered to life, strong and hostile, filled to the brim with the surrounding fire.
He felt a strange sense of familiarity and anticipation when the optics met his own.
The white mech held his gaze for only the briefest of moments before he kicked himself out and away from him. "Who the slag are you?" he demanded, cradling a wounded arm against his chest.
The danger and aggression radiating from the other froze the first mech in place. But then a cold web of new panic braided its way through his spark as he realized he couldn't answer the question. Blue optics widened in shock. "I..." his voice trailed away.
The white mech sneered roguishly, all antagonism. "I'm waiting."
His blue optics narrowed defensively. "Fine, then who—"
"Optimus!" someone shouted from nearby. A black and white mech with an azure visor fought his way through the fire, blaster gripped tightly in one hand. He searched the rubble, looking frantic and desperate. His armor was streaked with ash and energon splatter, the luminescent lifeblood giving him an almost ethereal glow. As he spun slightly, he caught sight of the two mechs and froze, mouth forming a thin line. With slow and practiced precision he raised his weapon to aim at the white mech.
For a fraction of a second the red optics glowed in surprise, but then they flared as the stranger staggered haltingly to his feet and jumped backwards without any inhibition. The last glimpse of him was a mocking grin, a trail of energon at the corners of his lips.
"Slag!" the black and white mech cursed, rushing forward to look out over the ledge the stranger had disappeared over. He turned back, looking slightly temperamental. For some reason, anger looked indescribably unnatural on the newcomer's face. "What in Primus' name happened, Optimus? Why haven't you been answering your com? Prowl and Ironhide are going ballistic! And that had to have been a near perfect shot at Megatron… Why didn't you take it?"
Gentle optics paled in confusion. "What…?"
The newcomer seemed to deflate. He held his hands up as though trying to calm himself, and paused for a moment. The scene was almost comical, and the first mech wondered if the other remembered they were being encircled by fire. "And, I'm back," he breathed. "Sorry, Prime… I'm a little on edge. I almost got my head taken off by Ravage a few blocks back. Didn't see him, what with it being dark and him being black and sneaky." He seemed to become thoughtful. "Creepy sonuva—,"
"I'm sorry…" the first mech interrupted. "But I…"
The newcomer misinterpreted. "Nah, don't mention it. We'll get other chances to blast Megatron." He smiled warmly, and it had a comforting effect on the other. "C'mon Optimus, we need to bail." He crossed over to the kneeling mech and looped an arm around his waist, helping him to his feet.
The blue optics faded to grey. "Excuse me. I'm sorry, but… who's Optimus?"
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It took a moment for Prime's question to fully sink in, but when it did, Jazz noticed two things.
The first was that Optimus looked, well… different than he had earlier that cycle. He looked almost younger… not really, but his features were less hardened, as though he had somehow erased a millennia's worth of battle and pain. The responsibility and false blame that normally weighed on his shoulders was gone. His optics held none of the torture of war. If anything, they looked almost naïve. Optimus was not naïve. Optimus was the farthest thing from it. The second was that the Prime was looking at him without a single ounce of recognition.
He slouched in disbelief, discarding the possibilities that this was a joke or a dream. Optimus wouldn't do this to him in the middle of a battle, in the rare likelihood that he would do it at all. "Oh, boy…" Jazz murmured as his spark skipped a pulse. "Ratchet's going to have some fun with this one." He tried to work a level of composure into his voice as he addressed his commander. "Um, you," he managed lamely and mentally slapped himself for it. "Optimus is you." As an afterthought he added "Jazz is me."
The blue optics left Jazz's face and hit the ground with an almost painful amount of dejection. "Optimus…" he repeated softly.
Jazz maneuvered the two of them through the twisting and torn spires of the now demolished complex, and into the street beyond. He attempted to inject some humor into his tone, hoping to lighten the mood. Whether he was trying to lighten the Prime's mood or his own was uncertain. "You're Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, bearer of the Matrix. You beat the slag out of Decepticons on a regular basis, and are especially good at reducing Megatron to a babbling paranoid glitch." After surveying the skies and finding them devoid of the seekers that had been harrying him earlier, he refocused on Optimus.
There was no flare of remembrance, no spark of understanding.
He really didn't remember.
Jazz buried the rising implications beneath layers of professionalism. If he thought about what Prime's memory loss meant at present time, he would panic. Really panic. But he was on a battlefield. Panic would be bad.
The blue flickered momentarily to grey again, before brightening. "I'm… a soldier. That's what this means, right?" the way he said the word made it sound strange and foreign.
"Soldier's a bit of an understatement, but yeah. You are. I am too." Jazz took a moment to fully appreciate the grace with which Prime was taking the situation. Prime was still Prime, poise and all.
"Where…?" Optimus asked, optics trying in vain to comprehend the devastation.
Thankful for a question he knew how to answer, Jazz replied "We're in a city called Tarmus. Although I guess it isn't really a city anymore," he added, acknowledging the wreckage. "We're here buying time for an ore facility to evacuate its personnel and transport its cache." Jazz paused. "Look… it might be a good idea for us to hang tight until I can get a medic around to check you out. That puncture in your chest looks… not good. How much can you remember? Do you know anything about yourself? Anything at all?"
Optimus looked to the side, feeling like a fool. "I wish I could say I do, but I don't."
Jazz nodded distractedly and continued walking, still supporting most of the Prime's weight. "There's a hanger we can crash in up ahead. Why don't you start thinking of some things you want me to explain?" He turned a corner, coming into view of what had once been the main front, and knew he had made a crucial oversight.
Upon seeing the shattered and burnt corpses that lined the buildings, coating the streets in thick layers of wet energon, Optimus froze.
Jazz recognized the cold that entered the Autobot's commander's optics and readied himself.
Optimus was shaking, from shock, from confusion, from horror… and most of all from an intense and incomprehensible feeling of guilt. "Explain this," he whispered feebly. He couldn't look at the streets. He couldn't look at Jazz. Instead, he looked to the sky.
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Energon was slicked over his hands, over his arms, over his chest, spattered in his mouth.
He was grinning like a maniac.
He wasn't sure what this was, but it sure as slag felt fulfilling. The white mech also didn't know how he was still standing with a gaping hole in his chest, but didn't bother to question it. He'd figure it out later. There were far too many glorious things to concentrate on without being preoccupied with a mystery wound.
He dragged his stolen blade through the waist of a mech that came out of an alley in front of him, spewing gore across the metal walls and street. Green optics widened in shock and confusion. "Lord Megatron…?" he coughed weakly through the fatal amount of energon escaping his mouth.
Lord Megatron…
A few of the others had called him that too. His red optics were inexplicably drawn to the purple mark on the mech's armor. He'd seen many like it, along with an almost equal number of red ones. As he abandoned the dying mech, he wondered vaguely what they represented. All he knew was that he'd been attacked without provocation as soon as he had left that building, and he hadn't been very inclined towards mercy as a result.
He became aware of a new mech standing unconcernedly in the middle of the street before him. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the newcomer was blocking his path on purpose. He studied the blue and white armor, slightly annoyed by the fact that the stranger's face was completely obscured by a mask. Masks were a mark of cowardice and a lack of expertise to him. Besides… it made him curious, and that was incredibly annoying.
"Looking for a fight?" the white mech asked, smirking arrogantly.
An unnervingly unemotional voice answered him. "Negative, Lord Megatron."
"Why the slag does everyone keep calling me that?" he demanded, though he didn't really care if he got an answer. He was too hyped up on battle lust to really worry about his distressing lack of memories.
"Because it is who you are."
Pain. Shock. Cold. Fury. Aggression. Power. Thirst. All filled his mind almost instantaneously. He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure that it was coming from the mech in front of him. It felt as though someone were inside him, invading his mind, forcing him to feel the sensations. Flashes of color and still frames laced over his vision, but as soon as he tried to grasp the memories, they faded. He sank to his knees, clutching the sides of his head, optics wide and fluctuating.
"Something… has been done to you. Your memories have been sealed, and my telepathy cannot reach them. We must remove you from the battlefield. You are not safe." The blue and white mech stepped over the corpse of Megatron's latest kill, and offered his hand without fear. "I am Soundwave. I will help you."
Megatron stared at the hand, wanting more than anything to simply cut it away. But then he looked up into the mask, and a sense of familiarity washed over him and sated the desire. He trusted Soundwave… he might not remember why, but he knew that he did. Megatron took the hand and pulled himself to his feet. "I have the distinct feeling there are some things I should know."
"I have the distinct feeling you are correct." Soundwave motioned for him to walk beside him as he turned down the alley.
"Lord Megatron, huh?" he asked with a sneer.
"Affirmative," came the blasé reply.
"So far, no complaints." He grinned, placing his hands behind his head. "Continue."
