Transformers (IDW): "S/he" by Apathy
Title: S/he
Author: Apathy
Fandom: Transformers (IDWverse)
Pairing/characters: Arcee
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to HasTak, IDW, et cetera.
Prompt: 828: Arcee. Dealing with the effects of having gender physically forced upon you when you come from a genderless race.
Summary: Pursuing your enemy is easy. Pursuing yourself is more difficult.
Warnings: Mild violence, mention of (canonical) medical experimentation.
Author's Notes: If you are not familiar with Spotlight: Arcee, then this story will make no sense whatsoever. IDW!Arcee is very different to other versions of the character.
The underground energon bar is dull and dingy, the same as a thousand others. It's full of lowlife scum, rowdy and over-energised, and the stink of old oil is heavy in the air.
My kind of place.
'Hey, what's up with that mech?'
'I think it's a female.'
'Doesn't look like one.'
The idiot brays with laughter, staticky and uneven from drink. 'Yeah, she looks more like a rabid turbofox than anything else.'
It's not so obvious, now that female Transformers are more commonplace, but there was a time when you could tell a mech's profession by how he talked to me. It was always the scientists -- the xenologists, the explorers -- who called me 'she' by default, without even pausing to think about it. They were the ones who subconsciously recognised me for what I was, what I had become, even if they didn't realise it on a higher level.
I hacked into a library database, once, when I was waiting for him to make his next move, and had nothing better to do. It was a public database, freely accessible to any Cybertronian... except me. Good ol' Jhiaxus fragged my biosig up so much that I no longer scan as Arcee, and the New and Improved Arcee isn't in the databases.
Technically, I don't exist, at least as far as Cybertron's official records are concerned. While the anonymity does have its moments, it's really not as exciting as it sounds. Fragging frustrating is more like it. Especially since the authorities have since latched onto my new biosig, so they can use it to trace me, but I still can't use it to get anywhere. I've had to develop a certain... creativity... in order to keep pursuing my goal.
When I eventually found the information I was looking for... well, I wasn't impressed. Blind fury would be another way of putting it. The scientific exploration journals from the Sekmar System gave me the answers I was looking for: many of the mammalian species indigenous to the system had similar features to my new body, the size, the shape, the curves.
And when I found out what those features were for, I nearly purged my systems on the spot, my energon converter twisting in sick knots. The things they use their bodies for -- !
And now it's an integral part of me, this organic contamination, this, this reproductive urge. It's confusing, repulsive; waves of conflicting data wash over me whenever I interact with my fellow mechs. There are days when I can't look them in the optic, can't look at them at all for more than a few moments, for fear that I will do something unutterably stupid.
I can't see them the same way I used to. I want to do different things to them than I once would have. Things I know aren't possible. They're not properly equipped for me... or, rather, I'm not properly equipped for them. I'm incompatible with everyone on the entire slagging planet.
Frag, I'm not even compatible with myself, ruined and scarred as I am by Jhiaxus's experiments, the resultant non-functional jumble of circuits and ports a testament to whatever Jhiaxus's scientific curiosity revolved around at the time.
I did make an attempt... once. The other mech probably regretted it more than I did, given that he ended up strewn around the room in several pieces. Heh. Not his fault, really. I just got... frustrated.
But yeah, the scientist types could always tell what I was. Others... not so much. I've heard everything over the cycles, from 'he' to 'she' to 'it' to 'that' to 'hey, you' to a bunch of things I couldn't even understand, but at the meanings of which I could guess.
It's always difficult to judge how to respond. Today, I've apparently decided I'm male, so I let the closest idiot know this in a calm and reasonable manner.
'It's he, slagger. He. Got it?' I slam his head rhythmically against the bar for emphasis, and, if his gurgles are any indication, he gets it.
'Good. Now, I know a couple of Jhiaxus's lackeys came through here last night. Tell me everything you know, and I might even let you live.'
It's funny: I never even thought of myself as male, before. None of us ever did. It wasn't an issue. I cling to it now, sometimes, insisting on being something that I never even cared about in the past. It's less about being he, than about not being she.
But there are times when I've insisted that I'm female, to the point where it's cost lives. Whether this is what I really am, or whether the re-programming is merely asserting itself, I have no idea, but it's oddly liberating and slagging terrifying at the same time. Sometimes I enjoy the idea of being unique, of being so slagged up in the processors that others don't know what to make of me.
Of course, the more recent emergence of other female Transformers shot that all to slag. They bear about as much resemblance to me as male Transformers do, all smooth and sleek; while tough and battle-hardened, they are most decidedly not insane killing machines, lacking my sharp edges. Those I've met, anyway. I wouldn't wish my own fate upon anyone... but I can't help but wonder about what it would be like to meet someone like me. Someone who understands.
The female Transformers give me these looks, somewhere between disgust and pity and contempt. Which I guess fits, because I feel the same way about them. There have been so many times where I have just wanted to pull out my energon sword and press the tip to their primary fuel lines, let them feel its heat on their armour, and demand to know why. Why they are so content with their lives, when they are so monstrous. Why they are happy to let Jhiaxus go on experimenting, creating every sort of abomination he can think of. Why I can't just let it go and be like them.
Really, I don't even know how they came about. Were they like me, stripped down and exposed to the world and then rebuilt again, but wrong? Or were they the end result of the process, my process, created shining and new and perfectly comfortable in who they are?
I don't remember a whole lot about who Arcee used to be; my processors are so scrambled that there are times when I'm just glad that I know what I have to do, and why. There's something back there, if I dig hard enough and manage to hold on: flashes of a life spent as a courier bot, back when my biggest concern was seeing how quickly I could manage to carry out each delivery. I've always been competitive, I know that much.
But now, I am so much more. Jhiaxus birthed me, forged me, made me into his very own personal freak show. He gave me purpose, and resolve. I suppose I should thank him; he made me into the monster I am today, and I am strangely grateful. While he is responsible for my confusion, he also gifted me with the perfect clarity of hatred.
To be honest, I'm not even sure what I'll do once he's gone. I'll miss him, in a way. His presence brings a certain constancy to my chaotic existence, giving me something to define myself against. I am the mech who is going to tear Jhiaxus's energon converter from his carcass, and crush it with my bare hands before his shattered optics. I am the mech who is going to drink of his still-warm energon. I am the mech who is going to torch his labs to the ground, and make sure not a single scrap remains.
What I am beyond that is still up for debate. Autobot? Only so far as being sent on all their most idiotic suicide missions. I'm under no delusions about that. Decepticon? Don't even go there. Either way, it's more of the same: other mechs' sigils, other mechs' ideals, other mechs' wars.
The idiots in the bar know nothing; I leave, and the muttering and the laughter and the insults and the 'what was that?' fade behind me. I ignore it, making a mental note to come back later and interrogate them purely for fun, should I have the time.
Mechs look at me curiously as I stalk to my next destination, their not-so-quiet whispers carrying easily in the still air.
He -- she -- it -- her -- they --
Me.
I grip the handle of my energon sword, and smile.
I may not know what I am, but I slagging well know who I am. I am Arcee, and Jhiaxus is going to learn just what that means.
Author: Apathy
Fandom: Transformers (IDWverse)
Pairing/characters: Arcee
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to HasTak, IDW, et cetera.
Prompt: 828: Arcee. Dealing with the effects of having gender physically forced upon you when you come from a genderless race.
Summary: Pursuing your enemy is easy. Pursuing yourself is more difficult.
Warnings: Mild violence, mention of (canonical) medical experimentation.
Author's Notes: If you are not familiar with Spotlight: Arcee, then this story will make no sense whatsoever. IDW!Arcee is very different to other versions of the character.
The underground energon bar is dull and dingy, the same as a thousand others. It's full of lowlife scum, rowdy and over-energised, and the stink of old oil is heavy in the air.
My kind of place.
'Hey, what's up with that mech?'
'I think it's a female.'
'Doesn't look like one.'
The idiot brays with laughter, staticky and uneven from drink. 'Yeah, she looks more like a rabid turbofox than anything else.'
It's not so obvious, now that female Transformers are more commonplace, but there was a time when you could tell a mech's profession by how he talked to me. It was always the scientists -- the xenologists, the explorers -- who called me 'she' by default, without even pausing to think about it. They were the ones who subconsciously recognised me for what I was, what I had become, even if they didn't realise it on a higher level.
I hacked into a library database, once, when I was waiting for him to make his next move, and had nothing better to do. It was a public database, freely accessible to any Cybertronian... except me. Good ol' Jhiaxus fragged my biosig up so much that I no longer scan as Arcee, and the New and Improved Arcee isn't in the databases.
Technically, I don't exist, at least as far as Cybertron's official records are concerned. While the anonymity does have its moments, it's really not as exciting as it sounds. Fragging frustrating is more like it. Especially since the authorities have since latched onto my new biosig, so they can use it to trace me, but I still can't use it to get anywhere. I've had to develop a certain... creativity... in order to keep pursuing my goal.
When I eventually found the information I was looking for... well, I wasn't impressed. Blind fury would be another way of putting it. The scientific exploration journals from the Sekmar System gave me the answers I was looking for: many of the mammalian species indigenous to the system had similar features to my new body, the size, the shape, the curves.
And when I found out what those features were for, I nearly purged my systems on the spot, my energon converter twisting in sick knots. The things they use their bodies for -- !
And now it's an integral part of me, this organic contamination, this, this reproductive urge. It's confusing, repulsive; waves of conflicting data wash over me whenever I interact with my fellow mechs. There are days when I can't look them in the optic, can't look at them at all for more than a few moments, for fear that I will do something unutterably stupid.
I can't see them the same way I used to. I want to do different things to them than I once would have. Things I know aren't possible. They're not properly equipped for me... or, rather, I'm not properly equipped for them. I'm incompatible with everyone on the entire slagging planet.
Frag, I'm not even compatible with myself, ruined and scarred as I am by Jhiaxus's experiments, the resultant non-functional jumble of circuits and ports a testament to whatever Jhiaxus's scientific curiosity revolved around at the time.
I did make an attempt... once. The other mech probably regretted it more than I did, given that he ended up strewn around the room in several pieces. Heh. Not his fault, really. I just got... frustrated.
But yeah, the scientist types could always tell what I was. Others... not so much. I've heard everything over the cycles, from 'he' to 'she' to 'it' to 'that' to 'hey, you' to a bunch of things I couldn't even understand, but at the meanings of which I could guess.
It's always difficult to judge how to respond. Today, I've apparently decided I'm male, so I let the closest idiot know this in a calm and reasonable manner.
'It's he, slagger. He. Got it?' I slam his head rhythmically against the bar for emphasis, and, if his gurgles are any indication, he gets it.
'Good. Now, I know a couple of Jhiaxus's lackeys came through here last night. Tell me everything you know, and I might even let you live.'
It's funny: I never even thought of myself as male, before. None of us ever did. It wasn't an issue. I cling to it now, sometimes, insisting on being something that I never even cared about in the past. It's less about being he, than about not being she.
But there are times when I've insisted that I'm female, to the point where it's cost lives. Whether this is what I really am, or whether the re-programming is merely asserting itself, I have no idea, but it's oddly liberating and slagging terrifying at the same time. Sometimes I enjoy the idea of being unique, of being so slagged up in the processors that others don't know what to make of me.
Of course, the more recent emergence of other female Transformers shot that all to slag. They bear about as much resemblance to me as male Transformers do, all smooth and sleek; while tough and battle-hardened, they are most decidedly not insane killing machines, lacking my sharp edges. Those I've met, anyway. I wouldn't wish my own fate upon anyone... but I can't help but wonder about what it would be like to meet someone like me. Someone who understands.
The female Transformers give me these looks, somewhere between disgust and pity and contempt. Which I guess fits, because I feel the same way about them. There have been so many times where I have just wanted to pull out my energon sword and press the tip to their primary fuel lines, let them feel its heat on their armour, and demand to know why. Why they are so content with their lives, when they are so monstrous. Why they are happy to let Jhiaxus go on experimenting, creating every sort of abomination he can think of. Why I can't just let it go and be like them.
Really, I don't even know how they came about. Were they like me, stripped down and exposed to the world and then rebuilt again, but wrong? Or were they the end result of the process, my process, created shining and new and perfectly comfortable in who they are?
I don't remember a whole lot about who Arcee used to be; my processors are so scrambled that there are times when I'm just glad that I know what I have to do, and why. There's something back there, if I dig hard enough and manage to hold on: flashes of a life spent as a courier bot, back when my biggest concern was seeing how quickly I could manage to carry out each delivery. I've always been competitive, I know that much.
But now, I am so much more. Jhiaxus birthed me, forged me, made me into his very own personal freak show. He gave me purpose, and resolve. I suppose I should thank him; he made me into the monster I am today, and I am strangely grateful. While he is responsible for my confusion, he also gifted me with the perfect clarity of hatred.
To be honest, I'm not even sure what I'll do once he's gone. I'll miss him, in a way. His presence brings a certain constancy to my chaotic existence, giving me something to define myself against. I am the mech who is going to tear Jhiaxus's energon converter from his carcass, and crush it with my bare hands before his shattered optics. I am the mech who is going to drink of his still-warm energon. I am the mech who is going to torch his labs to the ground, and make sure not a single scrap remains.
What I am beyond that is still up for debate. Autobot? Only so far as being sent on all their most idiotic suicide missions. I'm under no delusions about that. Decepticon? Don't even go there. Either way, it's more of the same: other mechs' sigils, other mechs' ideals, other mechs' wars.
The idiots in the bar know nothing; I leave, and the muttering and the laughter and the insults and the 'what was that?' fade behind me. I ignore it, making a mental note to come back later and interrogate them purely for fun, should I have the time.
Mechs look at me curiously as I stalk to my next destination, their not-so-quiet whispers carrying easily in the still air.
He -- she -- it -- her -- they --
Me.
I grip the handle of my energon sword, and smile.
I may not know what I am, but I slagging well know who I am. I am Arcee, and Jhiaxus is going to learn just what that means.