Darkened: Ghosts of freedom
Maybe one of these days, I'll learn to write Optimus without making him a hundred percent insane.
Rating: PG
Genre: angst, supernatural
Verse: pre 2007, AU, but meshes TF:A, G1 and a bunch of different concepts I've absorbed through fanon
Characters: Optimus, Ironhide
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Optimus sees ghosts everywhere he turns. But the strangest one that he can see is in one of his oldest friends.
Ghosts of Freedom
Since receiving the Matrix upon Sentinel’s death, Optimus Prime can see ghosts. He sees them all the time now. Not an orn goes by without the long dead passing him by.
It is a strange thing. Every mech knows that when they pass on, their spark returns to the Well and is slowly washed clean of their past life. Most of the times, when a new spark is drawn forth from the Well, all traces of the previous existence has been removed. It is only in rare cases that a spark returns with a sizable amount of pre-established frequencies, memories and remnants of a life long gone.
Or so everyone believes.
As Prime, he was quick to realise that this is not the case.
Not everything can be removed from a spark; there are things that not even the miraculous energies of the Well can take away. Small things, personal quirks, particular habits, a certain speech pattern or gesture, personal preferences for frametypes and paint colour. They manage to slip through, remain constant through death and into a new existence.
Whenever Optimus meets a new mech, he can see every lifetime laid up on this spark like a series after-images. Whenever someone speaks his name, he hears it in a discordant harmony of the voices of the long dead. The past and present exist from him at the same time, he is Guardian Prime dealing with Compiler, then the next moment he is Zeta, talking with Fast-Twist. Then he is Optimus again.
It never stops, never ends. He sees his Autobots and they have four or five different frames all at once. Their faces flicker and change from one moment to the next.
Sometimes he thinks that this is the reason why the Matrix choses its bearer. It would be very easy for a mech to be driven insane by the fragmented reality it delivers.
But not every mech is a confusing agglomeration of every existence it has ever had. When he first met Prowl, only on rare occasion did he catch sight of another face on the enforcer’s helm and even then, it was the same one. Until the Fall of Praxus, that was when another life overlayed itself onto his tactician’s frame whilst the dead of Praxus screamed inside Prowl's broken mind. Optimus cannot help but feel that they share a kinship now, a way of looking at the world that no other mech can ever imagine.
Then…then came Blaster. Blaster had been a unexpected surprise. Meeting him and staring into his face and not seeing anything. Not hearing a chorus of voices speaking all at once. Blaster was new. The same spark still on its first life, almost completely fresh from his kindling on the edge of Cybertronian space. It was a joy to watch him because Blaster's every action was unpredictable and unexpected. But there was a darkness to him, he was unbelievably, painfully young and at the same time scarred from his experiences.
And there was Jazz. Like Blaster, his spark had never lived a life before but unlike the communications officer, Jazz was old. Older than their entire civilization itself. He was constant, stable and steady. There were moments, when Jazz would say something, do something and in the corner of his optic, Optimus could swear that he was seeing someone else. But a mech changed over his lifetime, grew and developed and their identity was a thing always in motion. He knew Jazz of now and he knew Jazz, in many different frames and names, of the past. In Jazz’s case, it was like trying to look at a very, very large picture, one that was sometimes too large to see all at once. For other mechs, it was a picture that had been layered over layer, then more layers on top until he couldn’t tell them apart.
And then…then the mech that had been there since he became Prime.
There was Ironhide.
Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. It was the Autobot’s creed but not only that, it was something that Optimus lived his life by. The freedom to choose one’s identity was something almost sacred in Cybertronian society after their tumultuous beginnings as Quintesson slaves.
Ironhide was a clone.
His spark and processors had been deliberately molded by one mech. The mech that had kindled and split Ironhide as his successor.
Armorhide.
Looking at Ironhide was different from other mechs. He was always split into two, with no overlaps, no past lives flashing in and out of sight. There was the part of him that undeniably Armorhide and then the other half that came from the newer existence. When Ironhide looked back to him, two mechs would stand before him, mirror images of the other. And he never changed; his identity was stable but stagnant and unmoving and set, completely different from Jazz.
Ironhide had never had the opportunity to determine who he was nor was he motivated to grow and change. He’d been brought online with a predetermined personality matrix, something that went against all laws on Cybertron. And yet…he never seemed perturbed by this.
Optimus was always disturbed by the manner of which Ironhide had been brought into existence.
“You are staring again,” the weapon specialist grumbled one orn, somewhat uncomfortable.
“My apologies,” Optimus replied smoothly, turning away to study the war-torn city outside his window.
Ironhide grumbled to himself for a few moments before looking up and deciding to lay this matter to rest at last. “I am bothering you by being here, aren’t I?” he said.
The Prime shot him a startled glance. “You do not-“
“I have optics,” the other mech said blandly. He took a bold step forward. “What you see with the Matrix disturbs you.”
Optimus slowly lowered his gaze, servos clenched unhappily. “You never had a chance to decide for yourself who you are,” he began. “You are what Armorhide wanted, not what you would have grown into had you been given the chance. He took away your freedom when he created you.”
Ironhide took a step closer and looked past him, studying the world outside Optimus’s window. “Does it matter?” he asked at last.
The Prime’s helm jerked upwards, of course it mattered-!
“-This is the only way I’ve known how to exist and I am content with it,” Ironhide was quick to interrupt. He waited until he held Prime’s gaze, demanding his understanding. “Really Prime, you know me. Have you ever seen anyone make me do something that I would rather not? My will is my own.”
“Is it really?” Optimus challenged, unable to help himself.
Ironhide gave a sheepish shrug. “Well, it was influenced heavily by Armorhide. But I found it acceptable; his purpose for me felt right.”
The Prime’s gaze intensified. “But what if he had influenced you for less altruistic reasons? What if his intentions for you had been cruel? Would you be able to know, be able to tell that?” Optimus took a step towards his long-time friend and placed a servo on his shoulder. “I fear that if he had, you would have found it acceptable all the same. He shaped you, Ironhide. Molded you as he saw fit.”
The weapon-specialist flinched at the supposition. He had not questioned Armorhide’s motives, had thought them worthy. But his own thought patterns were based on his predecessor, of course, he would agree.
He tightened his servos before meeting Optimus’s gaze. “We can waste time philosophising about this but we may never find an answer. This is me, Optimus.” He gestured sharply to his heavily armoured frame, before lowering every firewall through the link they shared. Optimus’s powerful presence built at the edge of his processor but made no move to come through and survey what was offered up to him.
Ironhide held his Prime’s gaze. “This is me,” he repeated firmly. “Is it really so much of a problem that I do not change?”
Optimus’s optics dimmed at the question. Living things changed, developed, they were shaped by and they responded to the events of their life. While Ironhide’s programming could be adapted to new tasks, his personality and neural thought patterns were far slower than normal to catch up. A deep, dark part of his processor sometimes wondered if Ironhide was a true sentient being or merely a very strong imitation of one.
“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “I do not know.”
Perhaps when the war was over, they would find the answer to that question. Ironhide stepped back, not satisfied with Prime’s response but willing to let it go.
Optimus turned and watched Ironhide leave, and it was two mechs that walked away from him.
END
Edited 25.3.13
A/N: This has been something on my mind ever since I wrote The Beginning: Ironhide. Why are all my characters so damn creepy??
Where are we chronologically? Have a look at the timeline
Rating: PG
Genre: angst, supernatural
Verse: pre 2007, AU, but meshes TF:A, G1 and a bunch of different concepts I've absorbed through fanon
Characters: Optimus, Ironhide
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Optimus sees ghosts everywhere he turns. But the strangest one that he can see is in one of his oldest friends.
Ghosts of Freedom
Since receiving the Matrix upon Sentinel’s death, Optimus Prime can see ghosts. He sees them all the time now. Not an orn goes by without the long dead passing him by.
It is a strange thing. Every mech knows that when they pass on, their spark returns to the Well and is slowly washed clean of their past life. Most of the times, when a new spark is drawn forth from the Well, all traces of the previous existence has been removed. It is only in rare cases that a spark returns with a sizable amount of pre-established frequencies, memories and remnants of a life long gone.
Or so everyone believes.
As Prime, he was quick to realise that this is not the case.
Not everything can be removed from a spark; there are things that not even the miraculous energies of the Well can take away. Small things, personal quirks, particular habits, a certain speech pattern or gesture, personal preferences for frametypes and paint colour. They manage to slip through, remain constant through death and into a new existence.
Whenever Optimus meets a new mech, he can see every lifetime laid up on this spark like a series after-images. Whenever someone speaks his name, he hears it in a discordant harmony of the voices of the long dead. The past and present exist from him at the same time, he is Guardian Prime dealing with Compiler, then the next moment he is Zeta, talking with Fast-Twist. Then he is Optimus again.
It never stops, never ends. He sees his Autobots and they have four or five different frames all at once. Their faces flicker and change from one moment to the next.
Sometimes he thinks that this is the reason why the Matrix choses its bearer. It would be very easy for a mech to be driven insane by the fragmented reality it delivers.
But not every mech is a confusing agglomeration of every existence it has ever had. When he first met Prowl, only on rare occasion did he catch sight of another face on the enforcer’s helm and even then, it was the same one. Until the Fall of Praxus, that was when another life overlayed itself onto his tactician’s frame whilst the dead of Praxus screamed inside Prowl's broken mind. Optimus cannot help but feel that they share a kinship now, a way of looking at the world that no other mech can ever imagine.
Then…then came Blaster. Blaster had been a unexpected surprise. Meeting him and staring into his face and not seeing anything. Not hearing a chorus of voices speaking all at once. Blaster was new. The same spark still on its first life, almost completely fresh from his kindling on the edge of Cybertronian space. It was a joy to watch him because Blaster's every action was unpredictable and unexpected. But there was a darkness to him, he was unbelievably, painfully young and at the same time scarred from his experiences.
And there was Jazz. Like Blaster, his spark had never lived a life before but unlike the communications officer, Jazz was old. Older than their entire civilization itself. He was constant, stable and steady. There were moments, when Jazz would say something, do something and in the corner of his optic, Optimus could swear that he was seeing someone else. But a mech changed over his lifetime, grew and developed and their identity was a thing always in motion. He knew Jazz of now and he knew Jazz, in many different frames and names, of the past. In Jazz’s case, it was like trying to look at a very, very large picture, one that was sometimes too large to see all at once. For other mechs, it was a picture that had been layered over layer, then more layers on top until he couldn’t tell them apart.
And then…then the mech that had been there since he became Prime.
There was Ironhide.
Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. It was the Autobot’s creed but not only that, it was something that Optimus lived his life by. The freedom to choose one’s identity was something almost sacred in Cybertronian society after their tumultuous beginnings as Quintesson slaves.
Ironhide was a clone.
His spark and processors had been deliberately molded by one mech. The mech that had kindled and split Ironhide as his successor.
Armorhide.
Looking at Ironhide was different from other mechs. He was always split into two, with no overlaps, no past lives flashing in and out of sight. There was the part of him that undeniably Armorhide and then the other half that came from the newer existence. When Ironhide looked back to him, two mechs would stand before him, mirror images of the other. And he never changed; his identity was stable but stagnant and unmoving and set, completely different from Jazz.
Ironhide had never had the opportunity to determine who he was nor was he motivated to grow and change. He’d been brought online with a predetermined personality matrix, something that went against all laws on Cybertron. And yet…he never seemed perturbed by this.
Optimus was always disturbed by the manner of which Ironhide had been brought into existence.
“You are staring again,” the weapon specialist grumbled one orn, somewhat uncomfortable.
“My apologies,” Optimus replied smoothly, turning away to study the war-torn city outside his window.
Ironhide grumbled to himself for a few moments before looking up and deciding to lay this matter to rest at last. “I am bothering you by being here, aren’t I?” he said.
The Prime shot him a startled glance. “You do not-“
“I have optics,” the other mech said blandly. He took a bold step forward. “What you see with the Matrix disturbs you.”
Optimus slowly lowered his gaze, servos clenched unhappily. “You never had a chance to decide for yourself who you are,” he began. “You are what Armorhide wanted, not what you would have grown into had you been given the chance. He took away your freedom when he created you.”
Ironhide took a step closer and looked past him, studying the world outside Optimus’s window. “Does it matter?” he asked at last.
The Prime’s helm jerked upwards, of course it mattered-!
“-This is the only way I’ve known how to exist and I am content with it,” Ironhide was quick to interrupt. He waited until he held Prime’s gaze, demanding his understanding. “Really Prime, you know me. Have you ever seen anyone make me do something that I would rather not? My will is my own.”
“Is it really?” Optimus challenged, unable to help himself.
Ironhide gave a sheepish shrug. “Well, it was influenced heavily by Armorhide. But I found it acceptable; his purpose for me felt right.”
The Prime’s gaze intensified. “But what if he had influenced you for less altruistic reasons? What if his intentions for you had been cruel? Would you be able to know, be able to tell that?” Optimus took a step towards his long-time friend and placed a servo on his shoulder. “I fear that if he had, you would have found it acceptable all the same. He shaped you, Ironhide. Molded you as he saw fit.”
The weapon-specialist flinched at the supposition. He had not questioned Armorhide’s motives, had thought them worthy. But his own thought patterns were based on his predecessor, of course, he would agree.
He tightened his servos before meeting Optimus’s gaze. “We can waste time philosophising about this but we may never find an answer. This is me, Optimus.” He gestured sharply to his heavily armoured frame, before lowering every firewall through the link they shared. Optimus’s powerful presence built at the edge of his processor but made no move to come through and survey what was offered up to him.
Ironhide held his Prime’s gaze. “This is me,” he repeated firmly. “Is it really so much of a problem that I do not change?”
Optimus’s optics dimmed at the question. Living things changed, developed, they were shaped by and they responded to the events of their life. While Ironhide’s programming could be adapted to new tasks, his personality and neural thought patterns were far slower than normal to catch up. A deep, dark part of his processor sometimes wondered if Ironhide was a true sentient being or merely a very strong imitation of one.
“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “I do not know.”
Perhaps when the war was over, they would find the answer to that question. Ironhide stepped back, not satisfied with Prime’s response but willing to let it go.
Optimus turned and watched Ironhide leave, and it was two mechs that walked away from him.
END
Edited 25.3.13
A/N: This has been something on my mind ever since I wrote The Beginning: Ironhide. Why are all my characters so damn creepy??
Where are we chronologically? Have a look at the timeline