World I - Flight: Chapter 1 - Introduction
Title: World I - Flight
'Verse: 2007 Movieverse, set pre-war with G1 influences
Characters: Swiftseek, Swiftstealth, Truesight, Jazz, Bumblebee, Mirage, Nova, Radiarift, Radiashift, Swiftstrike, several unnamed mechs.
Rating: T, eventually
Warnings: Chapter is boring by necessity, setting up backstory. All named characters are canon with the exception of Swiftstrike; unnamed characters are not canon.
Series summary: Convoluted plots are woven backstage; a new government ascends. The Thirteen must work together to ensure the survival of everyone suited for the final confrontation, but first the Ninth created must ensure that his people do not break. AU, G1-influenced
/Com-speech/ \Secure com-speech\
\Trine bond/ /Spark-bond\
“Normal” ~Vossian/Praxian dialect~
Narration
Disclaimer: Any ideas, concepts, and terms that you have seen elsewhere not posted by me on the TF Bunny Farm are not mine. Any characters seen elsewhere are not mine if copyrighted regardless of series, and likely telepathy-plagiarized namewise if original characters unless otherwise stated. Characters going by OC names may or may not be canon, named or not.
~Sir! He’s returning!~
~Open the gates.~
~Deactivate the force-field!~
The low, nearly inaudible hum which had filled the air ceased, allowing a subsonic hum of a different tone to fill the air. The subsonic hum gradually increased in volume and shifted in tone until a jet approached, sharp angles and rounded chassis gleaming in the light.
The jet transformed in midair, parts shifting and metal breaking apart to reform into new shapes. The being that landed was bipedal and humanoid, somewhat bow-legged as many of his kind were, and immediately brought one clenched fist up and over his chest-plates, inclining his cranial unit forward enough to cast a shadow on his upper torso.
Wings twitched automatically as the air currents shifted, but he forced himself to remain motionless, allowing no outward sign of the tension he felt. He waited until the approaching mech stopped before him and copied the pose of the jet, though the cranial unit of the newly arrived mech was promptly raised.
~At ease.~
Immediately both fists dropped, the new arrival’s cranial unit rose, the pain in gold optics was revealed.
A questioning trill floated through the air.
The response was silent, as was the conversation that followed it. All the while two sets of wings, one jet and one composed of sensor-laden door-panels, twitched occasionally, moving in ways that were distinctly not coincidence.
In the dim shadows that clung to the edges of the room, two sets of optics glowed bright gold as their owners held an equally silent conversation, and a small light flashed.
Finally, the dark grey sensor-paneled mech spoke. ~Thank you.~
He motioned, wings flexing first down, then to each side and up. The jet nodded. Both repeated the fist-over-chest gesture, and the jet turned, took several steps forward, and leapt up, hovering.
”Primus be with you.” A pause, barely longer than half an astrosecond. ~May the winds always be in your favor.~
~Fair winds to you, and good luck too.~
The hovering jet streaked into the sky, transforming back into a jet from his mechanoid form as he did so. The other mech watched until even the most advanced zoom function of his optics could not see the dim glow of turbines against the darkening sky. Then, he turned and raised a small device to his lip-plates.
~This is three-phi-one-four-one-seven reporting in. I’ve just received intelligence suggesting the formation of a new form of government. It is one commonly considered by the designation of totalitarianism . . . and I believe that the Autobot Council is responsible.~
The two sets of gold optics widened.
There was a brief pause.
~Yes. I believe it advisable to enact code 999 of the joint Vos-Praxus Constitution by the end of the megacycle.~
One of the pair watching the other mech made a small choking sound.
The sensor-panel-wings of the speaking mech stiffened, suddenly no more than inanimate sheet metal hiding sensitive wires from sight.
~And yes, I am being serious. Completely.~ A half-exasperated but fond look was directed towards the two sets of golden optics glowing in the almost-darkness.
Twin ‘eeps’ from the shadows, and the two mechs stepped forward. The jet whose paint-job was a lighter grey than that of the sensor-panel-winged mech rubbed at his helm sheepishly. The blue mech, Praxian-make like the mech who had beckoned the pair into the light, mimicked the gesture.
The pair flinched at the startled screech that was emitted from the device. The mech holding the device betrayed no sign of pain, all the more remarkable because the screech had practically been in his ear and because he had more sensitive audios.
~And now you officially know, Nova,~ the mech continued calmly. ~The whole of Praxus and Vos should too. Report with the committee’s recommendation within the next orn.~ He clicked off the device without waiting for a reply and turned to face his companions.
“A boring diplomatic mission, you said?” the blue mech drawled.
“That was how this was supposed to turn out,” the dark grey mech answered. “But you know how often things end up the way they’re supposed to. Besides,” he added with a shrug, “at least the negotiations were short.”
The grey jet spoke up. “Is it really true? I can’t believe it. What will we do? Do the others know yet? All of the wings must know by now, it’s been only half a breem since we got the alert.”
“Half a breem since we came down, you mean,” the blue mech corrected.
“That’s what I meant. We were all the way up in the main Tower when we got the alert. What should we do, Swi-”
A black hand shot out and clamped over the grey jet’s mouth. The hand was attached to the dark grey mech, who had moved with a grace and speed which would be surprising to any who did not know him well.
\We’re still considered outside./ The blue jet shot a half-exasperated, half-resigned look towards the grey jet.
A small smile crossed the faceplates of the dark grey mech as he removed his hand from his companion’s mouth. “We should return to our quarters now.”
“Yes, sir.”
\No need to call me sir. You outrank me./ Affection colored the rebuke.
“Good idea.”
\Not you too./ Resignation filtered across the bond from the youngest member of the trine. \I get enough of it as it is./
The flier trine retreated. The grey jet flashed a smirk at a certain corner, where the flashing light was located, for less than half an astrosecond. The two mechs followed his lead, the grey jet sticking out his glossa at the spot as he passed. (\True’, behave your age./ \Yes, mother./ \. . . Oy!/) The three boarded a high-speed elevator, all three flashing a device similar to the black and white’s communicator before a recessed scanner.
As the platform accelerated smoothly upward, halfway across the planet, three mechs stared.
*****
“Frag.”
“Indeed.”
“How in the Pit did they know?”
“Language, youngling.” A black hand made somewhat abrupt contact with a yellow helm. “But a valid question nonetheless.”
“You’re reinforcing his behavior.”
The owner of the black hand, who bore black and white armor, snorted. “Now you sound like the psychologist of their group, erm, what’s-his-designation . . .” The mech glanced briefly at a nearby datapad. “Eh, it doesn’t really matter right now, does it?”
“The blue mech?”
A nod was all the response the yellow mech received, prompting him to go on. “Well, the grey jet certainly didn’t fail any expectations. ‘Babbling a click a breem’, right? It’s not hard to see how he lives up to his chosen name.”
The black and white mech nodded in approval. “Mirage?”
The third member of the group, a blue and white mech, looked up. “The tactician of their group . . . There’s something about him that seems familiar, Jazz . . .”
“Familiar?” Jazz (the black and white mech) frowned. “You mean he reminded you of Swiftseek? I mean, they’ve both got what could be considered the right paintjob - if you combine a lot of black paint with some white, at least - and largely the same personality . . . but what are the chances that Swift’ got upgraded to a battle-capable form?”
“One in a million,” Mirage quoted. “And there’s barely five million Cybertronians.”
“So it obviously couldn’t have been him, ‘Raj. Don’t worry about it.” Jazz patted Mirage on the shoulder, then glanced at the yellow mech. “Bumblebee, status?”
Bumblebee jumped, hastily spinning around in his chair to face the console again. “Right! Er . . . they’re in their quarters.”
“Which we didn’t have time to bug. Frag.”
“Mirage!”
“He’s going to learn it all from you eventually. Why should I hold back?”
The trio descended into friendly bickering, motioning back and forth.
None of them noticed the small camera in the corner swiveling to track them.
*****
The news spread like flames among spilled oil. All over the planet, mechs, jets, and even some femmes were asking for leave of absence, submitting their resignations if they did not receive it, or, in some cases, skipping the asking for leave and simply resigning.
When asked why, they all cited the same reasoning.
Family emergency.
“You can’t possibly all have a family emergency!” one hapless employer cried, shielding his optics against the gusts of wind from his entire fleet of fliers. “You don’t even have the same creator-units!”
At those words, a sort of amused ripple ran through the group. Two jets who he never would have thought to be capable of occupying the same room at the same time, regardless of the room’s size or number of exits, stepped forward, fingers lightly intertwined.
They answered in unison, a bare Spark-pulse before the rest of the group.
“Loyalty first to the trine. Then, to family. All trines are family.”
They left then, the two former enemies leading the group of fliers even as a third jet who they had never communicated with in public joined them. Patterns flickered in and out of existence within moments, formed by the great cloud of fliers. They approached several other groups of such clouds, reforming the patterns to fit with the others even as the same thing occurred with their ground-Sparked kin far below them. Each one sped up, slowed down, transformed to vault over obstacles, executed flawless barrel rolls, all the while traveling at near-suicidal speeds.
The entire display was silent save the rumble of engines and low hum of turbines and cooling fans - outwardly, at least. The bonds of every Praxian and Vossian veritably sang with joy. Reunions were taking place all over Cybertron, and though there was apprehension (for what could possibly warrant calling every last Spark back?) the mood was festive.
They were going home.
*****
~I have the report, sir. The committee recommends a full-scale meeting at the amphitheater.~
~That is to be expected. What did they suggest as a course of action?~
~They said to wait, to see what happens . . . and then to cut ourselves off if things are as bad as they appear to be.~
A nod, and a heavy sigh. ~As was expected. Thank you.~
~What will we do, Swiftseek?~ his grey trinemate asked quietly as the other retreated.
~You are our leader, Truesight. You know.~
~I didn’t mean the city - that’s Swiftstealth through and through. I meant us.~ Truesight’s wing panels flickered uneasily. ~What will we do? I mean-~
“Calm down.”
Truesight laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, Swiftseek. Still . . .”
“What we do will in all likelihood be affected, if not dictated by, what we will choose to do in regards to Vos and Praxus with the others,” Swiftseek answered.
*****
“What are they talking about?”
“Dunno.”
“What? Jazz, you’re the cultural expert. How can you not understand what they’re saying?”
“Contrary t’popular thought, the Vos-Praxus dialect doesn’t allow outsiders t’understand their conversations easily. They’re usin’ sounds more easily understood by organics. Fliers are better equipped to go offworld for colonizing organic planets, and since the lot of ‘em end up in contact with organic species they worked out a method of talkin’ to th’ organics, which spread into th’ Vossian and Praxian dialects. I dunno what they’re sayin’, ‘Raj. An’ even if I knew what t’look for, I likely wouldn’ understand it. I’d probably misunderstand and say that they’re talking about interfacin’ when they’re only talkin’ ‘bout th’ weather.”
A soft squeak.
“Oh, mech up, ‘Bee. Not like you’ve heard worse.”
*****
Soft pede-falls behind them indicated the presence of their last trinemate and trine-leader, Swiftstealth.
~“How are the simulations coming?”~
A brief hint of a smile, one rarely seen by any outside of their small circle. ~“You mean the ones with-“~
~“The actual simulations for this, not for fun.”~ Swiftstealth paused a beat. ~“Though we can go through those later.”~
~“The simulations have been completed.”~ A brief shift in the bond, a questioning prod from Swiftstealth, and all three opened the connection which bound them processor, Spark and essence.
Swiftstealth was the first to withdraw, horror lining his face-plates. \Swiftseek, you can’t possibly mean-/
\I do./ There was no hint of humor carried with the words, only emotionless images that they still flinched at.
\But . . . then . . ./
\I’m afraid it’s true./ Swiftseek sighed. \We’ll likely have to enact Code 666 immediately./
\Code 666?/ A near-shriek answered them (the simulation results having been shared with the commanding trine of Vos). \Are you fragging glitched? We can’t do that! If we do-/
\Nova, if we enact Code 666, then we will initiate the dual-city lockdown of Vos and Praxus, keeping channels of communication and supply flows only open between the two cities. Cut ourselves off from the rest of Cybertron. Live, flourish, prosper, as we always have, and did during the Great War./ Swiftseek kept his tones calm, though there was no mistaking the tension in his frame.
\Why, though?/
\What else could it be?/
\. . . So that was real./
\Yes. Unfortunately./
\But-/
\Do you honestly think I like doing this any more than you do, Nova?/ The irate Praxian mech whirled on a startled Seeker trine. \I don’t want to have to enact Code 666 if I can avoid it! Trust me when I say that there is no other way./
\Swiftseek-/
“Do you honestly think that I am the spy?”
The red jet spluttered angrily. “Now, see here-”
“Swiftseek’s Praxian-born, ground-wing-Sparked and programmed, as you well know,” the gray Praxian-make snapped, stepping forward. “He grew up with Swiftstealth, and I knew ‘Stealth long before we were even trined, let alone chosen to rule.”
“Truesight-”
“I can’t believe that you’re supporting this, Radiarift.” Two sets of gold optics met; one furious, the other startled. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one.”
*****
Jazz snorted. “Him, sensible?”
“Who the frag put lubricant in his morning energon?”
“Bumblebee! Watch your glyphs!”
“But Mirage . . .”
“Listen t’th’Towers mech, now, Bee. Gotta finish listenin’.”
“Jazz . . .”
“Swiftseek. I know.”
*****
“And I don’t care what you say. Unless you have anything beyond wild speculation as proof, I refuse to believe that ‘Seek’s the one who put the cameras there, seeing as both he and Swiftstealth pointed them out, and we all know that every room we go to save our quarters has been bugged with laser microphones.” A challenging tilt of his head. “Right, Nova?”
*****
Mirage choked.
“Er . . . Mirage?”
“I don’t think you planted the microphones well enough. Hear what they said?”
A pause.
“Fragging Pit!”
“Mirage!”
Glaring at nothing in particular (which was always a Bad Thing when it came to him), Mirage started muttering to himself.
*****
\Why the frag did you let them know that we know what they can hear?/
\Because “Prowl” already let them know about the cameras./ Truesight turned a glare on the jet trine.
“Or did you not get that part of the briefing?”
All three withered as one.
*****
“How do they do that?”
“What?”
“The whole talking-like-they’re-having-parts-of-a-conversation-that-we-can’t-hear thing.”
“. . . No clue, m’mech.”
“Same here.”
“Drat.”
A pause.
“Wait, why’d you bring that up just now?”
“’Cause it was bugging me.”
“Hey!
“Now that was mean, ‘Raj.”
*****
“Wingmates! Conclave’s about to start!”
A ripple flickered through the six mechs as the femme approached.
“Is it time already, Swiftstrike?”
“It is time for our good little Wingleaders to be preparing rather than bickering like old bonded trines.” The femme ignored the indignant splutters, clearly used to them.
*****
“Wingleaders?”
“Jazz, so help me Primus, if you dare to say what I know you want to say, I’ll leave you for the Destroyer when he comes, I swear it.”
“What?”
"They're the ringleaders."
A spare microphone made contact with the yellow youngling's helm.
*****
"Come on, mechs! It's time to go to Conclave!" The femme beamed, sensor panels flickering.
*****
There was a brief pause.
"What is Conclave, anyway?"
Fin
Note: also posted on fanfiction.net under Transformers/Beast Wars and 1984 crossovers.
Edit: altered tags to fit new appropriate system