We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
June squinted at the flicker of arranged light over Ironhide’s palm. Mere months ago she would have been impressed with a holographic display (“Oooh, its like Star Wars!”) but she was slightly more choosy now and as she examined the slightly fuzzy news reel she wished it were nearer or clearer. There was no audio of course but from the general arrangement of the shot, the suggestion in the negative space between the two mechanisms, there was… something important about the image. She would have liked to have known the context for the image.
“Young Optimus.” Still centuries old she would gather. “I know that Prime is a… title,” she said, while she leaned forward, the glow of the holo-light points casting blue across her face. “And that it was a revolution that started The War, but I’m afraid I’ve got holes still in my Cybertronian history… there’s a lot of it, I guess.” June studied the figures in the image for a moment, trying to put her thumb on what she was looking at, the question in the lack of context. Then, “Who is that other one standing with him?”
Last Edit: Dec 16, 2011 23:33:37 GMT -5 by Deleted
Well, scrap. Ironhide vented sharply, swallowing a spike of irritation with himself. That was what he got for making himself comfy and answering the human the way he would have answered one of their own. It just opened up a scrap heap of things and now his own sparklet and June were both looking at him with questions in their optics.
There wasn't much for it. Not answering never stopped the questions coming, and younglings - or adult humans, he supposed - could be slagging persistent when they had their processors in a knot.
"Yeh should understand," he told the woman firmly, "we all got holes in our history. Younger set don't remember, older set archive it an' try t' forget. Wars don't ever start pretty an' ours ain't no exception." A flick of his fingers zoomed the holo in, rotating it as much as he could within the limitations of the shot angle. "Optimus - his name was Orion back then - wasn't tha only one with dreams. This, here - he was speakin' in front o' the Senate. Wasn't his doin', though, he just came along f'r the ride. Tha other one was who got 'em there, who had somethin' to say first... he was a big name back then. Celebrity. Nobody knew his little archivist friend, but everybody knew him."
It took him another dig through archived file trees to find one that hadn't been scrubbed, another grainy news holo of a victory fanfare, the same massive silver mech with hands raised to the exultation of the crowds, faceplates all too visible to the adoring recorders. Ironhide let it take shape, something he couldn't even put a name to shivering through his spark. "Megatronus," he said quietly. "Back then, he was Megatronus."
It was hard to describe the reversal that June Darby’s heart experienced in that moment between moments when one synapse aligned with another and made the linguistic connection – like realizing a favorite acquaintance of yours, one you depend on, one you admire, shares a surname with a mass murderer and there was no socially acceptable way to broach the topic. Ever. And just like that June found her heart hard been cruelly set with fine wires of disdain, unfair, and uncalled for, when she realized who the silver mecha in the holo actually was.
“That’s Megatron,” she said quietly. June knew him in name only. But that was quite enough and for a beat she said nothing. “Optimus and Megatron were… friends once.”
She attempted, for a moment, to balance this hideous equation in her head, throwing the variables of betrayal, personal trust, politics, and a world-obliterating war around and finding only that there were pieces missing and those pieces were punching holes in her ability to process that at all. “From what I understand, they’ve been mortal enemies for eons… so I guess I really don’t understand.” She looked up at Ironhide. “What happened?”
Bluestreak was feeling a bit the same way. Shocked and very confused. Optimus and Megatron NOT mortal enemies? How was that even possible? Then the confusion slipped into an almost painful shock of understanding and sympathy. To have a friend like that and to now be his enemy? "Megaton must have betrayed him. Right? What happened?" Megatron HAD to have betrayed Optimus, the other way around wouldn't make any sense at all.
Ironhide narrowed his optics, watching the holo for one moment more, then clicked it off. "Don't know," he said bluntly. "Ah wasn't there then - didn't join up 'til later when we all had t' start pickin' sides. Optimus won't say, not straight, an' believe meh, Ah've had 'im overcharged enough t' get some good ones outta him before. Ratch' might know, but Ah wouldn't bet on askin' him."
Venting, he sat back, easing his weight more evenly to take pressure off of tight joints. "Ah can tell ya what most of us know - they went in there together talkin' a good line. Things were wrong, classes were too rigid, too much corruption, too many mecha gettin' lost in tha grind, an' tha folks in power didn't care. Orion and Megatronus - they had a plan. Get enough voices together, get enough people willin' to stand up and demand change by force if they had ta, then give the Senate a choice - revolution, or compromise. Prahm was an old title, used ta really mean somethin', an' th' one we had... was part of th' problem. So that's what they said - appoint a new Prahm. Give tha people something t' believe in, give up some o' tha power, appoint a new mech t' speak f'r all tha classes, high an' low."
Ironhide tipped his head back, dimming his optics. "Way Ah heard it, though, Megatronus - an' he'd just shortened it then, usin' Megatron f'r the first time - said give him tha title. He'd take tha job. Didn't count on the Senate tellin' him no way in tha Pit. Then this nobody, Orion, stands up an' argues that it's gotta be someone, that somethin's gotta change, that tha people need a voice, an' guidance, and freedom is tha right o' all sentient being..." He flicked a hand dismissively. "So on, so forth, ya've heard tha routine. Was new back then, though, and people took notice. Liked what they heard."
Rebooting his optics, he shrugged slightly. "Megatron didn't much like being upstaged. Liked it even less when they made Orion inta Optimus, called him Prahm. Everything pretty much fell apart after that - change by force or change by dreamin'." He shook his head. "Pit of a choice."
June didn’t say anything for a minute. She was busy recontextualizing her understanding of Optimus Prime and the leader of the Decepticons. As Ironhide spoke, she cataloged and sorted the contents of his words and shook them through a sieve of her own prejudices and waited patiently to see if her bullshit meter was piqued. The historical record on any conflict was subject to intense and vicious rewriting by any party whether that conflict be two hours old or five billion years old and June Darby found herself calmly calculating like she did with any two-sided story: What bias am I hearing this through? What is glossed over? What is being missed? Am I being lied to?
She did not imagine that Fowler and his people would ally themselves with the hostile side of an alien race and so much of her faith laid in that, but now she wondered if Fowler had ever heard this. Did he know this history? June’s dark eyes moved across the dark space where the holo had been, as if there would be an afterimage with more information there.
“And Megataon,” hazarded June, though there was an edge in her tone, “the Senante didn’t want him as Prime… because why? And then why choose Optimus instead?” A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “It sounds like a purposeful attempt to fracture them or do I misunderstand? Or did Optimus himself protest?”
There was a sharp processor in that organic body, to be sure - Ironhide appreciated it, even while the next onslaught of questions made him bite back a groan and a few glyphs his sparklet didn't need to see. June was... not hostile, no, but there was some rightful distrust in her tone and Ironhide couldn't fault her for it. He had a fair guess how little the natives of the planet had actually been told.
"Way Ah heard it," he said, emphasizing the words, "an' yer gettin' it third, fourth, fifth hand, but tha way Ah heard an' what Ah saw - the Senate picked Optimus 'cus they thought they could control him. Give 'im a title, set 'im up, let 'im make pretty speeches - a puppet Prahm. They knew Megatronus wasn't gonna be an easy win, but they figured his no-name friend might be." He fixed her with an unwavering optic, drawling the words. "So yeah - it was deliberate. An' yeah, Optimus' been protestin' it since day one."
Venting, he shook his head, fingertips tapping a military rhythm across the back of the couch. "Pit slag 'o tha mess was, tha Senate picked right. They thought they were gettin' a puppet an' instead they got a Prahm - a real Prahm, Primus blessed an' all, an' they didn't have a scrap o' control over 'im after that."
Ironhide sucked in a ventilation, tapping a counter rhythm against his own thigh as he considered, looking at the human and his own youngling and trying to gauge how much of the truth they needed. How much he needed to say."...Ah almost joined tha 'Cons," he admitted at last, voice a low rumble. "Way back in tha beginnin'. Didn't like their tactics, didn't much care f'r the lengths they were willin' t' go ta, but wasn't gonna follow any pet o' the Senate either. Prahm talked, but talkin' wasn't gonna get us anywhere. Somewhere along tha way, he knew it too. When Ah met him... rumor said he was willin' t' fight, but it was just rumor. When Ah met him Ah got t' see it first hand." He vented ruefully.
"Ah wasn't expectin' much, truth told, but there he was an' he not only talked it but he stood up an' fought f'r it too. Didn't have a scrappin' clue what he was doin' - no trainin', no nothin' - but he'd put his own chassis on tha line t' protect others and what he was talkin' about." Ironhide reached up, tapping a blunt finger against the insignia that stood out white against the deep red of his shoulder plate. "Ah took a stand at his side then an' Ah've been doin' it ever since."
“So Megatron… fell for it,” said June grimly. Her hands had gotten a bit sweaty in the time she’d spent listening to this. She wiped them off on her jeans, scrubbing her palms a bit harder than necessary against her thighs. She didn’t look up as she spoke, somewhat sharply now. “The Senate fractured them, put Prime in charge and turned Megatron against him and instead of seeing through the ploy Megatron took that political table turn as a betrayal and what…? Started a war over it?”
Her face was hot for some reason. June felt a sharp heat behind her eyes and thought, furiously, oh God I am not going to get all bent out of shape over this. No. She adjusted a loose shank of hair, pulling out her pony tail and swiftly redoing it with the air of someone doing something vitally important instead of just buying time to work down their frustrations to less of a boiling point. She looped the band between her fingers, drew her hair back tight against her head, pulled the band taut. She imagined the hideous crush of politics and ideology, of desperation and confusion as things changed too quickly to stop, of being too young, too unprepared, too… She smoothed her bangs, wiped the corners of her eyes.
“So this War is a civil war. The Decepticons are who? What were they before, when they started? What were the Autobots?” She was not going to fucking cry. Out of rage, helplessness, frustration. She blinked hard and looked up again. “You said you could have been a Decepticon once… so what makes them so different now?” A pause. “Are they so different or is this just a fratricidal grudge match millions of years in the…” She stopped. “Jesus Christ. I’m sorry.”
She pressed a palm to her forehead. “That’s not what I meant. Sorry, Ironhide, Bluestreak. This wasn’t the conversation I thought it would be…”
Ironhide cycled a deeper ventilation. "Maybe not, but maybe it's one tha' needed havin'. Ya got questions and honest, ya got a right t' know - you bein' here gives ya tha' right, yah ask meh." He ran a hand over his faceplates, tracing old and older weld scars. "We don't talk about it. Not..." he stopped, engine growling, and made a sharp gesture before continuing. "'s not like that. Not deliberate t' yur people. We just don't talk about it, not even t' each other. Y'think Blue's heard all this? Hir ain't asked, an' neither do any of the other youngsters. They don't ask, we don't offer. It's that slagging hard even between ourselves. We'd rather lose it than talk about it, and we don't slagging forget."
Ex-venting, he reigned his own field in, trying to quiet the throb of his own spark. "Who were tha 'Cons? Workers. Construction, manufacturing, miners, shippers, laborers. Military soldiers, enlisted mechs. Medics, artists, business mech, archivists, beurocrats - yah name it. They came from all the lower classes. Everybody livin' normal lives an' gettin' beat down f'r it. Who're the Autobots? Same thing. Same exact slaggin' mechs, only they didn't believe in using any means t' get what they wanted. Maybe all tha 'Cons were was more desperate."
He shoved himself to his feet, rolling off the arm of the couch to stretch back to his full height. "Thing is... this war's been goin' on a long time. Even f'r us. Ah don't know what tha 'Cons are now or what makes 'em different from us. Don't know if yeh can really get that or not, yer wars are so short, but Ah don't know if there's enough o' us left who remember being one people before tha slag started t' lay it all t' rest and recreate it even if we tried."
June didn’t say anything for a while, just listened to the agitated hum and pitch of Ironhide’s engines a he spoke, the deepening electrical hum in his voice that seemed to project how uncomfortable he really was talking about a conflict that – for him – was both ancient history and the present. She tried to imagine having a memory so long you could watch stars go out, so persistent that the rise and crush of mountains were not something outside your life time and that you could watch not one or two generations obliterate themselves in the furnace of war, but your whole race and she tried to imagine that she could remember the moment that sparked it. Knew the faces of those that started it.
June folded her arms across her middle, some of the heat leaving her skin and in its absence she felt cold. “I guess… it would be like trying to ask the people of an existing nation why they split off on their own in the first place. If humanity had a memory that long, I don’t think we could ever really forgive each other.” She looked up. “As we are, time helps us forget because it puts a generational buffer between us and past grievances. If we didn’t have that… I can’t imagine that we would ever forgive each other or that we’d even want to for that matter.”
However many questions she still had – persistent, quiet, dubious – June wasn’t sure she could, in good conscience, keep pressing the ancient mechanism on a topic that he’d just admitted to be culturally taboo. Like discussing death in a foxhole.
“Thank you, Ironhide, for being so honest.” June nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Let it never be said Bluestreak was a quiet bot. If some one DID say that then they are filthy dirty liars and not to be trusted. But for all the little grey mech talked ou was also a very good listener. Often understanding more of that was being said than just the words spoken.
That hir father figure once considered being a Decepticon was nothing short of a shock but then ou knew very little of what started the war. Only what ou read and what Ironhide now told them. Ou was quiet for a moment more before speaking. Wanting to think out each word spoken.
"There's lot's of differences between Autobots and Decepticons. Maybe not then but now there are. We don't capture, torture or use humans as hostages, we protect not destroy. Optimus says Freedom is the Right of All Sentient beings and we all try to strive for that. If we loose this war. This planet and every single one after this will never know freedom under Megaton...The only things I've ever been good at is shooting off my mouth and just shooting but if I could, if the war ended I'd put my guns down in a spark beat and never fire a round ever again."
Ironhide cycled a slow, steady ventilation, then another, using the short pause between intake and exvent to almost silently reboot his vocal circuits, clearing a cache of errors from everything he wanted, and couldn't, and shouldn't, and wouldn't say piling up in conflicting layers. He could feel and hear the too-tight whine of his engine, systems cycling up with tension, and throttled them back with a ruthless shunt, firewalling and locking systems down until his hand, when he reached to ghost a reassuring touch across Bluestreak's helm, was as steady as the youngster had ever come to expect from him.
It was the same hand he'd had to scrub Barricade's energon off of, with the dents and scrapes still fresh in the knuckle guards over his articulators, but there wasn't an inch of his armor plating not covered in scrapes and little less of the systems underneath not held together in welds and patches. Nothing new, he told himself. Nothing his youngling hadn't seen countless times before, nothing the human sitting beside them would even know to look for.
Nothing his youngling ever needed to see, and Ironhide would give the last pulse of his spark to ensure that Bluestreak never had to - the guns were bad enough, were a necessity in the reality that was their war, but that bright opticed look and relentless belief were still identical to the sparkling they'd dug out of the ruins and Ironhide would coat his hands in energon a million times over before he let it touch Blue.
"That's right," he said, his voice a heavy rumble. He pushed his pride and affection for the little sniper to the front of his field, kept the dull, gritty feel of his own thoughts to himself. There were dreamers and there were realists, and he'd rather the youngster dream as long as possible - forever, if Ironhide had his way. "Makes me proud of ya, Blue. An' Ah think you'd surprise yerself - there's plenty yer good at, not just shootin'."
June had become aware, in her brief on and off interactions with the Autobots, that Cybertronians didn’t in fact have a silent mode unless they were consciously trying to be silent. Bumblebee for example could go dead silent as could Arcee when they were trying, but when not pressed for silence Cybertronians were always making a sound. The nearly imperceptible hiss of of gears and pistons as Bluestreak tilted… his/her head, the hum of hydraulic lines, the murmur of some internal engine that June had yet to understand though as a physician she’d been making a study of Cybertonian biology with Ratchet. She could hear them – a machine sound as alive as a heartbeat.
She missed Jack suddenly. Then she felt stupid for missing Jack. Then she didn’t feel sorry at all for missing Jack and she could want to hug her son whenever she damn well pleased, goddammit. She figured she was likely just tired and stressed out and more than a touch emotional after listening to Ironhide describe in the voice of a very tired man, a history longer than the human race in terms of a single ruinous lifetime. Culture shock and emotional blow out. That’s all this was and while Ironhide was laying a hand on Bluestreak’s helm (as human a gesture as any) June quickly wiped her eyes again and sniffed, smoothing her shirt.
It was going to be a long day, she decided. A long day spinning on planet that seemed, quite abruptly, smaller.