Title: Origins 5 - Spark

Author: Kit SummerIsle

Rating: T

Continuity: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

Warnings: mentioning of bullying, mind-wipe

Summary: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

Spark

Sparkling

Starflight whimpered as the pain flared through his spark again and left a debilitating dizziness in its wake. The spark monitor beside the berth pulsed in a mock sympathy, registering the fluctuations but unable to do anything with them. Nor could the medic, who stood beside the med berth and hesitantly put a kind servo on his small head; but his expression showed that he was powerless to deal with the weak and damaged spark. He would suggest another treatment of course, because the sparkling's Sire was insistent and rich enough to demand the best medical service to his ailing son. But he knew that even if it marginally strengthened the spark, even if they could increase its spin by a few per cent, it would be gone at the next frame upgrade.

The smallish sparkling laid on the hospital berth, shivering even under the thermal blanket, his small wings shaking from the effort of simply existing. Their soft metal was warped from laying on them all the time, as he couldn't even lay on his front like fliers wont to do because the medics needed constant access to his spark chamber. His Carrier sat by the medical berth, holding a small servo that wasn't hooked up on infusions, stroking it worriedly, his own smallish wings folded back almost perpendicular to his back in agitation from the most recent spark flares that threatened his son's health and future.

He lasted two full orns in the nursery this time without having to be taken to the hospital. Starflight hardly even recognized the other mechlings that he was in one group with; he saw them so rarely and for so little time. They mostly played with each other, hardly even glancing at the little sparkling that they saw so rarely. Starflight couldn't even play the most interesting games with them – the others were all walking now, some even testing how their thrusters worked, while he still crawled around. He tried to stand, balanced fearfully on his small thrusters, weak arms waving around – but at the end he either plopped down to his backside, or got strangled by another of the seizures and had to be rushed back to the medic yet again. Starflight gave an angry, whimpering squeak as he balled onto his aching spark.

The medic sighed and shook his helm helplessly, while he put yet another additive to the infusion, one that was said to be able to strengthen sparks. They have already tried the best known ones and although they helped a little, their effect was always gone as Starflight got his next frame and the spark immediately signaled its inability to support it. He felt desperately sorry for the small mechling who spent more time in the hospital than outside it, being a sparkling still that he was. No matter what his Creators believed or wanted, he could probably never fulfill their dreams. If he survived at all…

Youngling

Starflight grew adept in time to hide the spark flares and fluctuations and their effect on him. The pain that would put many grown mechs into intensive care, hardly even registered on his face and frame any more. He hated how his Carrier flinched and put on his 'guilty' face whenever he showed the pain they were causing him. He hated how his Sire would look at him discontented, like he could help at how he turned out. He hated the upcoming upgrade with a passion because it would make his condition worse again. But he hated most the world and Primus that forced him into this position.

But he loved flying. He inherited that totally from his Sire, an immensely rich grounder merchant who came to love, then became obsessed by fliers during his dealings between Iacon and Vos. He'd moved to Vos, into a prestigious tower formerly reserved only for the fliers and managed his whole business from there; and he even acquired one of the rare jetpacks for himself that allowed grounders to taste flight. He wanted to bond with a flier too, but as none would have him, he settled with one of the rare half-breds, a sad, little mech with small wings but no working thrusters or flight systems – and hoped that their son would turn out to be flier-sparked.

Which he did – barely. His spark's spin was at the absolute minimum for a flier frame and at first his Sire found no medic that recommended to put his son's spark into a flier frame, certainly not at the first upgrade. Maybe not ever, the more conservative ones suggested. But there was no way to dissuade him from his dreams that he wanted to come true in his creation. He named his sparkling Starflight and paid richly for a medic who was unscrupulous enough to make the upgrade the way he wanted, put the small spark into a flier frame. Of course the young spark couldn't take it - and as some of the more honest doctors expressed, it might have damaged it irreversibly.

But his Sire wouldn't want to hear them suggesting to spare the sparkling the constant pain and put him into a small, more manageable general frame, to ease off the strain on his spark – not even temporarily. He was determined to have a flier son and trusted that his wealth could buy any treatment that Starflight would need to strengthen and grow into his proper frame. He never spared any expenses, that was for sure, the youngling mused in himself; most medics never even heard of some of the most ridiculously expensive treatments and medicines that he managed to acquire. Some of them said that a number of Iacon's and Vos' medical researchers made a handsome living on him alone, developing newer and newer procedures for spark treatments.

The weakness of his spark not only pained Starflight constantly, but considerably slowed down his development into adulthood too. The others who were sparked at the same time and as a sparkling were in nurseries together were already full-fledged adults, while he was still a frame away from his last one. The numerous treatments and experimental procedures did help somewhat, at least to shore up his spark for the next upgrade, which then would destroy all advancement he made again. He still hated it all. But even since he could decide what frame he wanted, even despite the pain and everything – he still wanted a flier one each time. After all he went through, he didn't want to give it up. He couldn't. His spark was flier enough for that at least. He was determined enough.

Seekerling

The mood was tense in the house all orn. Starflight locked himself into his room after refueling, because he couldn't watch his Sire's helplessly fuming face and his Carrier's hopelessly sad one any more. The school they were waiting an answer from, was literally the last one available for a flier – all the others catered only for grounders. They'd all known that he'd get no admission to the prestigious Flight Academy, but they had hoped that a smaller, mid-level flight-school would accept him. No such luck though… the politely refusing messages came one after the other until Starflight's hardly even existing confidence was totally obliterated. Now, he was down to the last and if that school didn't accept him, then he would not be allowed to fly at all, despite of all the pain he's gone through to achieve it.

His optics dimmed as he accessed the message that came in. He read it once, twice, three times… and he shouted as loud as he could while running out of his room to jump at his Sire's – by then slightly smaller than his – frame babbling yesyesyesfrag!yes incessantly. He was accepted at last. In their joy of that they both ignored that it was probably more thanks to his Sire's generous donation to the school than his scores. Nor did the school cared apparently; it was full of half-breds, little, weak and stupid fliers, the riff-raff of Vos really, most of whom have never learned to fly straight, much less do maneuvers of any kind; even safe takeoff and landing was a real challenge for them to learn. That being the barest minimum that the Vos Flight Board required for safety reasons from anyone with wings in the city who wanted a flying license.

Still it was a flight school, and the teachers soon learned that one certain flier might have had the worst scores to begin with, but he certainly did his best to make them better. Starflight – and he seriously considered to change that pompous designation, since he was not and would never be space-flight capable, but never actually got around to do it – was one of those few who grow slowly but who get better even far after anyone gave up on him. His spark too strengthened once he had no more upgrades to burden it with, and the continuous flares and fluctuations have mostly ceased to plague him. His scores got better all the time, until he was an adequate if not a good flier; never one to be able to call himself a Seeker, but good enough so that looking back to his younglinghood, he could say that it was worth it.

He also got a name for himself as a troublemaker and ill-mannered brat; he passionately hated the world that put him into the position he was in, belonging to the higher circles because of his Sire but an outsider too, a wannabe Seeker, an upstart who didn't know his place. He hated the barely masked disdain of his Sire's Seeker business-partners and the often outright torture that their creations put him through. He was expected to socialize with them, while they wanted to have no wing of him around them. It became outright unbearable when they started to form Trines and bonds and he was driven away from all of them rudely, often physically. He grew from frustrated and angry to bitter, then turned hysterical and violent. He paid their rudeness back by being even more vulgar. He would have paid back the beatings too if he could, but they were stronger individually and had the numbers on him too; so he resorted to words to express his opinion of them as loudly and obnoxiously as he could.

He was the smallest kind of aircraft possible – although he loved the flying-wing design and it gave him a little individuality and something to be proud of, even as it made learning to transform a real challenge. And while he watched enviously the proud tetrajets fly above, he had that much of a self-criticism to know that those were truly and forever outside of his spark and abilities. He was also fairly much shunned in the snobbish Vosian society, even though he was Vosian born and a flier from a wealthy family – the only recognition he got was thanks to his unique design, courtesy of once again to his Sire's wealth and connections. The war, when it came of course washed away most of those prejudices and distinctions, until the final catastrophe that ended it all; Starflight didn't have even a single vorn to enjoy being a full-fledged jet before it came.

Seeker

The news from the destruction of Vos reached him on the way from Iacon to home; suddenly the air was full of radio messages, targeting noise, orders, command, encrypted signals, shots and explosions of every description – and empty of fliers who landed where they were, shell-shocked hearing the news or crashing as bondmates and families got deactivated, bonds torn asunder. Once he arrived there, he couldn't even go close to the city – the immense heat of the smoldering, melting, smoking ruins far exceeded his design specifications. The city center emitted noxious fumes for vorns afterwards, the melted, charred remains of the once proud spires slowly crumbling into the tortured ground. There was little chance for anyone but the fastest ones to escape, and none whatsoever from the center, where his creators used to live, in a prestigious tower apartment.

Mute from shock but raging inside, he joined to the few who worked in the outer rings, searching for survivors, materials and energon wherever they still could. They all lost everything they used to own; Starflight idly wondered if he should try to claim his Sire's business assets in Iacon, but after learning that it was the Senate who ordered the bombing, he realized that they would probably not even let him close to the city, much less claim his property. The economy of the whole planet soon collapsed anyway, with the two warring factions refusing to trade between them, or even accept the remaining few neutrals to do so. Even those who still had credits could hardly buy anything any more; the old ways were destroyed but the war-economy hasn't been built up yet.

The fliers mostly remained in the refugee camp near Vos, even after Megatron declared war openly and started to organize his army that he called Decepticons. But he didn't let the Seekers mourn for long; his recruiters came to entice them to his army in numbers, promising them everything from revenge till the eventual rebuilding of their beloved city. Every orn more and more fliers believed his promises and left, joining the army and swearing loyalty to him. Starflight was among the last ones. He had no illusions about his abilities and fighting air battles required better ones that he had – but there were simply no other avenues to try. The plain fact was that not even neutrals trusted the fliers any more – the Senate's propaganda that depicted them as mindless war-machines worked all too well.

So the time came when he, too nodded his helm to a recruiter, input his designation and specs to a datapad – taking the liberty of calling himself a Seeker for the first time in his life, as the grounders couldn't tell the difference - and followed him to the training camp, like those few others who had no previous military training. He was fitted with weapons and taught how to use them from the air and on the ground. It was of course a challenge to him, to fly in formation or shoot missiles at targets, but he was used to challenges and with determination he managed to pass the required objectives. His anger and rudeness, already muted somewhat by the shock was crushed further by the harsh and rough instructors and smoldered only inside him.

It was during the training that one instructor discovered some unexpected properties of his unique frame. He was practically undetectable by normal sensors and with a spark-sign masker and some sound-dampening of his engines he could move in the dark night air like a ghost, stealthily weaving in and out of enemy lines just to show that he could. Obviously, it was the Intelligence Division then who drafted him after the basic training was finished – and he was promptly whisked away to another camp, a hidden, secret one to learn the spying business.

Spy

It was just a crash course really; since he was not expected to actually sneak into an Autobot base – his role would not be spying but covert reconnaissance and occasionally carrying spies in and out from Autobot territory. He learned where the main bases, radio and sensor stations, settlements and fortifications were and how they all operated, to be able to avoid them and in general detection. He learned to identify other mechs to class and individual from the slightest of clues as well as stationed and moving weaponry. As consequence he probably knew the Autobot army members one by one better than some of their soldiers and far better than most Decepticons. Soon enough he was sent for recon missions and proved to be as good at those as he promised; as the Autobots did not possess fliers, he only rarely needed to actually fight and mostly he went unnoticed by them.

The occasional tandem flights were a bit more dangerous; carrying other mechs taxed his smaller frame and engines, even though spies and saboteurs were smaller than average Decepticons too. Of course it was one of these that got him captured; the mech he carried was careless and discovered, so when it was time for his extraction at the rendezvous point Autobots awaited them with drawn and primed weapons. They stood no chance against them and Starflight didn't even try to escape; he saw the anti-aircraft guns and preferred to have a chance, no matter how slim to being shot down.

His short career as a spy ended as fast as anything that was good in his life, he thought angrily – Primus, that slagger had something badly against him, he was sure. In a dark cell, shivering nervously from being locked up his anger broke its dams again and Starflight cursed the guards and interrogators with the vilest swears he knew, whenever they came in. They hacked his processor for the info he had as spec ops and after that he could only whine for orns – but he even whimpering he told curses at them still. When he was finally put to stasis and transported to the moon-base, all the guards were relieved to have quiet in the prison.

Gestalt

"He's got a damaged spark."

"That's not good. How much?"

"Hmm… it seems old damage. Let me check his memories… yes, it is old damage. Unadvised upgrade into a flier frame, spark-flares, fluctuations; but lessening and disappearing after his final upgrade."

"Do you think he'll survive the reformat?"

"I think he has a good chance. The spark seems strong enough and the damage is long healed."

"All right then. You know, I'm almost tempted to retain this frame of his. I've never seen any such before."

"The flying wing configuration? It is certainly rare. If we modify it to look different a bit, then we can… well, he needs something smaller than the others anyway."

They worked on the plans again, tweaking them as they acquired the fliers one by one, tailoring the final design to their individual characteristics, while changing them so they could combine and work together. Because once the process was finished, the five fliers would never know aloneness again; they would be constantly connected, feeling what each of them felt, know what each of them knew. Some of the scientists were worried about the widely diverging personalities and the possible emotional baggage they would carry on to the gestalt; they knew that no matter the reformat, the sparks will retain some core attributes that they cannot calculate with.

But if the stolen plans were any indication, the gestalt link that would connect them was so strong that it would create a brotherhood among them that could outweigh any personal differences and balance for the danger of insanity that came from the reformatting process. They had all hoped that it was so – the Decepticon gestalts that they knew of were certainly close-knit groups of widely differing individuals. Since they had no more detailed info they had to be content with that; and now, that they had all the required fliers, they could finalize the process and start to implement it.

The procedure didn't go without some hiccups. The most dangerous was the one who woke up while being dismantled and fought against the process with all the spark and the remaining processor was able to. Other, minor alerts peppered the rest of the reformats too, but they were able to correct those all in time. The scientists, medics, technicians and psychologists watched them with avid curiosity as they were awakened and their first orns as they realized who they were and slowly settled into the carefully prepared roles.

They got some surprises, as it was expected. Fireflight did turn out to be slightly damaged in the processor and they couldn't fully fix him ever after; but his brothers, especially the best flier, Air Raid were so protective of him that even the psychologists, the most tenacious of the medical staff gave up on him after a while. Silverbolt's fear of heights didn't surprise those who saw his memories; they had hoped to get rid of it, but spark science was an experimental science at best still. He did compensate for it with being a conscientious, caring leader and elder for the young team and a perfect central unit for the combiner form.

But the anger that almost permeated the air around the last one, Slingshot caught them all as a surprise. His drive to prove himself and his worth was equal to that of Air Raid's, but his frame and abilities were far behind and it caused a great rivalry between them that took time to heal. That contest, coupled with some unfortunate derogatory comments from the less knowing staff sometimes drove the smallest jet into fits of such rage that even his brothers were tempted to leave him alone at times to blow off the steam that seemed to fuel him.

Slingshot still hated the world – on general principles now.

Thank you all who reviewed, alerted or fav'd the story. I really like how this originally one-shot turned out and I'm glad that others liked it too. :-)