Don't ask why I started this. I'm not really sure why I do anything anymore. It's just a look into my personal fanon. As in, why are my characterisations so weird? Because in my head I've got way too many backstories for way too many characters. Figured I'd share 'em. What's the worst that could come of it, right?

You don't have to pay any attention to this if you don't want to. If you choose to despite that warning, don't judge me.

oOo

-Blurr-

Nobody noticed him, really. They all generalised. They saw him once, and dismissed him as "the fast one" or "the runner" or perhaps something with a bit more creativity, but similar sentiment just the same.

No one ever asked why. Most probably never even realised there was a reason he was always running, always so panicky. That was fine with Blurr. He didn't want to talk about it anyway. He didn't want to remember that there were memories he was running from.

Memories of Decepticons trashing his home. Memories of his creator hiding him where he could watch the older mech be brutally murdered by those cruel soldiers wearing the menacing purple insignia. Memories of one of those fliers finding him and laughing at his fear, opening panels despite his protests and tossing him off to the other Decepticons when he'd gotten his fill.

And as soon as he could get away, he ran, not looking back as the Decepticons killed what was left of his former friends and family. The guilt couldn't catch him if he ran fast enough, right?

He'd never stopped running.

-Sunstreaker-

"Designations?" the older mech asked, sighing at the two younglings in the prison cell. How had two so young - Primus, they were just kids! - ended up on the streets, stealing what there should have been enough of?

It wasn't the first time these two had come through this particular jail. They always acted the same. He didn't even know why he asked them anything anymore, as he never got anything out of them. The red one was nonchalant, speaking for the both of them, but never saying anything, as if he was using the nonchalance to hide something much more serious. The yellow one usually settled for just glaring.

It would be different today, though, as the red twin had damaged his vocal processor in the scuffle trying to escape being caught again.

"Designations." He repeated patiently. It broke his spark to see these two again; he wished he could somehow reach out to them, but knew they'd never accept it. Twins rarely accepted anything from anyone else, feeling no need for anything but each other, and so he'd be forced to once again write them up and let them back into the streets to cause more trouble.

The yellow didn't look him in the optic as he finally answered, "S-S-Sunstr-streaker..."

Ah. So that was why the yellow never spoke to him.

-Jazz-

Full optic replacement surgery was extremely expensive and dangerous, to the point that it would permanently damage the CPU if done more than once. Simply repairing the glass was easy enough, but to actually change the colour was much, much more work, as that came from a light somewhat behind the glass, connected to the visual processor.

Before the war, optic colour had ranged from white to purple, and everywhere in between, but soon those who followed Megatron got red optics in his honour, and likewise for those who followed Sentinel Prime.

At the time, it had all seemed right. Megatron was charismatic, and his speeches really did make it seem like his cause was just, and good for Cybertron. At the time, it had been easy to believe the totalitarian government was the reason for the energy shortage, and that the Decepticons could rise up and come out on top.

He'd only realised how wrong he was when they'd left him on the battlefield to die. That was when Optimus and Prowl found him. And unlike the Decepticons, they wouldn't let him die, regardless of faction. However, some of the lesser Autobots - all deactivated by now, most likely - hadn't trusted those optics, glowing viciously red like those of the mech he had once trusted with his life.

Jazz knew he'd been young and naive. But even now, so late in the war, would others realise that if they knew what was under the visor?

-Carly-

It absolutely killed her that she couldn't remember.

Sure, she loved her parents and her friends, and she was greatful for her intelligence and beauty and sheer luck. She knew she'd had a good life thanks to the man and woman she called Daddy and Mom.

But... but they weren't really her parents. She couldn't even bring herself to use their last name in association with herself, regardless of how greatful she was to them.

She constantly thought back, remembering the day they'd come to the orphanage and chosen the misfit older orphan instead of one of the cuter toddlers. Before that, she knew she'd been outcast among the orphans for making up fanciful stories about her dead parents, that they were still alive and would come to her someday and she'd be a princess. Girlish fantasies. She remembered being found with a concussion by one of the nuns at the age of about 8.

She couldn't remember anything before that, no matter how hard she tried.

She didn't even know if Carly was her real name.

-To Be Continued?-

If you'd like to see more, just tell me. I've got theories for Ratchet, Wheeljack, the Seekers, Ra(o)ul, Soundwave, and Arcee too.