Broken

Started: 10/17/13

Complete: 10/18/13

It was hard, so hard, to merely turn my cheek, not looking at their amused and jeering faces, at least at first. I was their favorite, they claimed, because I didn't react, I just remained silent and took their abuse. Yes, abuse, they preferred to call it pranks and games, but it had turned into abuse after the third time. When pranks turn out bad, or become injury-inflicting, that's when people are supposed to stop and reconsider. Not the twins. They seemed to just shrug it off, not caring that their actions humiliated me in front of the entire base, that half their pranks ended up with me sitting in one of the bathrooms, silently bandaging myself up. Silent, too quiet, my best and worst trait I suppose. I didn't get mad, didn't get angry, I just became quieter and quieter, until I didn't even talk to anyone anymore, just wordlessly accepted the list of duties I was required to finish by the end of the day or week. Not that it mattered, I wasn't liked at all by the soldiers and other military personal.

"I'm not a soldier! I'm not emotionless!" I wanted to scream, to rant and cry. Yet that's how I got into this mess. For once I opened my mouth and had shouted, had gotten angry, now I was here. The one time I should have kept my tongue, my mouth shut, and I had lost it. I had seen one of their landings, seen one of their fights, hell, I had been a part of one of the battles. The one good thing that came out of it, I had saved one of the 'good guys' from getting killed. How? Pure luck, and not the good kind. I want to be able to say that I had heroically risked life and limb, but that would be untrue, and if there's one thing I pride myself on being, its being honest. Usually seen as a good thing, in my life it's only brought me pain and mockery.

Too honest, too open, too naïve.

If I'd kept my mouth shut, I would still be at home, my boring life continuing on. Yet, no, I actually lost my temper for once, and it destroyed my life. As I said before, I had seen one of THEIR landings. Thinking it was just a meteor, or meteorite, or comet; I hadn't taken too much notice, driving home late one night from work. I had been exhausted, short-tempered, dealing with aggravated customers had drained me beyond compare. Taking my normal shortcut through the winding backstreets, I had pulled over when I'd seen flashing lights behind me. Letting the cop barrel past, I'd continued on, unconcerned. If I hadn't been so tired, I might have noticed that the cop car didn't have a driver.

Continuing on, I heard the loud blare of a horn, just before two cars swerved around me, one bright red, the other blinding yellow-gold, but what made me gape was the fact they were Lamborghinis. I couldn't tell you what model they were, only vaguely knowing what they were, and only knowing that they were expensive cars. In my aggravation, I'd flicked them off, uncaring if the 'drivers' saw. I learned not long after that they did in fact see my gesture, and took it as a challenge. Perhaps the next warning that I should have turned around and gone a different way, was when another cop car came rushing past. The strangest thought had entered my mind then, had some illegal street racing gang chosen my little old route to have their fun?

That thought was quickly banished from my mind, not because it was unworthy of thought, but because the road suddenly became forked. I mean suddenly, because a giant metal foot cutting the road in half most definitely threw all street racing thoughts from my mind. Slamming on the breaks, I could only see a thickly armored leg, red and black, just before an ear-splitting sound had me grabbing for my ears. You know the sound of nails clawing across black boards? Well combine that with the yowling of ten dying cats and you'll come close to the head-splitting sound. The sound apparently worked just as well against THEM, since the leg stumbled out of my path, only for a vaguely humanoid robotic figure to fall over, clutching its head. That's when I saw the SECOND armored figure approaching, dark and menacing, with black and white armor and the word POLICE scrawled on its arms. Dark scarlet eyes promised death and destruction.

Of course I would panic, not knowing what the hell was going on, and immediately moved to shift gear to begin reversing. A third figure showing up, this one a yellow-gold, had my suspicions rising suddenly. As the yellow and red robots began beating on the police robot, who was giving as good as it got, I high-tailed it outa there. Cowardly? Maybe, but seriously, what the hell could I do? So I mentally shut down and ran, not noticing flashes of light in the direction I'd turned in, but boy did I feel the tremors! Breaking out from the trees, my jaw dropped at the huge crater that had formed in one of the fields, before another of the robots, also with POLICE scrawled on it, though on doors that were oddly like wings and blindingly blue eyes, came into my sight. It appeared to be guarding whatever was inside the crater, until two more robots, also with red eyes, came out of nowhere. Surprisingly, the Police bot was holding its own, but I could see it was being drawn away from the crater. That's when yet another robot emerged, from the crater, running away from the fight, and towards me.

On the verge of hyperventilating, I slowed and stopped, the robot running ahead of me, turning once it reached the road, looking back at the fight. That's when a streak of light flashed out of nowhere, hitting it in the shoulder and sending it flying backwards, crumpled on the ground. Another of the red-eyed robots appeared, its arm smoking from apparently a gun, stepping forward and leering down at the fallen robot. Beyond reasoning now, my eyes caught on pretty blue eyes, the robot looking at me with a look of pleading. Later on, I would be informed that the look was for me to run away, to get out of harm's way. In that moment, my heart yanked forward, demanding I do something to HELP. So I did the only thing I could do, I drove my beat up truck into the red-eyed robot's leg.

The next thing I knew was a bright light shining down at me, garbled voices saying medical jargon. It took a couple of hours before I realized I was in the hospital, groggy from pain medication and a concussion. A bit of advice? Don't drive old cars into armored giant robots, especially if your seatbelt is worn and threadbare. Apparently I'd slammed into the wheel, my front was one huge bruise, despite my boobs giving it some cushion, before being slammed back into the seat. The robot, the one I'd hit, had ended up kicking my poor car as it tumbled from the blow, sending me spinning wildly into a fence and down into a ditch. That caused me to be thrown around the cab, slamming into the front console and the windows. I was lucky I didn't have a broken neck.

While at the hospital I hadn't mentioned the circumstances of my accident. Not because I knew it would be bad, but because I was so drugged up I could barely remember my name, let alone wtf happened to me. The next day I was released, my injuries minor, though the issue with my totaled truck and the insurance made me want to remain for a couple more days. Having to call a cab, and then work, was not pleasant, and getting home was equally unpleasant. My roommate was a bitch, and had a temper tantrum when I hadn't gotten home when I said I would, so she'd torn the house apart. She apologized later, once she saw my pathetic state, but still left me with the task of cleaning, while she went to go party, leaving her 'beloved' evil shit-zu in my care. The dog hated me, by the way, and the feeling was quite mutual.

So in addition to being injured, having to motivate my aching body to clean up, and dealing with an evil beast, I was not in the most pleasant moods when the doorbell rang. Opening it with a scowl, I'd stared at the suit for two seconds before growling, literally growling, and saying the absolute WORST thing possible: "If you're here about the fucking giant robots, I don't know where the hell they are," before slamming the door shut. Needless to say, I had a group of visitors a few minutes later, and found myself being escorted into an SUV, with the threat of being treated like a terrorist being whispered in my ear.

A long ass drive later, I was sitting in a metal interrogation room, curling up as best I could, my injuries throbbing. Of course they hadn't let me grab anything, let alone the pain medication I was prescribed. It was the absolute worst day of my life, worse than high school and being treated like a leper and pariah; thinking back now, I would rather go through that day every day for the rest of my life, than deal with what the twins threw at me daily, sometimes hourly. Being questioned and prodded, I was deemed 'high-risk' and labeled too dangerous to be returned to civilian life. No one took into account my circumstances: I was still in severe shock, something the hospital should have kept me for but they decided not to; I was in severe pain; severely stressed; and muddled up on weird doses of medicine.

After being labeled, I was then shipped off to various agents who told me the same shit: I couldn't go home, I was high-risk, if I did not comply I would be labeled and treated like a terrorist, etc. Not quite grasping what they were side-winding around, when they brought me before a bunch of soldiers, and a couple of familiar vehicles, that's when it all clicked together. The first cop car had been the red-eyed robot, being chased by the two Lambos, aka the red and yellow robots, who were revving their engines when they saw me, the second cop car apparently was the second in command of the same faction that the Lambos were part of. I was perfectly fine for the first few moments, but when they transformed, kneeling down to look at me properly, that's when everything became far too clear.

I'll admit, screaming and running away wasn't the most brilliant idea, but after the night and morning I'd had, I'd hope I was given some leeway. Nope. I was tackled by two, TWO, body-builder soldiers, before being taken to the jail or brig cell. Mind you, I'm a short 5-foot even gal, and though I'd lost weight and my appearance has become a bit nicer since high school, I still was only 5-foot and couldn't even play-wrestle with my brothers and win. To be tackled by two, understand TWO, body-builders, after recovering from a concussion and being in the hospital, did not leave me in the best condition. I still didn't have my pain meds, my concussion I'm certain had gotten worse at that point, and now besides the aches and burning across my body, nausea made me feel like I was going to throw up. That's not counting the realization, that no, I hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed my car, that I had been in a life-or-death battle situation with GIANT ROBOTS. Giant robots who incidentally could change into cars apparently. Continuing on.

So my little freak out didn't enamor me to anyone, had in fact made me appear more pathetic that I already did. Being shipped off to another base, with the robots mind you, before I was being told my 'duties and responsibilities' in working for 'NEST' was the last bit. I was a janitor. Forget my degree in computer technology, my hard-earned majors in art, English, and computer engineering. To them, my skills weren't worth even being looked up. I was the lowest of the low, in their opinion, which also meant they did nothing to stop the twins' torment of me. In fact, I'm pretty certain they were glad I was their target and not themselves. I didn't bother complaining, didn't bother mentioning my ruined life, my injuries. I could clearly read the scorn in their eyes, their attitudes toward me; I am not blind, nor deaf, and it seemed they enjoyed mocking and telling jokes about me, when I was in clear view and earshot. Hell, I'm pretty certain no one even knew my name. I was 'girl' or 'brat' or 'her' the proper tone and emphasis on those three words, indicated I was who they were talking about.

Is it sad, that I even forgot my name at one point? Being called so many things, constantly, over a long period of time, will make you believe it. Besides being tormented by the soldiers, I had to deal with the twins and their boredom or tempers. The soldiers and technicians and other useful people all turned a blind eye, unless I got seriously injured, and then they got a minor slap on the wrist. They would do pranks and come up with games to test on me, getting bolder and bolder as time went on. I guess they made themselves feel better, getting even with me for flicking them off, until it became normal for them to constantly put me down.

Besides being honest, I can honestly say, I can take a lot of crap. I dealt with the torments of soldier and twins, dealt with the blind eye and cold shoulders, as well as the injuries. After all, I suffered through the injuries from the fight, which was only worsened by what the twins' threw at me, I don't think I ever fully recovered, and it became normal for me to work through pain, whether minor or severe. I think what hurt the most for me, wasn't the torture from the twins, or the harshness of the soldiers. The worst were the other robots, Autobots I later learned. They didn't even give me a glance. Remember how I mentioned I was quiet and silent? Well half the time I was almost stepped on because of that trait. I was easily overlooked by them; after all they had better things to do right? It was only until much, much later, that they realized I even really existed.

I survived, physically, being the lowest of the low at NEST. My personal opinions and hopes and dreams were nothing to anyone there. I was nothing. I was nothing but a slip of a girl, one who sank deeper and deeper into herself, until she was more robotic than the aliens. Mentally, is debatable. When your thoughts are the only ones that don't mock you, at least constantly, or point out all your flaws, then yes, delving into your mindscape would be considered a relief. Except that you always have to resurface, return to reality.

Despite being overlooked, despite being tormented, scorned, and looked down on, I performed my duties, and even went further. My broken mind and spirit screamed for some sort stimulation, so I slipped into the Autobots' areas when they were gone, cleaning and re-organizing, silent as a ghost, and unnoticed like one as well. Late at night, unable to sleep, I would slip into different rooms and fix or repair glitches and problems that were being overly analyzed. I even began solving problems that the mechs would be working on, only to put off because something of higher priority would come along. My meager little closet of a room was soon overflowing with charts and diagrams, sketches of potential Energon filters and devices, of improved telecommunications arrays, greener energy systems. Through it all, my own mental breakdown, I didn't think or consider that the random ideas and potential that flowed from my mind onto paper would be of any use to anyone. After all, I was the pathetic ignorant janitor girl, the ghost.

I'm not really sure what happened, what changed. In fact, I didn't even notice, as it happened gradually, over the course of a week. Then again, the beginning obviously had something to do with Prime actually stumbling onto my treatment, pure accidental I'm sure. I had suffered through a particularly nasty prank, one in full view of Autobot and soldier alike, the twins grinning proudly at their handiwork. I had become so used to it, I suppose, that I didn't even notice that one mech enter only to stop short, his optics drawn to my humiliation. While the twins congratulated each other, and most of the soldiers snickered, I merely knelt and began picking up the sticky mess. The tremors of mech footsteps didn't alarm me anymore, I'd long gotten over my shock and fear, and they would either step on me or avoid me like normal. It was only when the snickers stopped, the twins going silent, that I realized something was off. I continued cleaning up the mess as best as I could, I didn't know where they'd gotten feathers and tar, before I spotted the pede near me. It wasn't red or yellow or black, as Ironhide was the most likely to nearly step on me. In fact, it was blue and red, a combination I'd only seen off in the distance, having never actually been in the same room as this particular mech. Nonetheless, I crept closer to his pede, gathering the feathers and trying not to smear any more tar all over the place.

"Little one?" The words vaguely registered, I knew someone was talking, but I didn't realize it was directed at me. It was only when the pede shifted, and I shifted automatically to dodge around to avoid being kicked, that I realized it was far, far, too quiet. Looking up, blinking, my blank eyes spotted everyone looking at me. A servo appeared next to me, gently nudging against my chin, lifting my face up further. Warm, stunning blue optics stared down at me, before his voice rumbled again. "Little one? Are you well?" Blinking at him, my eyes remained blank, my mind blank, everything had become numb a long time ago. "Your eyes are broken," his voice slowly pierced the numbness, his sorrow and despair hitting hard. "What is your name, little one?" For the first time since coming to base, I felt my lips part, words escaping.

"I don't remember," the blatant honesty made him almost crumble. I saw his optics flicker, despair rising up. Having forgotten any basic courtesy or social understanding, I added, trying to ease it, "I think its girl, or idiot, or stupid squishy," The last was the twins' favorite, I recalled, but my words only made his optics shine with more sorrow and guilt.

"How long have you been here?" For a long moment I was silent, fighting through my memories, the haze that automatically fell over me during the day, and lifted at night, to let me work through my problem-solving, my schematics and diagrams. My silence only seemed to worry him more, but slowly, I remembered.

"Eight-hundred ninety-two days," I said slowly, my blank face faltering a bit, "I think, give or take a couple days in the infirmary,"

"Why were you in the infirmary?"

"The twins broke my arm, my collar …two r…ribs…" It felt good to talk, I numbly realized, and it didn't register in my mind what I was talking about, just the rush of talking was making me happy. I hadn't been happy in so long, I stuttered to a stop. Or perhaps because my voice was so raspy from not being used.

"Why did they do that, little one?" I recognized anger flowing in his optics now, but I wasn't afraid, he wasn't angry at me. At least, I didn't think he was. It wouldn't bother me if he was, since everyone was angry at me.

"They hate me," Not an ounce of despair, sorrow, or emotion. Just perfect, numb, blank honesty, "Everybody hates me," I added, my eyes dropping to the floor. Not out of shame or sorrow, I just needed to clean up the mess. Kneeling down again, when had I stood up? My fingers continued picking up feathers and wiping up tar droplets. Vaguely, I heard an uncomfortable grinding sound, but the haze was covering my mind again. "Thank you though," I felt the need, the sudden appreciation, "No one's talked to me before, only laughed, and sneered, and yelled, and insulted," If I had been looking up, I would have seen the pained and guilty looks, as well as the flinches. Not that it would have mattered, I wouldn't have understood it.

"Not everyone hates you, little one," The haze faltered a bit, but I continued in my task.

"Is that my name?" I asked, "I don't remember my name, I think its girl, idiot, or stupid squishy," I remember the last one was the twins' favorite. My head was tilted up, worried blue optics staring down at me.

"Those are not your name, little one,"

"Oh, alright," my head tilted, my chin sliding from one of his fingers, dropping to look back at the ground. "Thank you for talking to me, no one's talked to me,"

"Ratchet," I recognized that name, my mind buzzed, the haze lifting then faltering, dropping. Another pair of mech footsteps neared, a soft tingling covering my body.

"Oh no, my name isn't Ratchet, its girl, or stupid, idiot… no, wait, its idiot, then stupid squishy," I looked back up at him, frowning. "You're not supposed to talk to me," the haze lifted more, "No one is, no one sees me,"

"Optimus," the distress in his voice made me blink, wondering why he was so upset. "Her cerebral cortex is malfunctioning; she cannot discern memory from reality, her neurons are processing abnormally, and her emotional cortex is disabled,"

"She's broken?" For a brief moment, I felt a burning sensation in my chest, the faintest flicker of memory rising from the haze. This sensation was the same, the same as the one on that day I yelled at that suit. In an instant, the haze dropped, blanketing my mind so completely I literally stopped.

"Her cortex just stopped Prime, everything just stopped," the alarmed voice made me blink, before I focused again. Reaching down, I frowned, looking around me. To my confusion, a soldier was by me, cleaning up my mess. For a split second, I made to ask him what he was doing, but my mouth shut with a click, my head bowing. He would leave, I knew, he wouldn't see me. If he can't see me, he can't hear me, so no use in talking if no one can hear or listen. Yet, Prime had talked to me, I looked back up, confused.

"You can see me? Hear me? Listen?" his optics saddened, but he nodded.

"Prime, don't, her cerebral activity is alarming, too much stimulus at once may break her utterly,"

"I understand Ratchet," he vented, but his optics remained locked with my eyes. "Little one, I believe you need to go with Ratchet right now,"

"Why?" I asked, bewildered. For a moment, he smiled, relieved, but my follow up made it falter, "I already cleaned the Medbay, re-organized the parts, re-labeled the cabinets, and repaired the monitor Bumblebee knocked over,"

"So it was her," Ratchet muttered.

"You misunderstand, little one, he doesn't need your help right now, he only wants to help you," Prime soothed. It only made me more confused.

"I'm not hurt," I patted myself, pausing as the sensation of drying tar pulled painfully at my skin and hair. "I see, I'll go clean, don't want to make a bigger mess," I didn't see the guilty looks shared by the twins, or the growing alarm on the mechs, the remorse and guilt flashing on every soldier. It took a couple tries, but I managed to push myself up, the tar making me stick to the floor. "I made a mess," I moved to kneel again, reaching out to wipe at it, when a hand, a human hand, gently grabbed my elbow, pulling me up. I'm not sure why, but feeling a human hand on me, made me cringe away, stumbling a few steps to the side, my protective blank numbness shredding. "No touch! Touch is bad! Touch hurts!" Hands, hands on me, squeezing bruises, squeezing cuts from a car accident, rough as I'm thrown into a new car, hands throwing me into a cell, cruel words, laughing, sneering, painful pranks-gone-wrong. In an instant, everything breaks open.

"Little one!"

"Not a terrorist! I'm hurt, I'm hurt, not a soldier, falling stars, save blue-eyes, run, run, doctors prescribe medicine, no medicine, hurts, hurts, angry soldiers, aliens, leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone, don't cry, stupid girl, stupid girl!" As I babbled, eyes clearing, holding only terror, two warm servos curled around me, lifting me up to press against a plane of warm metal. For just a moment, my words slowed, my head tilting up. The color that greeted my eyes made me shy away, scrambling away and almost falling from the servos.

"Easy!"

"No! Stay away!" Bright cheerful red, blinding golden yellow, I couldn't be near them, avoid them! Run, run! "Bad colors! Bad colors!" My terror escalated before I was plucked away, pressed into another chassis. My eyes flickered wildly, before calming in a split second. Lime-green, a safe color, I curled into the warmth, feeling the steady thrum of pumps and filters, and underneath, a soft pulse.

"You have only yourself to blame," the chassis under me trembled, servos curling up more securely, "So do not act like you are innocent! You and your twin caused this, at least partially!"

"Is she really broken?"

"You can fix her, right, Ratch?"

"Why?" bitterness in the sharp commanding voice, "So you can torment and torture her more? She has endured your presence long enough; do not let me catch you anywhere near Medbay!" Rocking movements lulled me, the haze dropping over my mind, blanking out the emotions, the repressed memories easing back. I knew we were in Medbay, the sterile scents indicating that much, but I wasn't certain why. My outburst from just a few seconds ago was gone, wiped from my mind, like a foggy dream. "Little one?" the distress in his voice made my heart hurt, but I'd lost my voice, my throat burning. "Shh, little one, you are fine," his fingers laid me down, one trailing over my cheek. When it came back, glistening with liquid, I realized I was crying silently.

"I'm broken,"

When I woke, bundled in soft sheets that had been wrapped around me like a nest, I was groggy and didn't know where I was for the longest time. When I did recognize the Medbay, I silently got up, moving silently like a ghost, stripped the bedding, replacing it, before heading back to my little closet. Peeling the hospital clothes off, I dressed into my plain janitor's coverall, the haze dropping over me. I didn't remember yesterday, didn't remember much after being pranked. I wasn't alarmed though, it usually happened that I lost whole sections of memory. It was time for work though, making my rounds, unnoticed, unseen, except I wasn't. To the soldiers I was near invisible, but what I didn't notice were the optics following me everywhere. The Autobots had taken up watch, on Ratchet's orders, to observe me, since he was worried about my mental instability.

Prime, as I later found out, was personally going through the records, searching for my information. His search would be in vain, only a small slip of paper on file for me. Everyone he talked to couldn't give him anything else, the twins had remembered when we first met, but they didn't know my name, or really how I had been forced into working for NEST. Prowl was away on a mission, so the best option of finding my personal information was currently on the other side of the world.

My routine was observed and memorized, sent to every mech on base, my stops often times surprising them. In addition to merely cleaning and fixing plumbing and other maintenance things, I often slipped into different rooms, straightening and cleaning. To most, I didn't exist, despite my obvious presence. They preferred to call it divine intervention or something like that. Even the mechs had grown used to some unknown entity re-organizing and cleaning up their messes. It had become normal, routine, both for me and them. Except now that they knew it was me, they felt guilt. I had done so many little things to please everyone, to make their lives easier, more bearable, yet was unnoticed, mocked, and scorned for my efforts. The fact that I constantly took it in, yet continued in my efforts, made even the strongest of them cringe. They also found out about my lack of eating. Apparently Ratchet had been furious when all the mechs reported my routine, except missing the three meals humans are supposed to eat. I ate once a day, usually around three in the afternoon, when everyone else had already eaten. I would slip into the kitchen and eat leftovers, but my scavenging wasn't enough for Ratchet's concern.

Later on, I would learn that I had been wrong, that I had in fact been observed and watched over, carefully tended to when I hadn't had my mental haze protecting me. When Prowl had returned to base, he'd silently listened to Prime's grievances, his reports of what happened. He'd listened to Ratchet's rants, the twins' guilty confessions, and Ironhide's admittance to overlook me. Each mech stepped forward, admitting to times they'd only vaguely noticed me, times they should have noticed something clearly wrong, yet did nothing to stop or help. He had been silent throughout all of it, making all of them wonder, until he'd merely pulled out a simple file for Prime to look over. His continued silence slowly alarmed them, his optics hardened, his facial plates holding only the faintest of anger.

The file was my personal record, records that he'd personally taken from the base archives, keeping them nestled in his subspace safely and securely. He'd gone through the databases, deleting me from all records and files there, except with the smallest of footnotes, so I was cleared to remain there. It had at first been an experiment for him; he had observed me from the moment he'd driven past me on that old road. When he'd seen that I had in fact saved one of the Autobots, at the cost of being sent to the hospital, it had been him who had ordered I be approached. He hadn't taken into account that I shouldn't have been released from the hospital, that I had still been in shock and should have been kept longer for observation, and that I had been drugged up beyond compare. He had only wanted to express his gratitude to me, for rendering my aid, only for his good intentions to backfire.

His guilt over my basic imprisonment had him watching over me, but unable to do much. I was out of his jurisdiction, unless I admitted to being attacked by the twins, which I didn't, couldn't, so he couldn't do much. He did punish the twins more, but they didn't grasp the concept that it was me they were being punished for, so they merely continued on, not realizing the damage they were doing. Prowl watched as I sank deeper and deeper into myself, but he couldn't help me, too afraid that his approach would be met by another breakdown. My files were taken from the soldiers' access when one was bold enough to look it up, using my past as a new way to torture me. He didn't remain on base for long, and he was dishonorably discharged from the military soon after. Prowl's wrath is a fearsome thing to behold.

Through it all, Prowl did what he could, trying to protect me to the best of his ability, only to fail miserably almost every time. So he did what he could do, he assigned me my little cubbyhole of a closest, instead of making me live in the barracks, he saw me when I doodled, and provided me with paper and tools to start my mess of sketches and diagrams. He gave me access to the Autobots' personal areas, letting me move freely around, which only furthered my automatic response to take care of them. He had hoped I would become more comfortable around them, which I did, but again it backfired, since none of the others took notice of me. It had been a subtle way for him to try and show the mechs that I was a friend, not a burden, like the soldiers all thought. It didn't help.

I was his excuse, to himself, as to why he couldn't be a guardian. I was his self-appointed charge, and he couldn't protect me, from his soldiers and the human ones, how could he be a fully-active guardian without failing miserably? It was why he refrained from telling Prime, why he didn't inform the other officers. I was his charge, his guilt, his responsibility. He didn't know how to protect me though. I was required to remain on base, and due to my mental state, if he had tried to pull me from the base, I would only be thrown into an asylum, or labeled a terrorist and thrown in a prison to rot. So he kept me on base, moving things around so that I remained indefinitely, so my routine developed. With my routine, he knew, it would settle my chaotic mind, and it did. It worked too well, forming the haze and shell that locked me deep inside.

To say he was angry, when the mechs and soldiers finally took notice, would be like saying Megatron was a pacifist. He was beyond anger and fury, and it was one reason he'd left on the mission. The second reason was Drift. No one had bothered to tell me that it was Drift I had saved that night; it wasn't important, I wasn't important, enough to be told. He had been severely damaged in a fight before planet-fall, one reason why he was ordered to fall back once he'd landed, and the shot he took only crippled him more. It wasn't until two months later, that he'd been awakened from a healing stasis by Ratchet, and by then, I'd disappeared into the cracks. His memories were fuzzy of the battle, and he'd been told that he'd been damaged badly, but I wasn't revealed. So he'd continued on, going on missions, working with the soldiers, and like the others, totally oblivious of my presence and what I had done for him. In saving his life, I had essentially given up my freedom.

Prowl had deemed it time for Drift to pay his due to me, he figured the calm and collected Bot would hopefully help my mental state. When Drift had been informed as to my involvement, a secret Prowl had kept from most everyone due to my state, he'd been understandably angry, then guilty, before willingly accepting the duty Prowl was afraid of: being my active guardian. So Prowl was bringing him back to base, forgoing the assignment he was on.

I was oblivious to this, of his plans and attempts, merely continuing in my broken existence. When they returned, Drift was held back from approaching me by Prowl. In my state, I didn't even realize they were away from base, the mechs come and go as they please after all. Yet for the next week, the mechs made certain that the soldiers noticed me, even if I didn't see anything happening. It was only when I woke up one day and realized that I didn't have to clean my coveralls from a prank, or heard any sneering remarks, for the last couple of days, that I realized something had changed. My haze lifted a bit, in my confusion I remained inside my closet, not venturing out to perform my duties or make my rounds. Of course this broke my routine of the last two years since I never had a day off; this was making me nervous and afraid, yet for some reason I didn't dare leave the safety of my niche. Instead I sat in my nest, occasionally working on various projects, but mostly sitting and staring blankly at the walls. It was only when a gentle rap sounded on my door, did I move.

The door was gently opened, a soldier poking his head inside, looking around with surprise and shock, before carefully stepping inside with a covered tray. His eyes jumped from every visible paper, tracing diagrams and engineering specs of every vehicle, machine, and electronic device on base, highlighted routes on various ones showing their conductivity. Tiny notes were scrawled around each, covering the papers with detailed explanations and possible fail-safes. When he had stepped inside, I had jumped from my nest, barely a cot covered with old and threadbare blankets and sheets, backing into a corner, eying him with blank eyes that held a hint of terror.

"I have food, miss," he held out the tray, not seeing any flat surface, except my nest, to set it down on. When I remained in the corner, trying to meld into the walls and shadows, he stepped closer. As the closet was small, it barely fit the cot and a small shelf, which was burdened with boxes of supplies and papers, overflowing file folders containing more drafts and projects. The walls were covered, literally, in about two or three layers of papers, all detailing different parts and potential inventions. The closet was perhaps only four paces long, and two paces in width, so when he came closer, he was well within arm reach of myself. I'm unsure how, but a small whimper sounded, causing him to freeze, before stepping back, setting the tray on my nest. I remained in the corner for a long time, long after he'd left, my heart beating quickly. The haze had lifted, terror scrabbling and clawing inside me. He knew where my niche was, I despaired, they knew where I hid, where I was free for only a few hours.

My eyes darted to the papers covering the walls and even the ceiling and floor, then to the shelves with its burden of boxes. The urge to rip them all to the ground ran rampant, to tear them into pieces, so no one could see my innermost ideas and thoughts. My fingers grasped the closest paper, ripping it from the wall, the shredding of paper loud in my little closet. Listening to it, my fingers ripped it more, my eyes wide. I both wanted to, and didn't want to, but a scream from inside had me faltering. Would it be easier, for them to be ripped apart by my own hands? Or to watch the soldiers rip my dreams in front of me? I knew they didn't care about my thoughts and dreams, but I also knew they would be angry; after all I had used precious supplies, supplies that they would have used.

Hands grabbed my wrists, stopping me as I slowly shredded more and more papers. Looking up, staring with blank, dead eyes, I froze at the dismayed soldier in front of me. He was different from the other, and there were two more, looking over my closet with startled looks. One was reading the papers, his lips moving as his eyes widened more and more. I didn't understand their awe, their startled amazement, at what I had accomplished. I couldn't remember the me before the accident, the me who was a gifted student with strong potential and ideas overflowing from my open mind. I was never given the chance to show the world what I had, my view of things was never asked for, was never thought as important. For the stupid ignorant janitor girl, to have this much comprehension and skill in engineering and the creativity to utilize it, it was a shock to them.

I remained utterly silent as he pulled me from the closet, one of the soldiers kneeling to pick up the shredded pieces, while the other continued looking around. The haze clouded me, the numbness stronger than ever, so I wasn't surprised or reacted at all when I was brought into a room similar to the interrogation room I had been in once before. My eyes stared blankly at the far wall, random thoughts drifting past, as two soldiers remained in the room with me. Occasionally one would speak, asking questions, but I didn't answer. Why talk to anyone, when you're invisible? They didn't see me, hear me, or listen. I wasn't even sure if they were even talking to me. It got to the point where they became angry, their tones registering but not the words. It was when one lost his temper, shoving me back into the seat, and grabbing my chin to force me to look at him, that they were interrupted. A new soldier, one I noticed had several medals and marks on his uniform, stormed inside, aggravated. He spoke harshly to the soldier, who bowed his head, before turning to me.

His fingers lightly touched my chin, tilting my head to the side. My blank eyes blinked at him, not shying away from the painful touch. My pale skin, from staying indoors all the time, was already bruising from the other's tight grip. His eyes looked over the bruises, anger flashing in his eyes, before he again turned back to the one who did it. I let their words wash over me, not registering their meaning, not thinking they were arguing over me. When a gentle hand lifted my elbow, I listlessly stood, following the soldier out the room. Shuffling behind him, I flinched when a servo wrapped around me, lifting me up. I hadn't even noticed the mech waiting outside, so it was surprise that caused me to startle. His other servo curled around me, keeping me close to his chassis, before we were moving again. Looking up, recognizing Prowl, but not understanding why I was being carried, I remained silent.

My eyes briefly glanced over the other mechs we passed, most looking at me with pity and guilt, but I didn't recognize the looks, nor acknowledge them. It was only when I saw Prime, did I react. When his servo neared, his fingers hesitating before touching me, I did something I hadn't in over two years, I initiated contact. Leaning forward, I hugged one massive finger, my eyes flashing for a moment with a spark.

"Hi again, can you see me? Can you hear me?" A sparkle shone in my eyes, my youth made my words sound childish. I didn't notice the change, but they did, Prime smiling gently down at me.

"I can, little one, are you well?"

"I don't know, why is Prowl holding me?" the puzzlement was true, of course, I wasn't a liar.

"Prowl is protecting you from the soldiers," his finger rose a bit, causing my head to nuzzle deeper into his warm metal, skin I guess we could call it.

"Why?" my head tilted, curiosity leaking into me voice.

"They hurt you," it was Prowl who spoke, anger making the gentle pulse inside all the mechs move faster.

"Hurt?" my fingers touched my chin, the pain not registering, "I'm not hurt. I need to go," I suddenly remember I needed to clean something, my routine calling out to me.

"Where do you need to go, little one?"

"I need to fix two computers in the rec room, there's also a glitch in one of the circuit boards near the barracks, and I need…" a slow panic began boiling inside me, I had to fix those things, there was always something that needed to be fixed.

"It is fine, little one, someone else will repair those items," his gentle tone eased my sudden panic, causing me to calm.

"Oh, alright," I released his finger numbly, looking around bemusedly, "Why is Prowl holding me?"

"I am bringing you to someone I would like you to meet," he answered easily, optics flashing a look at the worried Prime.

"Oh, alright," I tilted my head back to look up at him, "Can you see me? Can you hear me?"

"I can indeed, little one,"

"Is that my name?" I wondered, "I thought it was…"

"No, little one, but the mech I am bringing you to, will give you one if you want," Prowl interrupted smoothly, not wanting to hear the insults.

"I get a name?" I asked, excitement making me bounce a bit. The two smiled, optics warming. "I thought stupid girls didn't get names,"

"Everyone deserves a name," Prime corrected. I nodded, accepting it after all, he was Prime.

"Alright," I leaned against Prowl's chassis, blinking, "Can the mech see me? Hear me?"

"Indeed little one,"

"Will he listen? Can I talk? I like talking, not many listen when I talk,"

"We will always listen to you, little one, and yes, you may talk, and he will listen,"

"What do you like, little one? We know you like to draw," Prime steered the conversation away from my depressing revelation.

"I don't know," my shoulders shrugged up, before I paused. When was the last time I had shrugged? The haze lifted, the numbness dissipating, the soothing pulses from the two making me feel safe and content. "I like fixing things, I think,"

"That is good, little one," he encouraged.

"I like talking, no one listens or talks to me," I frowned for a moment, "That isn't right, you listen and talk to me,"

"Yes I do, little one," his smile widened slightly, optics glowing warmly. He was encouraged by me correcting myself, which was shared by Prowl.

"Here we are, little one," Prowl let me look around the huge rec room for the Autobots, pausing just in the door, Prime beside him.

"This is the Autobot rec room," my eyes glanced over, not seeing all the optics focusing on us. "That's where Ironhide almost stepped on me," I pointed out a corner, not seeing the flinch from said mech. I said it so nonchalantly, so matter of fact, that the two refrained from reacting to it.

"He will be more careful in the future, little one, we all will," Prime promised. I believed him, because he was Prime, and Prime had never lied. I beamed at him, taking him by surprise.

"You don't lie either, I don't lie too, people don't like the truth though, but they also don't like lies," he nodded, optics flashing worry for a moment. My attention was focused on the approaching mech however, the one I had only seen a couple glimpses of. For a moment, my eyes focused on his optics, familiar soft and gentle ones, though his frame was different from his protoform, after taking an alt mode. "Hi," I greeted, "Can you see me?" His shock made him glance at Prowl, and encouraged by his nod, he returned his attention back to me.

"Yes, I can see you,"

"You can hear me?"

"Yes,"

"Will you listen?"

"Of course,"

"Okay," and my greeting was over with, my attention focusing on something else. "I need to fix that panel, I forgot it was flickering,"

"Someone else will repair it, little one," Prowl soothed, "This is Drift, he will be your guardian," My eyes focused on him again, blinking, as the numbness eased further.

"Hi Drift," I ducked my head, suddenly feeling shy, "Can you see me?"

"Yes, little one," his servos reached out, hesitating a moment. For a split second I wondered what he wanted, until gentle fingers nudged me in my back. Standing, balancing precariously in Prowl's servos, I stepped into Drift's, sitting back down on my knees. "What is your name?"

"I don't know," my automatic reply, "I think its…"

"Drift will be giving you a name," Prime interrupted this time, giving Drift a wordless look. My eyes widened before I bounced a bit.

"I get a name?" my excitement both elated and saddened the listening mechs. The mech looked startled and uncomfortable, looking at them with pleading optics.

"Of course," he murmured, "You deserve a name, little one," he paused, obviously thinking, "I need some time however, to think of a proper one,"

"Alright," a smile upturned my lips, making me gasp and cover my mouth, looking shocked.

"What is it?" his optics flickered with worry, bringing me closer protectively.

"I smiled," my eyes blinked in surprise and shock, "I can smile?" the wonder made their Sparks twist, the gentle pulses crying out. "Don't cry," my eyes saddened, reaching out to his chassis, "No tears," They couldn't physically cry, I knew, but the pulses were crying, I could feel it.

"I will try, little one," I could still feel his sorrow, and anger.

"Okay," I nodded, blinking up at him. You can only try, try your best.

My routine changed after that, I no longer worked as a janitor, though occasionally Drift found me ghosting along my old travel paths. He insisted on making certain I was comfortable, making certain I ate properly, making certain my mind was gently stimulated. They (which was Prime, Prowl, Drift, and Ratchet) found that by letting me flit from multiple projects, instead of forcing me to focus on one at a time, I could push the haze away, becoming more coherent and rational. My interactions with the soldiers were severely limited; they oftentimes didn't have the patience to deal with my random and chaotic thoughts. The mechs took it in stride, coaxing my cognitive abilities into being used again. I also had flashbacks of their hands, I couldn't tolerate human touch anymore, even the briefest brush caused the haze to slam down, the numbness coiling around me, more often than not leaving me frozen.

Those attacks were painful for my mechs, yes I had claimed them, and ended up taking them several days to help me recover from them. The twins were also avoided, for that same reason. Anything with their bright colors was avoided, to prevent any risk of breakdowns. I still couldn't quite feel things; everything was still disconnected from me. I could sense anger, sorrow, and pain, but only vaguely, as though a wall was separating the emotions from me. I knew I felt content when with them, and I continued to repeat myself, which they took in stride. My greeting was always the same: hugging one of their fingers, and asking if they could see me, hear me. They always responded positively, greeting me back.

Drift gifted me with a name, Uri, after several long days of contemplation. I was excited, having a name again, and this one didn't have my past connected to it. It was as though I were reborn, and of all things, it was my name I remembered the easiest. Every time one of them used it, my eyes would glow, the haze vanishing completely for a few moments before creeping back in. The trauma I had undergone was slowly healing, but it was slow going. It was why Drift was perfect to be my guardian. He knew that once something was broken, while it could be repaired, it would never be whole or the same as it was before, and he constantly reminded the twins this. The twins tried their best, to show their remorse, but the damage was done. Every time I saw them, I ended up running away, something my mechs encouraged me to do. If I was uncomfortable, run to a mech, if I was frightened, run to one of them, if I needed anything, run to them.

It was a coping mechanism I had, long before my accident. Running gave me time, time to think, time to calm, time to rationalize. Prowl understood this, and lectured the mechs on why I would run. He also lectured the soldiers, to help them understand. In my mental state, running was my escape, it meant that I needed space to deal with the situation, but it also meant I WAS dealing with the situation, instead of going numb and blocking it. His lectures saved me a lot of panic attacks, and a lot of upset soldiers cornering me. There were still some who didn't like me, thought I was a burden and useless, and in a way, they were right. I didn't contribute to the base any longer, except when I slipped from Drift's observation and found myself on my old travel routine. I did continue with my schematics and sketches, which were often slipped to the soldiers to be copied and scrutinized, before being placed back. I wasn't aware that they had in fact built some of my inventions, including a solar Energon producer and filter, which the mechs had built eagerly.

Yet, it reached a point, where my progress slowed, my empathy reaching its limit, and I was unable to take the final steps in my recovery. To let go of my shell, to immerse myself in reality completely, was something I wasn't strong enough to handle. When they tried to push me to take the final steps, I faltered, returning to my most comfortable state, being aware, but not connected to the outside world. Drift was the one who convinced them to stop pushing, reminding them that I had been broken, that I couldn't handle the thought of being a normal human again. Being normal had broken me, and if they kept pushing, I would break further, possibly teetering into insanity.

I wasn't insane, not quite, but my dissociative disorder let me interact normally, relatively, for short periods of time. I would never feel comfortable around humans again, always drawing back in fear and wariness. Yet, I didn't need to. The Autobots, despite being part of the problem, had stepped up and fixed what they could. I would always be uncomfortable around the twins, bad colors, bad memories, but it was Drift who kept me centered.

Being held by him, glancing over at him, having him always there to watch over me, gave me back my independence. So long as Drift was there, I could let the haze only lightly shadow me. He would protect me, just as my haze did, but he gave me back my freedom. I had thought that by saving his life, I had given it up, and for a long two years, I essentially had, and even now I wasn't as free as I could have been. I was still a prisoner in my mind, in some aspects, but Drift helped me push the chains to the side temporarily, let me wander freely before letting me hide back in them. The prison of my mind, the shell and haze, was also a sanctuary to me, a security and backup plan. If needed, I could return to my previous state, being a shell, but with them lingering, brushing it aside, watching over me protectively, I didn't need it now.

Drift was my anchor, my lifeline, my heart and soul. He returned my freedom to me, my independence, my soul. He fixed what he could, but didn't condemn me for the still broken parts.

I was Uri, Drift's Light, Flame and Fire, the reason he continued on. Even after my death, his memories of me had him continuing, wanting to protect others like me. My life gave him meaning, a purpose and greater understanding of the marvels of this world and the greater universe. My death broke something in him, something that couldn't be fully repaired, but he took my strength into himself. He embodied what I had unconsciously embodied.

Something that is broken cannot be fully fixed. There will always be cracks, and flaws, and holes, which can never be filled. It can never be fully whole again, can never be what it once was.

We were wrong however, and isn't that a comfort? Perhaps in our lives, in our worlds, what is broken stays broken.

When Drift finally ceased to be, after many long years of pain and happiness and of comrades and enemies. When he finally passed on to the Matrix, joining our friends and others who passed over before.

I was waiting for him.

I was whole, and he was whole, and we were united with all the others, past present and future.

No one was broken anymore.

Because the Primes were right.

All are one.

Suggested songs:

Matthew West: Broken Girl

Evanescence: Missing

Amy Lee and Seether: Broken

Matchbox 20: Unwell

Mark Wills: Don't laugh at me.