#chapter one

I just want to thank everyone for letting me take my time with this, I think these two chapters really work super well together. Chapter 2 will be released to the public in a couple of months, so if you want to wait then feel free. But I do think the content is worth it.

I'll be taking a short break from writing! But I'll be back in a week or two.

Enjoy!!

The dream of flying the skies with the same heartbeat as the mighty animal had come true. Except, the yearning for the freedom to fly to the edge of the forest–to see the ocean– had become a distant fantasy. There was nothing freeing about fleeing for your life or flying into battle, hoping–praying to Ewya, that you might live long enough to fight the next battle. Praying that you might live long enough to hug your family one last time. 

In another life, you would be embarrassed and full of shame at how good you had become at running for your life. A warrior should stand their ground and fight. But you had seen enough death to know when to give up. When to leave. You had developed an advoident style of surviving.

Together, you and your ikran, Leya, had become very good at retreting. Fast and proficient. Flying quickly and smoothly above trees, through the crevices of the flying mountains, above the clouds.

Someitmes you could almost taste the freedom, just there, on the tip of your tongue. Like a word about to be spoken. In the moments of stillness that came from flying above the clouds. Leya’s strong wing beats would level out and a loud, windy silence would settle over the two of you. There was nothing in moements like this. No commands. No explosions. No war. Just the fleeting presence of peace. 

Those moments had become rare: far and few between.

By the age of fifteen, you had become the main source of protection for your two younger siblings. The job had once been split between you and your older brother, but when he died in battle against the sky-people, the weight of his loss fell heavily on your shoulders. 

That was the first time you had painted the white kxetuve line of mourning down the center of your body. 

A body that had become a killing machine. 

You weren’t skinny and frail anymore. The years had begun hardening you. Muscles had grown where they previously hadn’t been. Your legs now taut with stamina to carry your body nimbly through the forest. Your arms and shoulders tense with lethal precision; always ready to aim for the kill. 

Killing the sky demons got easier the more you did it. Poison-coated arrow tips did most of the work; even if the hit wasn’t clean, they would eventually die. Even so, no matter how many humans you killed, they seemed to come back faster, and with their metal abominations were killing off your clan faster than you would comprehend. 

The longer the war went on, the more devastating the losses were. Death had become a friend to your clan.

Bones rattled against themselves, hung in patterns on new garments. Some even had them braided into their kuru’s. The warriors around you wore the human bones with pride. It was an honor to wear so many; to have killed so many. You might have participated in the trend; however, your mother demanded you never adorn the alien ones. 

And you obayed her wishes for a while.

By the next year, you had lost your father and youngest sibling. You didn’t even have time to truly mourn them. No, wave after wave of the aliens came, bringing death and destruction with them. The RDA had begun burning the forest around your clan in an effort to force your clan from their home. From your home. 

The white paint had become as familiar as the yellow and purple war paint. In fact, the white paint had become a second skin. A layer of emotional armor to coincide with your physical armor. 

Just like your paint your armor also hardly left your body.

A traditional necklace of muted teal and bone-toned river stones—once belonging to your older brother—rested heavy against your slender neck. A leather chest band, crafted by your mother after your iknimaya, crossed your torso, doubling as a sheath and resting atop a green, beaded chest covering that echoed the earthy tones of the leather loincloth at your hips. Soft purple riding leggings clung to your legs, their surface marked by wear. Your younger sister had made you an armband as well, adorned with two feathers—one deep violet and one pale yellow—to mirror the colors of your war paint and ikran. You treasured every gift they had given you, but your favorite piece of armor was the sheath you kept after your father’s death.

You took great pride in replacing his knife with a bone balde you had spent weeks crafting out of the remains of the human who had killed him. That had been the first time you had dragged the killing out for your own pleasure. 

If your mother had been displeased at the alien bone you wore daily, she never mentioned it.

By the age of sixteen, the size of your clan had been cut in half in just two years time. 

Traditional celebrations were slipping through the cracks. Effort and time could no longer be wasted on pretty weaving and dancing. Everyone was making sacrifices in hopes that the aliens would give up or die out.

Your presentation was not a clan-wide celebration, like it once should have been, but a quaint meal with your two surviving family members in your family’s hut. 

You hadn’t even been excited when you had presented as an omega. 

At one point, the clan would have called you a gift from Eywa. Your second gender was considered a sacred honor; Eywa’s promise of the next generation secured in your body.

Now survival meant lasting the day, not the procreation of the next generation. 

During war being an omega was less than ideal. 

Your first heat was a war in itself. The pain was unbearable. Heat and sweat coated your body. Your senses shifted. The smell of the people around you shifted; their pheromones appeared louder, sharper than before. The change was an assault to your nose. Shifts in vocal tone had made your body have a physical reaction that only the angry tone of your deceased father could have elicited. Obedience. 

Maybe in some other life, you could have lived out the delicate tradition of going through your first heat with a potential mate. Spent days alone together, feeling out the new changes in your body with soft embraces. But that was not reality. 

No, reality was sudden and rough and all consuming. War waited for no one; granted no reprieve from its constant drumbeat. You fought your way through bodies of pink skins while your biology fought its way through you. 

The years following your presentation were harder. Stress had caused your body to stop going into heat. Which you were glad about; in war, there was no time to be incapacitated with throbbing pain and aching need. There was no need for your body to bring you more pain when the pink skins flourished in their afflicting torment.

By your twentieth year, there were almost as many scars on your body as stripes. Some small injuries, from training too hard or scraping your body against the rough bark of the forest trees when bolting from unwinnable battles. Others, like the one on your left side just above your hip bone, were bigger and deeper. You had been nicked by a bullet and had almost lost your life from the blood loss. The wound had resulted in a raised scar that you preferred to keep hidden under the ties of your green, leather tewng. 

You had developed a true hatred for the metal machines they used to slaughter your people. If it weren’t for the seemingly endless bullet rounds the pink skins had and their metal flying birds, you were sure they wouldn’t have even lasted this long. If they fought like real warriors, with skill and knives instead of cowering in their metal skins and their skin walker suits, they wouldn’t last very long on Pandora. That much you were sure of. 

Humans fight dirty and kill dirty too. They never went for a clean kill. Never spoke to Eywa for guidance. No, they killed for no reason and cared little about how their actions affected the forest. How they had they affected you. 

The kxetuve mourning line hadn’t left your body in all that time. Every time it faded, there seemed to be a new reason to repaint it on your body. Loss was felt each time you had to apply fresh paint…it was hard to keep track of when one friend's death was repainted over by the loss of a fellow warrior. 

And now you had another reason to freshen up the pigment.

A fresh wave of tears was seemingly never-ending despite the wind’s effort to instantly dry them. 

You had been crying for days now. The most recent attack from the sky-people had been devastating. They had attacked while your camp was sleeping. There had been no time to prepare or to defend. 

The cries of your mother echoed loudly in your head. 

You had awoken to her screams.

To your little sister's last breath. 

To the sounds of skin walkers raiding and killing off the last of your people. 

You had begged, pleaded, and implored your mother to flee with you. But she was more than broken; she was lost. After so much grief–the death of her first son, then her husband, then her most recent child, and now her youngest daughter lay dead in her arms–she could take no more. Her eyes, once bright and golden, had been turned dull. Between her screams, she whispered for you to go–to flee; to leave her to die and finally be with the rest of her family. 

You had felt like a child. Not the warrior you were. You were a coward and left sprinting–and soon flying– as fast as you could instead of fighting like you should have. 

That had been nearly two days ago. Leya was begging for rest through the bond; she was tired from the endless flying. You were sore from sitting for so long and wanted to stop just like her, but you were scared to stop. 

You needed to find toruk makto.

You need revenge. 

The thought was the only thing keeping you going. The thirst for blood–for justice–was all-consuming. It outweighed the hunger in your belly and the pain from the windburn on your face. You craved senseless, brutal, savage violence. 

The younger, softer version of you would be terrified of the monster you were willing to become. 

You would have to kill off the last little pieces of her that still lived in you. And if you had lost that soft, innocent version of you for the justice of your younger siblings who would never reach the age of sixteen; for your older brother who you had aged past; for your father who died protecting your clan; for your mother who had given her children to a senseless war; then you would kill off every soft and weak verson of yourself. You would become harsh, rigid, and lethal to avenge their lives. 

You lost count of the different types of terrain you had flown over.

You couldn’t remember when the forest had turned to water, but now the shoreline before you had shifted into another woodland jungle without much time to register the abrupt change in landscape.

Your body ached, protesting every shift in position as Leya descended lower.

The blue ocean that had stretched endlessly before you, its waters darker than you had imagined in all your childhood fantasies, was now a green sea of trees taller and brighter than you had expected. 

Just a little further, you told yourself, though exhaustion made your vision blur at the edges. Just a little more.

The Ometicaya clan came into view gradually—first the massive Hometree rising like an ancient sentinel, then the movement of Na'vi below. So many Na'vi. The sheer number of them made your chest tighten. You hadn't seen this many people alive in one place in years.

Their lives continued. Training. Laughing. Living. Like the war was something distant. Manageable.

The sight of it twisted something violent in your gut.

Leya's landing was far from graceful. Her legs nearly buckled as her feet touched the ground, and you dismounted more like falling than descending. Your own legs shook, muscles screaming from days of sitting astride her back.

The moment your feet hit earth, the noise hit you like a physical force.

Voices—so many voices—shouting, laughing, calling to one another. The clash of weapons from sparring warriors. The thud of bodies hitting dirt. Somewhere, someone was singing a war chant, deep and rhythmic, and others joined in with aggressive harmonies that made your skin prickle.

The Na'vi around you didn't just stop their tasks to stare. They turned. Warriors mid-spar froze with weapons raised. Hunters with fresh kills slung over their shoulders pivoted to track your movement. Even the children stopped their games, wide eyes fixed on you.

You must have looked feral to them. War paint faded and smeared. Mourning line stark against your blue skin. Eyes red-rimmed and wild. Covered in days of grime and dried sweat and blood that wasn't all yours.

Your hand instinctively went to the knife at your hip—the bone blade made from your father's killer was more comforting than you might care to admit—fingers wrapping around the handle.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. You caught fragments of words. Omega. Alone. Look at her war paint. Is she one of ours? 

The weight of their stares made your shoulders hunch. Made you want to bare your teeth. These people were whole. Their clan was thriving. Their warriors were strong and unbroken and looked at you like you were something strange. Something other.

Everything about them screamed what you weren't. What you'd failed to be.

Your clan was dead. Your family was dead. And you had run.

Survivor. Failure. Coward.

"I need to speak to Toruk Makto." The words came out harsher than intended, your voice hoarse from disuse and crying. Your accent was different from theirs, shaped by a different forest, a different way of speaking. "Now."

An older woman approached, her movements slow and deliberate. She carried herself with the kind of authority that didn't need to be announced—power that radiated from her very bones.

This clan’s Tsahìk you assumed. The title fit her like a second skin. Behind her, a younger woman followed as if she were the older woman's shadow. 

But it was the crowd pressing closer that made your pulse spike. Too many bodies. Too much noise. The scent of so many Na'vi—alphas, betas, omegas, all mixing together in a cacophony that assaulted your nose after days of nothing but wind and Leya's familiar musk.

Your fingers tightened on your knife.

"I am Mo'at, Tsahìk of the Ometicaya," the elder woman said, her eyes sharp as they cataloged every detail of your appearance. Every scar. Every weapon. The mourning paint. Her gaze seemed to pass right through you. Like she was looking into your soul. "This is Kiri, my granddaughter. Toruk Makto is not here.” 

Of course he wasn't here.

Of course.

You had flown for days. Days. Pushed Leya past exhaustion. Fled your mother's corpse and your sister's cooling body and the ashes of your home. And he wasn't even here.

The laugh that escaped your throat was sharp and broken. Several warriors shifted, hands moving toward weapons. You couldn’t care.

"When will he return? Who leads in his absence?" The desperation in your voice made you sound young. Weak. You hated it.

"When Eywa wills it," Mo'at replied, her tone giving nothing away. "What is it you seek, child? His son speaks for him in his absence.”

“I must speak with him then.” You can’t help but growl out in frustration. Child. The word scraped against your pride like a blade. You hadn’t felt or been innocent like a child in many, many years.

“He and his brother fight the sky-people as we speak." Her voice never wavers in tone as she answers your questions.

"And when will they return?” You demand.

The Tsahìk doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head and, with a hum, begins to circle around you like a predator. 

You straightened your spine despite the trembling in your limbs. Despite the way your vision swam. Despite the crowd pressing closer with their whispers and their stares and their wholeness.

She was assessing you. Decided if you were even worth giving any information to. Only once she's completed a full circle around your weak, shaky form does she speak.

“They will be home by tomorrow evening.” She holds eye contact with you for what feels like a lifetime before you realise she wants an exchange of information. 

The disappointment and frustration of the situation tasted bitter on your tongue. You had flown for days with the singular focus of finding him. Toruk Makto. Jake Sully. The warrior who had done the impossible—tamed Toruk, the great leonopteryx that hadn't been ridden in four generations. The alien who had traded his life to become Na'vi rather than stay with the sky-people he had arrived to pandora with.

Stories of him had reached your clan even in the darkest days of the war. Whispered around fires. Passed between warriors. Legends that felt too grand to be real, and yet the evidence of his existence was undeniable.

He had united the clans. United them. Something no one had accomplished in living memory. Rode a beast of pure fury and death itself into battle against the sky-people and won. Drove them from Pandora with nothing but the will of Eywa and the strength of the people behind him.

Your older brother had spoken of him with reverence before he died. Had said that if anyone could save the Na'vi, it would be Toruk Makto. That he was a lethal legend—a warrior unmatched, tactical and brutal in equal measure. He didn't just fight; he destroyed those who threatened his people.

You had clung to that hope. Through every loss. Every death. Every moment you thought you might break. The thought that somewhere, Toruk Makto was still fighting—still winning—had kept you going.

And now you were here, and he was gone. Off fighting while you stood hollow and broken before his Tsahìk, surrounded by his strong, living, thriving people.

People who looked at you like you were a ghost.

Maybe you were.

"I seek Uturu." Your voice came out flat. Empty. "My clan is gone. I am all that remains."

The murmuring around you grew louder. You caught more fragments now. She seeks uturu? Sole survivor? Her whole clan? 

The girl Tsahìk called Kiri shifted beside her. Her expression shifted to something soft. Sympathetic. It made your skin crawl. You didn't want sympathy. You wanted revenge. You wanted the sky-people to burn the way your home had burned. You wanted them to scream the way your mother had screamed.

Mo'at's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—narrowed slightly. You watched as she scented the air, and her gaze sharpened further.

"You are omega."

Not a question. A statement. Another assessment.

Around you, the whispers exploded. Alphas in the crowd shifted, their postures changing. Some leaned forward, seemingly interested in the Tsahìk's observation. Others stepped back, wary. You could feel their attention like insects crawling across your skin.

"Yes." You lifted your chin, defensive, aggressive. Daring any of them to make it a problem.

Mo'at exchanged a look with Kiri that you couldn't decipher. The silence stretched long enough to make your teeth grind.

Was there something you didn’t understand? Why was your second gender so important?

"And unmated," Mo'at said, and somehow it sounded like an accusation. 

The crowd's reaction was immediate. Shock rippled through the gathered Na'vi like wind through leaves.  Clearly and unmated omega was wrong to them.  Apparently shameful, even. Given the number of people who stepped further away from you. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "There was a war," you bit out. "Mating was not a priority when survival—"

"I understand," Mo'at interrupted, though her expression remained severe. "But you must understand our customs. An unmated omega of your age...it is unusual. It will draw attention. Challenges for you."

Challenges. Of course. You hadn't even considered—

Alphas here probably had rights. Claiming rights. The Ometicaya were thriving, which meant their traditions were intact. Their social structures were unbroken by war. Which meant unmated omegas were probably claimed young, properly courted, and bonded according to ancient customs you'd never had the luxury of following.

Which meant you walking in here unmated, unclaimed, smelling of no alpha, was probably the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell.

Fuck.

"I can fight," you said quickly, and your hand was still on your knife. Still ready. "I have killed more sky-people than I can count. I have survived unimaginable battles. I am not some delicate—"

Mo'at silences you with a raised hand. 

Your mouth snaps shut. It takes the rest of your willpower to keep a frustrated growl inside your throat. This was not a battle of strengths but a test of submission. Obedience. Willingness to obey their clan's hierarchy of leadership. 

You hated it. Hated how your biology was seen first and your skill second. Hated how you were willingly subjecting yourself to be reduced to a weak version of yourself that was helpless, all for the sake of claiming uturu. Claiming uturu for the chance, Toruk Makto will help avenge your clan–your family. 

Mo'at's expression softens, just slightly. "I will grant you temporary uturu. The law is sacred, and you have asked. But you will follow our rules while you are here. Until the Olo'eyktan returns and decides rather to grant you permanent uturu, you will respect our ways."

Relief should have flooded through you. Should have made your knees weak. But all you felt was hollow. You were going to have to play a role to fit in here. Another sacrifice of your character you were willing to make for vengeance.

"Thank you, Tsahìk," you managed. The words tasted like ash.

"Kiri will show you where you will stay." Mo'at turned to her granddaughter, and something passed between them. A look you couldn't read. "The large tent near the edge of the gathering space. It has not been used in some time."

Kiri's eyes widened. "Grandmother, that's—"

"It is available," Mo'at said firmly. "And it is far enough from the main camp to give our guest some... peace."

Mo’at turned to dismiss the gathered crowd. She mumbles a few words to a girl much younger than you. The girl nods and starts to make her way past you and towards Leya. You go to stop her, but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

"Go. Rest," Mo'at said, her tone slightly gentler now. "You look as though you might collapse where you stand. We will speak more when you have slept."

“My ikran…” You trail off, watching as the girl starts to untie your ikrans' saddle straps.

“Nita will take care of her. Now go.” Tsahik’s tone leave no room for argument. 

So you find yourself following Kiri through the clan's settlement, and it was wrong. All of it.

The Ometicaya didn't just survive—they thrived. Their tents were well-made, sturdy, decorated with trophies and weavings and signs of life. Warriors sparred with a viciousness that spoke of skill, not desperation. Their strikes were precise, practiced, and confident. Not the frantic fighting of people who expected to die.

You passed a group of young warriors—barely older than you—laughing as they wrestled, their bodies covered in scars that they wore like badges of honor. Scars from victory. From surviving battles they'd won.

Children ran through the paths, playing with toy ikrans, their laughter high and bright and so fucking innocent it made your chest ache.

Everywhere you looked, you saw what you should have been. What your clan should have been.

Strong. Whole. Alive.

The weight of eyes followed you. Whispers trailed in your wake like smoke.

Omega. Alone. Unmated. Survivor. Failure.

That last one you supplied yourself.

The tent Kiri led you to was far more spacious than you expected. Luxurious, even. Woven mats covered the floor, soft and carefully crafted. Weapons hung on the walls—a bow with arrows that looked like they could tear through metal, several knives with edges so sharp they caught the light, a spear that had seen use. All well-maintained. All belonged to a warrior who clearly knew their worth.

Furs were piled in one corner, creating a sleeping space that looked absurdly comfortable compared to the hard ground and cold stones you'd grown accustomed to.

Trophies lined the walls. RDA dog tags. Pieces of shattered equipment. And bones. Human bones, carefully cleaned and displayed.

This wasn't just any warrior's tent.

This belonged to someone important. Someone lethal.

"This is..." you started, uncertain.

"It's available," Kiri said quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes darted away from yours. "You can rest here. I'll bring you food later, okay? Just... just rest."

She left before you could ask questions. Before you could protest. The tent flap fell closed behind her, and you were alone.

Finally and blessedly alone.

The silence pressed down on you like a physical weight.

You stood frozen in the center of the tent, surrounded by signs of a warrior's life. A successful warrior's life. Someone who fought and won and came home to comfort and safety and a clan that celebrated their victories.

Everything you weren't.

Everything you'd failed to be.

Your legs gave out just as you reached the edge of the furs and you collapsed onto the thick, padded bed, and the scent hit you immediately.

Alpha.

Strong and woodsy with undertones of leather and high-altitude winds and something sharper— something you couldn’t seem to name, maybe some type of oil. It was overwhelming after days of nothing but your own fear-sweat and Leya's musk.

This was an alpha's space, but the scent was faded, and with one last look around the room, you decided that whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a long time. The thought made you unreasonably sad. 

You should leave. Should demand different accommodations. Should drag yourself back to Mo'at and insist on being placed somewhere—anywhere—else. 

You couldn’t stay in the home of a deceased warrior. This hut belonged to someone’s dead son, to a dead brother. It was wrong to stay, but your body had other ideas.

The exhaustion was too much. The furs too soft. And despite the faint foreign scent—or perhaps because of it—something in your omega biology insisted this was safe. Protected. An alpha's den–even a dead one–meant security. 

Your eyes slipped closed against your will.

Just for a moment, you told yourself. Just long enough to catch my breath. To gather my strength.

But the moment you relaxed into the furs, your body made the decision for you. Sleep dragged you under like a riptide, swift and merciless and ruthless.

You didn't even remove your weapons.

The bone knife pressed against your hip, the bow across your back dug into your shoulder blades. Your armor stayed laced tight, a second skin you couldn't bear to shed.

You were safe for now, and that was enough.

D-16 rubbed his helm exasperatedly, “A pet, Pax! Why can’t you just obey the rules for once.”

“Hey, there are no rules against keeping pets,” Orion said excitedly, heading over to his locker to retrieve the creature in question.

“Of course there aren’t! Because no one would be stupid enough to keep one!”

“You just haven’t seen it yet. It’s really cute.”

“I hope your spark eater tears off your face, Pax. I really do,” D-16 deadpanned.

“Not a spark eater,” Orion chuckled, then he began whispering into his locker, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt ya, little cutie. That’s it, settle down now.”

D-16 shook his head, “You’re gonna get demoted all the way down to the 40th sub-level and when you do, I’m not gonna save your sorry aft. Besides Pax, there isn’t enough energon to go around as is. How’re you gonna feed a pet?”

“That’s the thing,” Orion said eagerly. “It doesn’t fuel up on energon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of thing doesn’t need energon?” D-16 asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him as he tried to peek over Orion’s shoulder at the so-called ‘pet’ he was trying to grab.

He heard some scrabbling, Orion said some more soothing words and then Orion turned around, holding a creature half his size around the waist in both servos.

“D-16, meet our new pet, Minitronus.”

“Minitronus!” D-16 said excitedly. He knew Orion had only picked the name to foster his attachment and ensure that he kept the creature a secret.

D-16 got close to Orion’s pet, resting his hands on his thighs as he bent down. “Whoa, what is it?”

“C’mon D-16. If you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you.”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Not a one.”

The creature chittered angrily, pushing at Orion’s servos.

“It looks angry,” D-16 observed.

“It’s just getting used to us. That’s all.”

Orion began stroking at the creature’s head.

“Okay Pax,” D-16 said, resigning himself to Orion’s crazy new pet, as he knew he would from the start. “C’mon then. Tell me all about it. What does it eat? Where’d you find it? And most importantly, how’re we going to keep it a secret?”

“Hey! I said HEY! YOU UP THERE! STOP PETTING ME! I’M NOT AN ANIMAL, YOU BIG DUMB IDIOT!”

The giant metal man smiled at you affectionately, opening his mouth to say something you couldn’t understand. It all sounded like scraping metal and electrical noises and you couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Ever since the Quintessons had abducted you, your life had been nothing but trouble. You were their prisoner but when they found out your planet had nothing of worth, they decided it would be better to experiment on you. The only consolation was that you could at least understand the Quintessons, who had multiple translator devices on their ship.

You were very fortunate that the Quintessons didn’t view you as a threat since they didn’t bother keeping you in any kind of high-security prison and so you managed to escape before they did anything too terrible. The worst you suffered were a few zaps from a weak cattle prod, probably testing your nervous system.

Yet, having escaped the Quintesson ship, you had landed yourself into deeper trouble. You had found yourself on a living metal planet, and though a few plants grew on the ever-transforming surface, the pocket computer you had stolen from your captors informed you they were poisonous.

Fortunately, you had thought a few things through regarding your escape. You had managed to grab a backpack, stuffing it full of provisions and interesting gadgets. The food was stored in dehydrated cubes so with proper care, it could last you months, maybe even an entire year. The backpack also contained a device to keep you warm, a cube that turned into a forcefield when thrown to the ground, and most importantly one of the translators that had allowed you to understand the Quintessons along with a few other gadgets.

However, despite your planning, things hadn’t gone very well for you. After touching down on the planet, you boarded a train that you hoped would take you to civilisation, and while it did take you to a city underground that was more beautiful and advanced than you could imagine, it was clear that the alien life-forms there had never seen an organic creature before.

The few you tried to talk to initially screamed as if you were vermin and tried to blast, stab, and crush you in succession. As you scrambled for your life, you took a kick to the back, saved by your pack which had broken your much-needed translator.

You ran and hid, keeping out of sight and soon you started feeling like the vermin the metal people viewed you as. You learned quickly to keep out of sight and made your way to where there were fewer bots, spending many quiet hours either sleeping in vents or trying to repair your translator with the limited knowledge you had.

Yet, your luck couldn’t last forever and eventually, you ran into a vent that turned out to be a transportation tunnel to and from the mines. It was there that Mr Big-Red-Idiot-Bot caught you and took you to the charging bays. At first, you thought your luck was turning around and that he was going to take you to someone who would be able to understand you since he was obviously trying to be gentle with you. Then it became clear that he just thought you were some kind of stupid animal in need of care and he adopted you as his pet.

“What are these things?” D-16 asked, gently lifting your top.

You slapped at his servo, swearing at him even though he couldn’t understand you. Orion laughed, “I don’t know, but that’s how it reacted to me too. I think they’re to keep it warm. Either way, it doesn’t like it when you touch them. Oh, and hey, check this out, it does tricks.”

Orion shoved you back into his locker where your bag was. You ran to your pack, hurriedly grabbing your broken translator and showing it to the new grey bot. You had tried repeatedly showing it to Big Red, but he didn’t get what you were trying to do and always just laughed at you.

“What’s it holding?” D-16 asked.

“Playing with some scrap metal. Isn’t that cute? It has a favourite toy! I think Minitronus might have belonged to someone else once because it has all these adorable toys in there and it can make its own fuel.”

You sighed. Clearly, the grey bot was no better than Big Red, but at least he wasn’t trying to kill you. You shook your head and began searching your pack for some tools to repair the translator. Upon seeing you grab a screwdriver, Orion took it from you.

You yelled a few more insults, demanding it back but Orion just teased you, holding it just out of reach.

“Aww does Minitronus want the toy? Do you? Do you? That’s it, reach for the toy. Grab it.” He cooed.

D-16 rolled his eyes, amused by both Orion and his new pet. He snatched the miniature ‘toy’ screwdriver from his friend, handing it back to you. “Don’t tease it, Orion.”

You nodded gratefully at D-16 and he ruffled your hair. This time, you didn’t bother insulting him since he had given you what you wanted.

The work alarm went off overhead and Orion slammed his locker shut just in time for the influx of workers to come through the shared stasis bunker on their way to work. D-16 tried to fight against the crowd to stay by the locker but Orion pulled him into the fray, muttering that it would look suspicious if he wasn’t at work on time.

“But what about- Will it be okay in there?” D-16 whispered as they headed into the lift.

“Sure,” Orion said from the corner of his mouth, trying to be quiet. “It’s been in there for days and it's been fine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Now be quiet and act normal.”

D-16 smiled and gave a small awkward wave to a bot in front of him who was observing the pair with a raised optical ridge. Over the years, Orion had caused more than his share of trouble so D-16 was used to the scrutinising looks from others, though he always got nervous when they both had something to hide.

You sighed and rested your hands on your hips. It was awful being constantly stuffed in a locker, especially since Big Red didn’t seem to think things through. He shoved you in your new ‘home’ whenever other bots were around or when he went to the lift which you assumed meant he was working. The problem with that was that his species didn’t tire easily and could work a very long time, and with this being what you could only assume was the poorer part of the city, there were always other bots around. You had to get your translator fixed quickly, or else you would spend the rest of your life in the locker. Still, things weren’t all bad. It was warm and safe. You often used your backpack as a pillow, sleeping through the first few hours before getting back to your repair work. You had privacy and a personal collapsable service suite that pulled moisture from the air so you could drink or shower - it even took care of your waste by vaporising it; alien inventions sure were convenient. Besides, now the other bot knew about you too, and perhaps he could help you. Resignedly, you set about keeping to your normal routine and began some light repair work, too awake to rest now. You only wished you knew what you were doing and that you had even the faintest idea on how to fix alien technology; your life depended on it.

Orion and D-16 were the first up and out of the elevator, avoiding the usual crowds by skipping the last few minutes of work with a lame excuse about being called upstairs. Honestly, the pair got into so much trouble they were often called up to meetings with higher-ups for tellings-off, which Orion usually tried to talk his way out of, and so nobody so much as batted an optic when they left.

Upon getting up to their quarters, Orion and D-16 were both relieved to see that the rotation team had already filed out, presumably having taken one of the other lifts to a different mine. Orion ran to his locker and hurled it open.

“Aww, look,” He pulled D-16 close to get a good look at you. “Minitronus is recharging. Hey, do you think it’s dreaming of us? Pets do that, right? Dream of their owners?”

“I mean, if Minitronus is thinking of me, that’s a dream. If it’s you, it’s a nightmare.”

Orion elbowed D-16 in the chassis then reached in to grab you.

D-16 pulled him back, “Whoa hey, don’t wake it.”

“We have to. It’s time for walkies and this is the only time we can get out of here quietly before the others catch up.”

Reluctantly, D-16 let Orion go.

You jolted awake, terrified until you remembered where you were and that you were now the ‘pet’ of an advanced alien. You settled groggily in his arms, wondering what he was going to do with you now.

He proffered you some words that sounded like two lawnmowers smashing together, but by his expression, you could tell he was happy. Then he jostled you, miming something you couldn’t understand until it was too late.

You scowled at Big Red with your arms folded, too insulted to even try yelling as he tugged you along an empty alley on your new wire lead.

This was a new low.

“I don’t think Minitronus likes walkies,” D-16 commented as you dug your heels into the floor, trying to hold your ground.

“Nonsense,” Orion said, trying to be gentle as he pulled at your lead, making you stumble forward, “It’s just not used to it yet.”

D-16 patted his thighs, “C’mon Minitronus. That’s it. Here Minitronus. Minitronus.”

After a few more attempts, you realised that the gentle electrical hum Grey kept repeating must be his name for you. Huh… Well, at least the repetition meant they had a stable language.

You listened again and tried to mimic the sound, making both bots pause to look at you.

“Did it just…?” D-16 asked, pointing at you.

You mimicked the sound again.

“It did,” Orion agreed. He ran over to pick you up, spinning you in his arms, “Who’s a smart Minitronus, huh? Yes, you. You are!”

Although your mimicry had been good, it wasn’t quite enough to convince them that you were sentient. Rather, they were looking at you like a parrot who had picked up a new phrase. Instead of repeating your name, you had managed a babyish mumbling somewhere close, that sounded more like Mini–Tron.”

D-16 beamed and petted your head, quickly coming to love his new pet. Orion was right, it was smart and cute.

“That’s so cool, I wonder if we can teach it more words.”

“I’m definitely teaching it swears,” Orion laughed.

Eventually, the pair headed back to the underground, with Orion heading in first, making sure everyone was recharging, before signalling for D-16 to follow with you.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t put me back in the locker,” You whined as you were placed on the top shelf.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” D-16 begged, listening to you pitchy chittering. He held a digit to his lips, shushing.

“You two will be gone for ages, what between sleeping and working, and it’s dark in there,” You continued, even though he couldn’t understand you.

You only stopped talking when he held you against his chassis, petting your head. You sighed in understanding. He was trying to keep you safe; this was all for your own good.

‘Okay,’ You thought, feeling strangely comforted by Grey’s actions. ‘If this is how it has to be for now… Okay.’

Orion gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to D-16, glad that he had managed to keep your mewls under control.

“Goodnight, Minitronus,” Orion whispered before shutting the door.

“We love you,” D-16 added.

You shook your head after the door shut; life was going to be interesting with those two.

“PAX!” Elita-One shouted, jetpacking up the empty elevator shaft to catch up with Orion and D-16 who had stolen away from work early for the third time that week.

Orion held you behind his back, hiding you just in time before Elita got in his face.

“Captain, what a surprise!” Orion grinned cheekily, already trying to smooth-talk his way out of the situation. “Me and D-16 were just saying what a great and wonderful leader you-”

“Can it, Pax!” Elita glowered. “I’ve had just about enough of you. It’s bad enough that you’re a troublemaker but now, you’re dragging D-16 down with you and- what’s behind your back?”

“My back? Nothing at all,” Orion shoved you into D-16’s open arms, and he in turn hid you behind his leg, trusting that you wouldn’t run away if he wasn’t holding you.

Elita grabbed hold of Orion, slamming him into the lockers, her eyes narrowing when she didn’t see anything worth hiding. She glared at D-16 who held up his servos in a shrug, gesturing to Pax who was already babbling about how strong she was and how no other Captain had had the strength to throw him so hard.

While Pax created a distraction and Elita-One continued her tirade against him, D-16 shuffled backwards, sneaking you out for your daily walk.

You had grown used to the routine now, learning the building’s alarms that marked the beginning or end of a shift. When it was coming time for Orion or D-16 to take you out, you always hitched on your backpack, just in case you needed anything, though you had long since learned not to work on your translator in front of Big Red, since he kept assuming it was a toy and continually threw it for you to fetch. Honestly, he was doing even more damage to the already broken machine, and it stressed you out constantly whenever you were forced to catch it before it hit the ground.

When you and Grey were alone, you always did repair work at the end of a walk, since he would take you somewhere quiet to rest for a while.

You had been living with the pair for just over two months now and in that time a few things of note had happened.

First, they had entrusted knowledge of you to a few of the others in their ‘platoon’ or whatever the group they worked in was called. This had happened after an incident wherein you had escaped your locker to explore and a silver and blue bot with a passion for dance stumbled into you and squealed. Big Red, and Grey hurried to your rescue and had to explain their ‘pet’ to him.

This led to you being the worst kept secret in the mining facility, though it was bound to happen eventually with so many bots living in close quarters. However, all the mining bots found you sweet enough and they all had a code of honour that meant they kept you secret from anyone with authority like Elita-One or any of the other captains.

Yet, while everyone knew about you and you were generally allowed out of the locker most of the time, it was still only Orion or D-16 who took you out, and they still tried to get out of work a tad early to check on you.

One of the other changes in your life was the delivery of a big bundle of wires as ‘toys.’ That was another word you had learned to mimic since Orion kept bringing you play-things and repeating the Cybertronian equivalent.

This happened after you kept picking up pieces of scrap wire on walks, taking them with you so you could use them in your repair work. At first, Orion and D-16 took them off you, afraid you would hurt yourself somehow, but when you kept collecting them and fought hard to keep the few you had, they assumed it must be a normal nesting behaviour and brought you a great deal more than you needed.

You were delighted with the gifts and hugged both bots for it. Then, after saving the few you needed for your translator, you weaved the extra wires into a new over-shirt. It was uncomfortable, but quite practical since your jumper was wearing away and you needed a new one to keep decent when you were washing your actual shirt.

Another problem to occur was your hair. In your time with the bots, it had grown very long, and much to your bemusement, Orion had tried cutting it. The whole thing had gone disastrously, and you suddenly understood those dogs that got terrible haircuts because they tried to escape their groomers; you could only be thankful that the bald patch was beginning to grow back.

The final change was Grey’s idea. He felt confident that you were well trained since you now responded to your name, paying attention when you were called through the miners’ hab-suite. Because of your actions, he often let you off-lead, which you were immensely grateful for. He rarely put the lead back on you unless he thought something was unsafe, so whenever it went on now, you clambered onto his shoulder, trusting that he would take you home and away from danger quickly.

It wasn’t a perfect life, but things were slowly improving. You could only hope that your lucky streak didn’t break and that you would be able to communicate your needs fully before the year was up.

D-16 sighed, sitting on the side of a tall building overlooking the city with you in his lap. You were content to let him pet you while you toyed with your translator. You went in an almost trance-like state whenever you tinkered with it now, honestly not expecting anything to come of it but needing to work all the same.

He continued speaking in his gentle, rhythmic noises and you hummed as if you understood, pressing a wire down with the flat of your screwdriver.

“- and that’s why I know what we’re doing is important. Even Sentinel says so. Us miners, we’re keeping Cybertron alive,” D-16 said proudly.

“Who’s Sentinel?” You asked absentmindedly.

D-16 screamed, accidentally throwing you off his lap.

“Hey, be careful!” You scolded. “You could have dropped me over the edge.”

You picked up your translator and brushed yourself off.

“Minitronus, you’re talking!” D-16 accused.

“Yeah, well so…are… Oh my God, I did it!” You breathed. Then you punched the air excitedly, “I DID IT!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON? HOW ARE YOU TALKING?!”

“I fixed my translator,” You squealed ecstatically, waving it in front of D-16.

“Your- Your toy?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, practically bouncing on the spot.

“This is impossible. You- You’re our pet!”

“No. Not a pet. Not anymore. I’m (Y/N). Okay, (Y/N),” You repeated your name slowly, trying to get it through to Grey who still looked panicked.

“Primus, this is insane.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve got to explain everything to me, right now.”

“Okay, sit down,” You patted the ledge.

D-16 did so, and you jumped back into his lap.

“What’re you doing? You can’t sit there now. You’re not an animal.”

“Hey,” You pushed against his servo, staying stubbornly in place, “I’m not going back on that ledge, I could fall.” “Fine,” D-16 relented. He went to pet your head again then stopped himself, keeping his servos stiffly by his sides. “As long as you explain yourself, you can sit wherever you want.”

Having told D-16 everything and had him explain a few things in return, things thankfully changed. Initially, things between you and all of the mining bots were awkward, with haunted comments from some of the bots like, ‘It saw me in the wash racks,’ or ‘I can’t believe I tried to rub its belly… No wonder it slapped me. Oh. Oh no.’

Once everyone got used to the idea, your life improved. You were still kept secret since none of the miners knew how the higher-ups would react to an alien species, but with some ingenuity and a few favours exchanged for information about your species and planet, they all came together to transform your locker into a proper living space, complete with all the amenities they could manage to scrape together. They even began forming a plan to try and have you off-planet and en-route somewhere you could survive before your supplies would run out.

After D-16 and Orion were over the weirdness, you still had them take you on your daily excursions, sans the lead since you were no longer their pet. Orion managed to laugh about the whole thing, but D-16 grew to be even more strained around you. However, you didn’t get to ask him about it till you were next alone with him, which was a long time afterwards.

“So… Do you hate me now?” You asked him one day while he walked a few paces ahead of you, keeping an eye out for anyone who he would need to hide you from.

“What?” D-16 sputtered. “I- I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” You smiled easily. “It’s a strange situation.”

D-16 felt his insides squeeze. He had held onto you while you slept. At the time, he thought you were cute. Now though… You were still cute when you slept, but it was a different kind of cute – Softer, somehow.

“I told you everything,” He sighed, defeatedly. “My life, my dreams, my fears.” He shook his head, continuing mournfully, “And you didn’t understand any of it.”

“Not true,” You contradicted, running to stand in front of him.

He watched you warily.

“I might not have known what you were saying, but I did understand you. Your tone, expressions, the sound of your voice. I understood more than you think.”

D-16’s spark pulsed.

“Let’s go home,” He said quickly, turning on his heel and walking away from you.

The two of you had to go where you wouldn’t be alone or things would change again.

D-16 was falling in love with you and he couldn’t let that happen. There were too many unknowns and he had his planet to think about. He was a miner – the life force of his planet. That’s what Sentinel Prime always said, and work came first.

Besides, you weren’t going to be on Cybertron forever. You couldn’t be. Once your supplies ran out, that would be it for you.

D-16 couldn’t get attached. It wasn’t like you were a pet anymore. You didn’t belong to him, even if he wanted you to.

You ran through the destruction of Iacon City, terrified by everything that was happening. Honestly, you had missed most of the events leading up to it, having been stuck in Sentinel’s tower, but you had seen the so-called Prime torture and brand D-16.

Afterwards, you tried to find him or Orion, but you were small and Iacon was big and the city was collapsing around you.

You screamed as you were grabbed seemingly from nowhere and looked up to see D-16, though he looked slightly different thanks to the new infusion of Megatronus’ T-Cog which you hadn’t seen him take from Sentinel’s corpse. Also, there was one other change – his angry red optics, which bore into you.

“D-16,” You shouted, “What’s going on? Where’s Orion?”

“Orion is dead,” He growled. Though he had made a promise that nobody else would be deceived, you needed to hear that lest you side with Orion over him. Besides, it wasn’t a lie. Orion was dead – Dead, and replaced by Optimus Prime. “And my name is Megatron.”

“Orion- Orion’s dead,” You repeated, too shell-shocked to even cry at the moment.

“Yes,” Megatron glossed over your emotions, far too focused on his rage as he transformed around you, keeping you safe inside his alt-mode. “And we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“To war!”

Yet, even as Megatron burned with hatred and his desire to bring down the corruption that fuelled his planet, he was already reading the intel sent by the disgraced High Guard, informing him of several nearby planets where you would be able to get the organic fuel you required to stay online.

Megatron had lost everything. He was not about to lose his beloved pet too. You were his, and you always would be.