#deep memory files

I don’t taste the mixed cube as I tip the contents into my intake and fail to hear the music gliding up from beneath our booth.

Streak is chatting with the next booth over with the privacy wall folded neatly aside so he can clap the other mech on the shoulder and give him a little friendly shake as they both laugh.

“Your friend’s real shy,” the other mech comments from far away.

“Oh, not at all. He’s just one of those brainy types you know. Always in his processor. Some mechs get all the luck when their forged; looks and ram.” Streak lays the flat of his arm against his optical ridge while his own cube dangles elegantly from his digits. “But, it’s also way past his recharge time and this is our third club.”

Streak makes it look effortless. As if the whole universe has not rewritten itself. How can he be so relaxed after the silo?

We were in the silo for a few groons, leaning together against one of the walls at the very top, perched on a narrow band of metal and near one of the latches. The silo had been packed, but in a controlled sense. Bots great and small, lining the walls and floor. The inside of the place made up of hatches, latched shut, but ready to be thrown open for a hurried escape.

At the center of it all, a stereo mech had transformed and relayed a recording: a deep authoritative voice laying at our pedes the tyranny of the our society, the need for change, and the road going forward toward that goal in so many aspects I had not given much processor resources toward before.

I take another tasteless sip, not hearing whatever Streak and the mech talk about now.

My assignment was to find out where Streak had been going, but I see now this is what Command really wants out of it: proof of treason and rebellion. I am under orders to inform them of what happened at the silo. Once they know about it, they will send a force out to disband the gathering and to take the stereo mech in for questioning. Our squad-commander would pat me on the back-plating and let me stay in my position, at least that is what he implied.

Part of the speech drifts through my processor: you are being deceived.

I sit my cube down and scoot out of the booth.

“I am returning to base before I crash.”

“I’ll be along shortly, but don’t wait up for me. Sweet recharge, Sol.”

[Location: Home?; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 1 error detected; 1 high severity]

[Location: Home?; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 1 error detected; 1 high severity]

Something is not right.

The injuries NT-047 and I sustained in the server room have repaired themselves fully. Self-repair has begun to recolor the welds even.

The mech that is having us recite our designations and purpose is not Overseer, despite what they say. The frame is too large with excessive flaring; the vocalizer is all wrong, and too deep. No one else seems to notice.

[Your purpose is to record]

Time has passed, and I have no recollection of it.

Until I can figure out what is going on, I will follow the others’ leads and keep my helm down.

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 0 errors detected]

Today, for our first mission, my team will be following a target through the city. Overseer says it will be very difficult; no matter how difficult it may be, we must carry out our mission.

= = =

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 0 errors detected]

Today, for our first mission, NT-044 and I will be wiping a console at a private residence. I do not understand why I am doing this. I feel as if I should ask, but no one else seems to be bothered that we have been asked to do this.

I don’t think NT-044 actually wants me to help him with this.

= = =

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 0 errors detected]

Our first mission as a team is to retrieve a datapad from an Enforcer. How do we know which datapad to take if Overseer doesn’t tell us what’s on it?

= = =

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 0 errors detected]

This feels too much for a first mission. We’ve only just onlined and they are asking us to deactivate another mechanism? NT-042 seems unsure about our orders, but she also says we have to do this. 

This doesn’t feel right.

I don’t want to do this, but what can we do? What will happen to us if we disobey?

= = =

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 0 errors detected]

Today will be our first mission as a team. All we have to do is record a conversation at an oilhouse. Guess they are starting us out with training wheels.

= = =

[Location: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown; Status: 3 errors detected; 1 high severity]

Our first mission is going terribly. 

NT-044 has a blender for processor! He didn’t turn off the motion sensors in the server room! NT-047 and I are damaged now for his mess-up! We are trying to make it home for repair now...

One of my optics is busted.

“You really are the least stealthy stealth plane I know, Sol.”

Caught in the act, I slide out from my hiding spot behind some crates from Kaon, raising my servos in surrender. When Streak only snorts out a puff from his vents, I relax.

Streak turns his backplates to me and steps out of the service window, hoisting himself up on to the crane boom. When I approach in turn and look up at him, the lights of Vos silhouette his frame, tossing the valleys of his plating into enticing, mysterious shadows. His optics and biolights are dimmed, but deeply amused.

For a second, I can pretend I’m here for a different reason.

“Your obsession with my aft is getting a bit out of servo.”

“I wasn’t...I’m not...” I bite my glossa. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Can I come?”

Maybe I spoke a bit hasty because Streak’s derma dip into a testy grimace and his vocalizer clicks.

“It would only encourage you, and personally do not feel like having my thrusters over-exerted and recalibrated again for at least a couple of astroweeks. Stay here and cover for me like a proper partner in crime.”

He looks away from me and starts to strut along the boom, out over the drop.

I hoist myself up after him.

“Come on. You’ve been sneaking out more than I have. I need a little freedom and fun too, you fragger.”

“It is not happening tonight. I got somewhere to be.”

“Please with all the cobalt chips on Cybertron on top. I don’t care where you are jetting off to, but let me come with you. I really need to get out of here and to talk with you; Squad-command’s been chewing up my landing gear while you’ve been dodging me as if we’re not friendlies.”

Streak peers over his wing at me with an assessing look. 

“Is it about the Dreamware? I already told you the copy I have isn’t shareable, and I don’t know where the drop-mech went.”

“It’s not the Dreamware.”

My chronometer ticks up to the groon. Streak clicks his vocalizer again; his wings speak of agitation and restlessness as he stands half-turned toward me while looking straight down. I know that posing; he’s going to leave me behind, and that makes my plating both crawl and cinch.

“It’s important to me, Streak.”

His optics flash up to me. His wings still, jitter slightly with uncertainty; I detect a little suspiciousness as they casually angle for a quick drop, as if expecting me to attack him. 

“You’re making me late.”

“I’m sorry?”

He shakes his helm, leaps, and transforms mid-drop, firing away with the grace only a seeker possesses in the air; I marvel at his shrinking frame, spark relieved and processor panicked.

:: Keep up or get left behind, Sol. ::

I drop from the boom, transform, and struggle to catch up. We are equals in rank, but Streak is my superior in the air. He ignores my attempts at starting a conversation, so eventually we fly in silence.

We twist through Vos past several entertainments, stop on several alcoves, and eventually veer away toward the outskirts of Vos, out to where the transport frames and low-rate couriers have their hangers.

It’s a short flight; Streak hurries us along.

We touch down in a messy clump of hangers with some silos that have seen better orns; the state of the place would have set the Squad Commander glitching. 

Streak herds me toward one of the silos, nudges my wing with his, and gives me a genuine smile.

“My thrusters feel like they’re about to drop off, sir!”

“You were punished for sneaking off base before; you will be punished for sneaking off base now, even with your special assignment. Now, report.”

“Got nothing. Lost the target mid-flight and didn’t know where the frag he went...sir.”

“Did you actually look for him or did you just do whatever you pleased the rest of the off-cycle?”

“I looked for him! What do you take me for?”

“At the klik, a disappointment and degenerate, not suited to serve.”

“Sir, you’re slashing my landing gear and tearing out my spark.”

“Since your helm is chasing contrails so often, consider it a dose of tough love.”

“Sir! I didn’t know you felt th-”

[Environmental threat level: 90.05%; Multiple threats detected; Battle protocols: Suspended (Pack Leader locked)]

“Ooooooooo! My dears, wherever did you get this beautiful statu-by Primus! It moves!?”

Gloss giggles to my left and puts her servos under my snout. “Did he startle you?”

I lean into the touch, but keep my optics on the stranger. If he tries to harm either of my pack leaders, I will not hesitate!

Sunfallen makes an approving hum from Gloss’ other side.

“Starprowler is a fully function recreation of a Predacon: formidable, elegant, noble. You will not find another model of this quality or build. It was a one of a kind, custom commission; we paid to have the mold smelted down after delivery. No better symbol could exist to represent Gloss and my status among our peers: formidable, elegant, noble. Do you not agree?”

“Of course, my dears, of course.”

Gloss strokes my plating.

[Sensory input: Post-optical]

My engines purr.

“And, she’s very loyal, the perfect pet.”

Pet?

“May I touch?”

“Of course; we have her well-trained not to snap.”

SNARL!

“Starprowler, do not growl at our guests.”

“Are you sure it is not going to take my servo off, my dear?”

Sunfallen steps into my view, looking down with disappointment.

Pack leader, he is falseness! An intruder!

“Starprowler, quiet! You will hold still for Maximum-Overdrive.”

I clamp my plating down as the mech closes in cautiously.

[Sensory input: Snout]

I bite back a growl. His touch makes my plating itch.

“Perhaps, I should get my own commissioned. We could have them spar or fly competitively against one another. Though, I would commission something more grandiose; this one is rather too on the small side for my tastes. Still a fantastic addition.”

[Sensory input: post-tusk]

Stop touching me! Go away!

“A splendid idea. We laid out a schedule for live events starting three quartex from this orn. They are invitation only, but you are invited, of course.”

“Cozy hideout you got here.”

Streak rolls his helm to look at me, optics bright and spun wide. His weapons do not activate; his wings remain relaxed, even giving a pleased flutter. He grins and lazily stretches; my spark stutters.

“Sol...Sol...Sol, sneaking out under Squad-Command’s nose. Who’s covering if we both out here?”

Despite his words, Streak gestures me over to his gaudy nest of mesh and over-sized pillows. I lay down on my ventral plating beside his legs; a wandering servo strokes across my closest wing, too friendly even for Streak.

“Dabbling in throttles again?”

“Called Dreamware...suits it. Not a shareable version, sorry.”

I lay my helm on my forearms and look up at him. It’s the most relaxed and open he’s appeared all astroweek, void of the tight, pinched faceplates and stiff irritated wing flicks. He looks like I could tell him anything, and he’d forgive me in an instant.

“Your helm must be twenty hics up right now, but we need to talk about something. That’s why I snuck out.”

“Not right now.” The slide of his servo on my wing is comforting, practically lulling me into recharge. “Standby me when they chew us out tomorrow?”

“Don’t I always?”