Chapter Text
RECOVERED DATA - AN EXCERPT FROM THE JOURNALS OF ALPHA TRION
There was a time, long ago, when the galaxy was young and beings beyond our understanding walked among us as friends. We called them Titans–a class of Cybertronians so vast and powerful as to be considered walking ecosystems upon which entire biomes and cities could form.
They could cross the galaxy in a single activation of their in-built spacebridges.
They were also, crucially, the only Cybertronians capable of generating their own Energon, refining it from more renewable resources.
Between all of those properties, one can understand how some would consider the Titans as gods. But even our gods had humble beginnings.
When a Titan was first activated, they were not yet known as Titans–instead, they were forged as Titan-kin, or what the new Senate have tried to erase and rename “shuttles” in the aftermath of the Titanomachy. Not even the Titans themselves were quite sure why this was–some theorized that our planet simply could not put a fully-formed Titan’s worth of energy into a single spark at the moment of forging, while others claimed it was a way for Primus to make certain that Titans understood what it meant to be small, and thus what they meant to the rest of us.
Regardless of the function of the Titan-kin phase, they were markedly different from their peers even in this smaller form. Titan-kin stand easily twice the height of most other Cybertronians, if not more, and they possess peerless space-flight capabilities. By the time most of our kind would reach maturity, a Titan-kin would receive a unique signal in their processor–one that would tell them that it was time to leave Cybertron, and find a suitable world upon which to undergo the drastic metamorphosis that results in a Titan.
Typically, this process is done in total isolation; I only know what occurs next because my good friend Metroplex invited me to journey with him and witness the event.
4,185,836 B.C.
When the blizzard hits, it's more powerful than Skyfire could've imagined.
Normally, he would have no issues flying up and out of the storm, but they had stretched their energon rations thin during this expedition. He's exhausted and practically running on fumes at this point, and that leads to him making sloppy mistakes–like letting himself get caught in a gale that slams him into the side of an ice sheet, sending him spiraling towards the ground.
He is certain Ulchtar notices his absence–by the time he’s pulled himself out of the daze the impact left him in, he’s already received a frantic message over comms.
<< Skyfire, what is your status? >>
His head hurts worse than it ever has in his life, and his senses are fritzing in and out. He reverts to root mode, trying and failing to stand up. He manages to send out a faint message:
<< help. hurts. hurts so much. >>
The reply comes swiftly:
<< Skyfire, send me your location immediately! >>
He tries to speak, but all he manages is garbled static. Has his processor been damaged?
<< Where are you? >>
His cameras flail wildly, struggling to see anything through the blizzard and finding nothing. His navigation systems are offline, but even if they were functional, he can barely move. He can feel ice forming over his limbs, rooting him in place.
<< don’t know where >>
<< SKYFIRE!!! >>
The ice worms its way under his plating and into his protoform, and it finally hits him. He's going to die here. It's all really a question of how and when–shuttles are exceptionally durable frames, so he doubts the cold alone will be enough to kill him. He’ll last a long while before protoform damage can truly kill him, especially if he’s stuck in place. Perhaps it’ll be starvation that takes him. Or maybe his processor will die first, after being driven mad by the isolation.
…He really doesn't want to be alone.
<< ulchtar? i'm scared- >>
// WARNING - SYSTEMS DAMAGE CRITICAL //
// FLIGHT SYSTEMS OFFLINE //
// NAVIGATION SYSTEMS OFFLINE //
// INHIBITOR CHIP OFFLINE //
// METAMORPHOSIS PROTOCOLS ONLINE //
As he lies there, half-frozen and barely conscious, something activates in his brain module. Code that should never have seen the light of day finally runs and he feels the instinctual urge to burrow himself deeper. Perhaps if it had been a more gradual affair, he could have fought off the urge…but with how suddenly it all happens, he has no chance. All thoughts of answering Ulchtar’s comms and being rescued are forgotten as he wrenches himself free of his prison with strength he should not have had and digs.
It is a slow, uncoordinated affair. His concussed processor can only process one command: make yourself whole. He digs and digs and digs for what must be miles, through rock and ice and time, paying no heed to how badly this damages his already weakened frame. It won't matter soon–he already feels the warmth of this world’s mantle nearby. When he is deep enough, he sheds all of his armor, leaving only bare protoform. He drinks deep of the planet's internal heat, geothermal energy alone sustaining him. Eventually he curls up in his pocket of darkness, heedless of the passing of time or any of the changes happening to his body, and falls into a dreamless sleep.
Skyfire does not think about the people who will worry about him back on Cybertron.
He does not remember how his body begins to grow and change.
He does not notice as the universe forgets him.