Transformers: Legacy, Chapter One

Title: Dreams of Waking
Pairing(s): N/A
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: N/A

Dreams are strange things. Sometimes, they make you think impossible things are real, and that real things are impossible. But sometimes, dreams are your mind's way of preparing you for something even worse.

The man stood tall, maybe a little over six feet. Despite his graying hair and wrinkled face, his body was still that of a soldier. His dress blues, pressed and crisp, seemed perfectly tailored to his body, with row after row of medals at his left breast; a veritable forest of achievements. His voice was soft, and solemn, but it carried through the crowded hall, and over the seated guests, who wore a range of colors, from dress blues and whites, to the black of mourning widows. "We are gathered here, today, to remember those we have lost, and to celebrate those who still stand with us." He paused, gathering himself, as he looked over the crowd, meeting the watching eyes of each widowed woman, each weeping child, as if they were his own. "But this is not merely a tale of survival. This is not merely the story of some who lived, and some who did not. This is the story of those who persevered, against impossible odds, in an impossible situation, to deliver their brothers in arms from the fire and flames; Soldiers who withstood the crucible of war, and kept lit that torch, that bright light, that is the human spirit, and warded off the darkness which threatened to consume them all. Corporal William Johns, Corporal Marco Jameson, and Lance Corporal Esteban Rodriguez, you are hereby presented with the Bronze Star Medal, for bravery under fire. Sergeant Alexandria Istre, you are hereby awarded the Silver Star Medal, for merit, and bravery under fire, when your squad was attacked, outside of Baghdad. It is our judgment that you four soldiers, acting, without orders or higher leadership, cut off from both reinforcement and friendly ground, maintained your post, under fire, and forestalled an offensive of the vanguard forces of the former Iraqi III Corps, allowing your fellow soldiers time and opportunity to rally to the defense of the city."

His words flowed over her like a cold fog, clouding the crowd before her. She inhaled, and the scent of cordite struck the back of her throat like a desert wind. Her mouth went dry, and her heart began to race. The feel of her boots slapping down on concrete, the vibrations coursing through the air and stone, which had preceded the movement of heavy armor. In the haze around her, bodies were partially visible, though she could not tell whose, or what uniforms they wore. All she knew, was that, straight ahead, was either victory, or death. Perhaps both. But she knew that, one way or another, she had to. Or else all was lost.

Hand slaps down on sandbag, grains of sand exploding out between her fingers, as a round struck the bag. Feet leaving the ground. Up, and over. The visceral feel of the knife in her hand; vague memories of her rifle being torn from her grasp by the impact of a landing shell. The glint of light on metal, oddly grey -

And she blinked away sudden sweat, looking into the gunmetal grey eyes of her colonel. He gave her a solemn, respectful nod, and saluted sharply, crisply. Automatically, she responded with a salute of her own. Brief concern flitted through his gaze, as he recognized the sharpness of breath, the sudden sweat. After lingering a moment longer, she gave him a very slight nod, before he moved onto the next man.

She looked down at her chest, the shining silver star polished mirror-bright, against her dress blues. She drew in a slow, deep breath, and lifted her gaze to the crowd. Their faces swam, before her, the lights suddenly unbearably bright.


She blinked away stars, staring fixedly up at the dazzling-bright lights of the surgical suite. She felt vague pressure on her midsection, on her left side. She tried to breathe, but it was a shallow, weak breath. The air stank of antiseptic, and was sharply cold against her tongue and throat. Mechanically pure, with no natural scents, save the sharp, coppery tang of blood in the air. Low voices spoke around her, clinical detachment hanging on every word; The voices were oddly muted, and metallic.

"Of course, Megatron; You know me. Yes, I brought them here. An outpost, you know." He chuckled, his voice carrying a strange resonance. Almost like a faint edge of static? How odd. One of the surgeons briefly entered her point of view, leaning over her. She felt some of the pressure lessen along her left side, and her vision swam. Another voice, sharper, colder, emanated from the surgeon before her. "This is treachery, Genesis. You stole them. Somehow, I doubt it was your goal to-" An interruption by the other voice, "Start over? Save what people I could? Of course. But don't you dare doubt me; I am Decepticon. What would that name be worth, if you had all perished on Cybertron? The war wasn't going well."

"No," the second voice interjected. "And it went even worse after you left. Cybertron is dead."

Silence, knife-edged, and cold as ice, filled the air. She felt an echo of it in her veins. Cybertron. That word was important to her. A name. A place. She remembered it, vaguely. It struck a chord of familiarity somewhere inside of her.

"Dead?" The voice was shaken, ragged, and the metallic quality seemed intensified.
"Dead. Roughly a thousand metacycles ago. We've been scouring space, and every world we find, for fragments of the AllSpark. We believe we have traced some of them here. To this world. And only to find you, here, with," He gestured at the proto-forms, "These."
His voice was sharp with alarm, "What happened, Megatron? How did our home die?"

"We lost, Genesis. We all lost." His voice echoed with undirected rage, and the sorrow of loss. "Cybertron is dead, but, it would seem, you are not. Come with us. These…" He gave the nearest Proto-form a derisive look, "Malformed children will be left behind. They are not fit to fight."

The other voice was sharp, protective, "I'm not leaving them to die, Megatron. They are growing stronger. Some of them are recovering more rapidly than others, but-"
"Good," Megatron interrupted. "Then pick the strongest, and we will go. Cull the weak."

One by one, Genesis inspected each of them, checking their vitals, inspecting their exoskeletal, primitive forms. One by one, he reluctantly deactivated those unfit, choosing eight of the strongest, the most fit - And Oracle, the weakest of them, her proto-form's slender struts and plates poorly developed, the metal imperfectly formed in other areas. Inside of her, her spark shone brightly. He reached out, and lightly closed the casing, hiding the spark's true glow, and took the nine proto-form berths toward Megatron. He inspected each of them in turn, seemingly satisfied - Until he came to Oracle. He derisively reached to pull her spark, his face a scowl. She became vaguely aware of eight other patients, lined up beside her. Each of their bodies were strange, bulky beneath the surgical sheet covering them, oddly squared and angled.

The one identified as Genesis stepped in front of her, deflecting Megatron's reaching hand, with his own. His voice was low, and sharp. "If you want them, you take all of them. I'll not let that one go."
"Going soft, are we, Genesis? Becoming too attached to your little sparklings?"
"No," he shook his head, slowly. "This one is a debt owed. Give her time. If she's still not fit by the time they awaken, you can kill her; But not until then."

Megatron gave a cold, metallic chuckle, and a derisive nod. "Of course, Genesis. A debt owed is binding, after all."
Genesis frowned, deeply, his body tense, as if coiled to spring. Finally, he gave a resigned nod, "It is."
"Good." The voice was smiling, now. "I'm glad we're clear on this. Load them onto the ship, Genesis. We'll speak more, later."

Her surgical bed began to move,, slowly, the rocking motion lulling her eyes closed. She felt the pressure leaving her body. Her stomach felt like it rose up inside of her, almost as if she were falling.

Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up, sharply. She was staring out the window of an airplane. Distantly, out the window, was the broad expanse of Lake Pontchartrain, with the glittering lights of New Orleans perched all along its' southern shore.Home. She smiled, faintly, and stretched, thinking how happy she was, to be coming home. She had been honorably discharged from the Marines barely two weeks prior. Finally, she was coming home. Everything had been sorted out - Plane tickets bought, a pickup arranged, first month's rent paid on her new apartment, sparse furniture moved in. She leaned back against her seat, as the felt the plane decelerating. The hiss and tremble of air coursing over the wings, the jarring impact of landing gear on the runway. The plane yanked up to a halt, as the brakes fully deployed, the engines, in reverse, slowly pulling the massive hulk of an aircraft from flight speeds. She sat forward, looking out the window, at the sluggish progress of the Mississippi. The murky brown waters crawled along, water seeming to move backward, compared to the progress of the airplane racing down the runway.

She gathered her bags, and stepped off, still wearing her dress blues, the shining bars of her various ribbons shining at her left breast. Silver star medal, bronze star medal, purple heart, and a few other awards she had received during her two tours of duty, overseas. In deference, many in the crowds parted for her passage, encouraging and respectful nods and smiles coming from a few, solemn nods from others, who also bore the military look. She couldn't stop smiling. All she could think of is that she was finally coming home. A smiling porter assisted her in placing her bags onto the cart, as she clumsily attempted to help him, with her left arm in a heavy cast and sling. She made polite conversation with the porter, as they approached the front of the terminal. Outside, her mother and father leaned up against their car, their smiles bright, though their eyes widened as they took in the cast. She walked toward them, her steps quick, and her parents stepped forward to meet her. She looked into her mother's smiling eyes, a bright, honey brown, so much like the eyes of her grandmother -

The eyes that stared out from the photograph, perched atop the mahogany casket. She felt tears flooding her vision, though she bit them back, hands clasped firmly behind her back. She reached out, and touched her fingertips, just lightly, across the lacquered surface of the casket. She wore her dress blues, once more, with her white dress gloves. She felt the weight of the medals she wore at her right breast; Nowhere near as heavy as the molten lead she felt inside of her heart. She took a slow, shaking breath, and bowed her head, just for a moment; Calming, purifying, steadying. She caught the faint scent of her grandmother's perfume, hanging in the air, just faintly touching at the back of her throat. She turned, and placed her gloved hands on the sides of the podium, gripping it, for support. "My grandmother and I were very close, in the time before I left for my tour of duty. She taught me many things about life… How to laugh at life, how to cry when I needed to, and how to keep on going when things were at their worst. She showed me beauty in life; And that, sometimes, even when life is most painful, it can be the most beautiful. She taught me this: It is not the end of the journey that makes life worth living. It's the journey itself. That's what makes us who we are."

Her own words echoed in her head, as she looked down at the small object in her palm. It shone like a caged star. The droning voice of the lawyer barely registered, as she gazed down at her portion of the inheritance. Her grandmother had been a woman of few possessions, but every single one of them was its' own store of memories. She was fascinated by the rainbow glow that seemed to shimmer from its' depths; A kind of power that made the hairs on her arms stand on end, beneath her formal clothes. She stroked a finger along its' jeweled surface, canting her head, seeing a million different colors from a million different angles.

Light twinkled from the odd necklace that her grandmother had left her, hanging from the rearview mirror, in front of her. She smiled, at the memory, and touched it.

She drove, aimlessly, through the countryside. News reports burbled in the background, just below the level of conscious hearing, about the coming hurricane. Katrina, they had named it. It seemed like most others, and people were cautioned to move to higher ground until the hurricane passed. Many residents chose not to, intending to weather out this storm as they had countless others. She had gathered up her few belongings, and simply started driving. She had money, time, and nowhere in particular to go. Her connections to this place were few, but ran deeply; But she felt it was time for her to move on.

She looked at the road signs, but couldn't seem to figure out where she was. That didn't bother her too much, though. Hunger had ceased to be an interest to her. She heard the preliminary reports of the impact of Katrina, which had made landfall two days before. Something inside of her was heavy, and cold. She simply kept her hands on the wheel, and drove. She had no idea where the road would take her, but she was unwilling to leave it. It seemed the only constant thing in her life. The road rose up the side of a mountain, winding through the higher passes, before it would come out near the desert. She'd had more than a lifetime of desert, in her time overseas, but she intended to cross it as quickly as possible, and find out what life was like on the other side of it.

However, as she came around a sharp corner, the road appeared blocked. The slammed on the brakes, her high-lights illuminating a sleek, metallic shape, painted in silvers and grays. It had the distinct, streamlined cut of a military vehicle. Puzzled, she stepped from her car, reaching instinctively for the weapon she knew was no longer there.

Eyes appeared, a bright, electric red, each of them easily the size of a chair. A sharp, metallic voice, oddly familiar, greeted her. "I am Genesis. You possess something I want." His gaze moved to the trinket hanging from her mirror, which began to glow with a sharp, rainbow brilliance, brighter than she had ever seen it, before. She pulled it from the mirror, and clutched it to her. "What are you!?" She cried, her fist wrapping tightly around the necklace; Light shone between her fingers as if she held a piece of a star within her hand.

"I am a friend, Alexandria of Earth. Come with me." A hand extended from the darkness, silver and black, easily the size of her car. "I knew your grandmother well. She spoke highly of you."

She swallowed her fear, and took an instinctive step forward; Defiant. She began moving toward his open hand, her face rigid with pride and courage. She set foot upon his metal palm, and he rose her up, drawing her close to his face, where he inspected her, carefully.
His words, however, were strange. "Wake up, Oracle. Wake up. It is time."
She looked back at him, puzzled, and staggered backward, as she felt a surge of new sensations pulsing through her body. Cold, still air. The metallic scent of air scrubbers. The low, background thrum of electronics, power coursing through the air. "I am awake!"
"Wake up, Oracle."
She surged forward, gasping for a breath that wouldn't come, and felt metal twist beneath her grip. She looked down, shocked, at a massive, metallic arm where her own arm should be. She clutched the twisted edge of her berth, her eyes wide. She looked down at her body, the exoskeletal struts and plates, and the rainbow brilliance surging from her chest. She looked up at Genesis, in shock, her body frozen, her mind fighting the impossible sights, the impossible sensations.

Behind him rose a massive shape, twin red eyes glowing beneath a shadowy crown. The second voice from her dream spoke, cold, harsh, metallic, "It seems it lives after all, Genesis. Good work; You said it was called Oracle? Unit Oracle, you are now a Decepticon; And that means you belong to me."