Autobot prisoner Number 618131 sat quietly obedient in the middle of his prison cell. His world stood still, rotating with the rhythms of the light fixture. He thought nothing of his past. He remembered nothing further than the moment he entered the cell. He sat in one place for hours, knowing neither day nor the correct time. Sometimes he'd shut down if but to pass on the hours of inactivity. He faintly recalled leaving the cell for hours, sometimes long days at a time. But Number 618131 never called to mind where he'd been or why. Not that it mattered. Because frankly, nothing mattered; not even his useless existence.
Yet, far in the most distant and remote corners of his mind, Autobot envisioned moments of horror and suffering wrought by the inexplicable. Flashes of screaming, blood splattered creatures clamored in his dreams. 618131 never had answers. He knew the rules that dominated life in The Center: obey, ask no questions, tempt no fate.
But questions hung in the air as tangible as the solid, dreary walls around him. 618131 never voiced his questions. Doing so invited scathing punishment. Where did he come from? Why was he here? Who were the other people around him? Why did the Head Director Major-general Shockwave pay him such particular attention?
And why was Autobot 618131 considered an abomination? If that truly be the case, why do they let him continue to function?
A quiet rumble muttered through his walls. His only source of light flickered. Really? Has that ever happened before?
He could not say because he did not remember.
Klaxon alarms cried through the corridor outside his cell. The intercom blared for all personnel to abandon the complex. Another distant roll of thunderous booms vibrated throughout The Center. Number 618131 lifted his attention toward the ceiling and listened to everything else around him. Centurion cyberdogs snarled and howled. Guards dashed back and forth. Prisoners in other cells screamed and threw themselves against their walls. The distant thunder encroached closer; The Center shook as though pelted with giant fists.
Then the power snapped off and submerged everyone in darkness. Guards, workers and captives clamored in a frenzied panic until, thankfully, the emergency lights kicked on. But it was too late to save one person's sanity. The unmistakable repetitive clap of a rail gun peppered the hall with short, explosive rounds. Howls and pleas shrieked and died as the gunner fired into the world of the near-dark. The walls and floor trembled and the corridor echoed with the terrible din of detonation.
Someone outside 618131's cell bellowed a string of obscenities. A single shot silenced him for good.
The smell of death filled the air and mingled with the sharp, toxic smell of burning metal. The irritating klaxon alarms blared continuously. One person then several others ran past 618131'S prison. Not once did they inquire of his status. Not that it mattered. As long as he stayed still, now focusing on the dead light, everything will remain safe until the Director called for him.
Moments ticked away, counted by the alarm as it squawked like a demonic bird. A small group of escapees picked their way down the damaged, body-filled corridor. 618131 heard their clatter as they checked each cell and weapon left by dead guards.
"Found him!" the voice belonged to a female. The next half moment, she knelt beside him and laid a kind hand on his shoulder. "Hey, there, my friend," she said gently. "Come along. This chance won't happen again."
A masculine voice sounded from the doorway, "Forget him, Ibex! He won't help himself!"
But the alien lady in the long white coat ignored her companion. "You don't have to do what they tell you to do anymore. Please come with us and let me help you. I can help you remember-"
"I'll leave your aft here, Ibex, if you don't come with use NOW!" the click-chink of a reloaded weapon followed the masculine voice.
"Stuff it, Brix!" the lady retorted. "I'll help whomever I damn well please and I'm NOT leaving this one behind!" Ibex's face appeared in Autobot's view. Her wide light brown eyes blinked slowly before they lifted with concern. "Can you hear me? Let me help you up, alright? I know you were told to remain here, but your masters are no longer in control. You can trust me, my friend. Let me help you up."
Not once did she use his numerical name. The Autobot tilted his head, oh so slightly, puzzled by her behavior. He obeyed because that was a rule. He was the number; a face without a name and without a life.
The alien female with long hair, Ibex, adjusted a backpack over her left shoulder. She guided him out the cell and when he paused, she encouraged him by linking their hands. They stepped over and around battered and blasted bodies. Most of the dead consisted of prisoners. Two were of Center staff. Three guards lay lumped together minus hands and heads. A control panel on the right snapped and spewed a shower of sparks. Both Ibex and Autobot both startled at the popping, hissing sound. It motivated them to hasten their departure.
They stepped through a smoldering gap in the wall and 618131 saw the outside for the first time since he could remember. But rather than a world constructed of buildings and populated with people going to and from places, Autobot found the world wrought with the wounds of destruction. Those buildings towering along the right smoked with the colorful flames of plasma fire. Their infrastructure protruded like broken bones.
Smoke, ash and toxic gasses fogged the atmosphere. Tiny metal filaments and fragments settled on the world like rain. At every angle, Ibex and 618131 spotted desperate prisoners climbing over one another to escape the great walls. Two stories down, slaves and hostages, victims of torment and brutal science experiments flooded the courtyard in waves of ragged, battered bodies. In the deeper pit below, scientists, taskmasters and torture experts, who once enjoyed the screams of agony and sorrow, now made the sounds themselves.
A giant chunk of glowing meteor blazed through the air and slammed into the concentration camp with the force of a megaton blast. It blew an entire section out the science and research facility. A plume of fire, plasma and chunks rocketed into the air and shed deadly light upon the immediate area. Ibex and her companion led Autobot down the walkway, down an emergency stairwell and into a secondary courtyard.
A stray fragment of meteor fizzed from the destructive cloud of flames and slammed into two unfortunate prisoners.
Autobot considered them lucky; they no longer suffered. Never again would they scream or beg for mercy or long for freedom and internal peace.
Ibex pulled at his hand and they raced from the scene. They climbed up a steep ramp. Brix shot two Center personnel as they neared a triple-layered security door. Brix's tough metallic exterior shifted in density and he busted the door with horrific force. The barrier caved in like glass and the escapees crunched over the metal shards. Klaxon alarms squalled tirelessly while emergency lighting flickered off and on.
"FREEZE! I'll drop you where you stand!" the poor lighting illuminated the bare outlines of a femme holding a rail gun. Her blue optics flared brightly.
"It's us, Silica," Brix declared. "We had to go back and find one more prisoner-"
"Hurry!" Silica ordered. "This way!" They followed her to the right into a dim service tunnel as several more meteor missiles pummeled the courtyard. Autobot heard bombs and screams in the far distance. The cries, however, were not of torment, frustration or despair. Fear caked the voices of the dying. 618131 internally mourned for those lost to destruction. He reminded himself that they were the lucky ones.
The narrow tunnel ended onto a landing pad overlooking the Center. Ibex tugged as Autobot froze, transfixed by the destruction encroaching their location. Another flight of steps waited for them but Autobot could not tear his optics from the flames. "We cannot stay!" the scientist insisted. Her white coat billowed lightly in the warm wind. "Please," she begged him, "please come with us!" She reflected 618131's own confused expression.
"Dammit, Ibex," Brix shouted, "LEAVE HIM and let's GO!" He shot them a dirty look and ran up the stairs.
"No!" the alien lady objected, "dammit, Brix, you come down here and help me!" She struggled to move 618131 again. He studied her desperate expression and wondered why she insisted he follow. Who gave them clearance to leave? Ibex laid a trembling hand alongside his face. "We're leaving. Don't you want to be free?"
Brix secured Autobot's right arm across his shoulder, half dragged 618131 up the shallow steps and onboard the small craft. Ibex tapped after as a small meteor struck a nearby tower. The whine of bending metal rang loud and sad as the alien scientist boarded the ship and yanked the hatch closed. While Brix, two other ex-prisoners and a doctor strapped themselves to chairs, Silica struck up engines and the shuttle shuddered. Ibex slipped off her heavy backpack, settled in a padded chair and tried to coax Autobot to take the seat beside her. But 618131 knew his place among superiors and sat on the floor in the far back corner. The ship roared under him, lifted slightly and shot off.
Autobot's laser core vibrated hard. What if they were caught? Certainly Director Shockwave did not authorize use of the shuttle by prisoners! Evil memories flashed bright and swift through Autobot's meta processor. He recalled one tormentor who made him watch while several helpless creatures lost their heads one by one. 618131 held his head as though it were about to burst. Memories always hurt and he tried not to think of anything but of the moment. He held his aching head until the agonizing memory subsided. The seizure left him exhausted and disoriented.
The ship passed through space with the ease of a glitch mouse through ancient circuitry. Autobot slipped in and out of shutdown, glued to his choice of local in spite of Ibex's numerous attempts to coax him out. At one point she left the safety harness of her seat and knelt before the robot prisoner. From her backpack the scientist produced a glowing morsel of energon. She laid it in Autobot's hand and encouraged him to take it. "I know it's not much now, my friend. But soon we'll find a good place where we can get help for you."
Brix huffed and crossed his thick metal arms. "You shouldn't feed the zoo animals, Ibex. Waste of time."
"Mind your own business, Brix!" the scientist shot back. "I didn't ask for your damn permission!"
Proximity alarms blared through the ship; sonic torture. Autobot hunched over, taking punishment as he always had: in expressionless silence.
Voices in panic mode rode above the horrible sound. 618131 covertly watched just under the rim of his helm as Ibex jumped to her feet and struck a heated argument with Brix. Their words batted back and forth, their mouths snarled with heat. Brix's hands swung out, fingers jabbed the alien doctor. Ibex pointed at Autobot. The other nameless doctor unbuckled her seatbelt, stripped off her lab coat and punched Brix.
Grateful for the reprieve, Ibex returned to 168131 and crouched closely before him. She took his hands between her own gentle organic fingers and stared at him with earnest, large eyes. "I don't want you to listen to a thing that neo-plisak said. I'm here to help you. I never meant to hurt you." Autobot did not understand what was going on. Although he regarded Ibex with confusion, he nodded to affirm he heard what she said.
"They've got us targeted!" Silica called from the ship's controls. Several other alarms chirped and bleeped before the whole shuttle dipped to one side and shuddered.
"We're hit!" The ship's engine emitted a loud, throaty rumble that drowned Silica's other words.
Ibex lost her footing, tumbled left and hit the bulkhead. As the pilot straightened the ship, Ibex crawled across the floor and grabbed her backpack like a life preserve. She returned to Autobot's corner and leaned close so 618131 could hear her speak: "Your name is Optimus Prime!" she shouted over the screams of a dying engine. "You're the Autobot leader! Seventy-three years ago, you were brought to The Center... " The engines heated with the screams of a banshee. Ibex's voice was lost to the momentary sound. "... and they rerouted your memories. I'm really, really sorry!"
He stared at her completely dumbfounded until the ship bucked and shook. Everyone by navigational control screamed and flattened their bodies on the floor.
The forward shields shattered as the shuttle smashed into the atmosphere on some far off world.
Ibex fell, tossed this way, that and crawled along the floor like an insect. She reached a small panel in the wall glowing with bright markings. Accessing it with a code, she hit an emergency ejection switch. A loud clank ended the scream. Silence filled the ship.
Brix clung to his seat and shot her a look of horror. "What the cracking pashk did you do??!!"
"I ejected the engines so we would not blow up."
"You stupid-"
The shuttle scraped the top of a rocky mountain, jostling everyone inside. Silica shrieked for everyone to brace. Without an engine, the shuttle dropped like a brick, barely cushioned at the expense of thousands of tree tops.
The craft tipped sideways, its front end smashed the ground, bounced so that it flipped to the other side and down a hill. It toppled on its rooftop, slammed into a dell, swung once, tipped and plunged into a canyon where it crushed several more trees before it came to a stop, pinned in by several huge trunks about its very diameter in size.
All lay quiet.
***************************

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS
*system error*
REROUTING POWER OUTPUT.
POWER LEVEL: 78.39%
DAMAGE ESTIMATE: 44.60%
RUNNING SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS
*system error*
OXYGEN INTAKE: 92%
REPAIR SYSTEMS STATUS:
*offline*
SCANNERS: 82.9%
VISUAL INPUT: 28.02%
AUDIO INPUT: 94.06%^
TACTILE INPUT: 99.02%
SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC
*system error*
*******************
Autobot woke with cranial fragmentation and severe pain in his left arm. Static interfered with his visual input and he softly cursed at the malfunctioning systems diagnostics.
618131 remained where his body fell. He shut off his useless optical sensors and lay still, listening to the surroundings.
Drip.
Plip.
Drip.
Plip.
He did not recognize the sound; possibly fluids from the ship. The bitter scent of smouldering metal wafted lightly thought the air. A sweet and wild smell came and left. Smoke choked everything else and soon dominated the cabin's air.
Bit by bit, Autobot's darkened visual input forced him to fall offline. Perhaps his internal repair systems might kick in.
***********************
A chittering sounded from nowhere, squeaking like a broken spring.
Autobot's internal chronometer reported he'd been offline for six hours, thirteen point nine minutes. His damaged optic sensors offered no help. Static and snow blocked his view of the world. More unsettling than his present blindness was the lack of movement or voices around him. 618131 heard nothing of or from his companions since the crash. He feared the worst and hoped he was wrong. But if not, he counted them fortunate; they no longer suffered. That, however, was problematic. If he were the lone survivor, what was he supposed to do?
Would his superiors come to collect him? Of, if they searched for him at all, would they simply torture him to death? Wait. What did Ibex tell him?
He had a name...
He had a name!
What did that mean? Did he have another life before residency at The Center? 618131 held onto that thought and replayed something else Ibex said before the crash: his memories had been rerouted.
Disturbing.
Distressing.
Difficult. Forbidden.
Don't show it, either.
Wait. Not at The Center.
Right! Proceed.
Ibex said he had a name, It wasn't Autobot or 618131 but Optimus Prime.
And there was something more, wasn't there?
Plink.
Plink.
Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink.
The soothing sound patterned outside like falling water in a cleansing room. It grew louder and louder until it tap-danced on the shuttle's rooftop.
Cheek! Cheek! Cheek!
Cheek! Cheek! Cheek!
618131 could not recognize or place the sound. The plinking sound reduced to an occasional drip, like a shower turned on then off. But here the pattern sounded natural and beautiful. 618131-Optimus Prime-wanted to see the world around him. He activated his optic sensors again. Horrible static. Images and colors smeared and tried to upset his equilibrium. But it gave him a vague notion of the world around him.
It was not comforting, however. The ship's control panel lay in pieces; a growth of alien matter replaced the panel and the whole front section of the ship.
Brix lay in a very awkward position, his neck obviously snapped. Beside him lay an unnamed member of their group. In spite of his limited visual input, Autobot-Optimus realized his companions all died instantly. The only reason he survived was that he sat at the shuttle's far back corner.
His deceased companions were fortunate; he was completely alone.
Major-General Shockwave's voice echoed within Autobot's memory: "Inconsequential. Solitude is a state of mind." The Autobot learned to deal with it. One sad fact, however: they lost their lives for a few moments of precious freedom.
It wasn't fair.
618131-Optimus remained in the same position from hours to hour, unable to decide whether or not he should get up. Those same long, silent hours stretched into two Cybertronian days. The static in his sensors kept him informed between hours of dark and light. In spite of the length of time, Autobot came no closer to either a decision or an answer. He thought of his life at the Center. By now he would have fought and won several rounds in the arena. By now he would have counted the listed dead in double-digits. But nothing, nothing filled his time, not so much as the screams of the tortured. And if he no longer resided at the Center, it meant he'd have to find new purpose, something entirely his own.
Why was he the only to survive? He did nothing to deserve it, especially since he contributed nothing to their escape. Why was it important to Ibex that he knew his name? Major-General Shockwave called him ‘Autobot' and/or 168131. Ibex said he was the leader of the Autobot... s...
So he was an Autobot and there were others like himself, correct? What else?
She said his memories were rerouted.
Why? And more importantly, how often?
Optimus finally moved to sit upright. Pain grated through his left arm and he bowed over a moment, demanding controlled reaction.
Stop. Just stop. He never had a right to feel; not when they made him watch children die horribly. He never suffered like they did. He had no right to complain. And don't scream, ether because it can't hurt that badly. His pain was never worse than those who suffered before his optics and died.
Clambering to his knees required greater effort and pain tolerance than Optimus anticipated. His left leg was tangled with someone else's body. Part of a caved-in partition jammed the body so that Optimus had to break the poor alien's bones to retrieve his twisted leg.
Weak and traumatized, it took Autobot several languid attempts before freeing himself. Once cleared, he navigated his large frame around wreckage and puddles of liquid. He shut his optics off more than once because he found his balance worked better when he did not try to judge distance based on less than six inches.
What now? And why?
Optimus needed more information; the whys and hows and whose. For now, he'd have to invent a reason not to simply shut down and terminate alongside the rest of the escapees. Sitting up felt better than laying in a tangle of bodies and debris. The alien sounds around him were vastly different from the vibration of energo-chains; from the shuffling feet of other prisoners, from the hum of vibro-knives, the screams of slaves, the scoffing of heartless sentinel guards.
Optimus never left Cybertron before. He knew of other worlds-there had to be, since many prisoners and Shockwave's staff were not mechanical in nature.
His superiors called some of them ‘squishies'.
An idea struck him: wasn't there a repair kit sometimes onboard even on the small shuttles? And why hadn't he thought about just switching to thermal vision?
Optimus inwardly sighed. All the small, simple things were going to be stupidly difficult. Did he really want to struggle to stay alive? Without answering himself, he switched visual capacities.
The world at large glared in cold greens and blues. A planetary light source heated part of the shuttle, blessing that side with warm orange and muted yellow colors. The thermoscan failed to offer detail. Colder temperatures faded into the shuttle and gave Autobot bare shapes to go by.
618131-Optimus- crawled half blindly through the deepening shadows. He clumsily fell over a seat and landed on the organic body of another alien passenger. A wet, sticky residue painted Optimus' right arm and he couldn't decide whether to apologize or stay silent. No one, taskmaster, tormentor or the director stood nearby to tell him what he should do.
The shuttle shifted under Autobot's movement. Metal creaked and groaned above and Optimus froze, blind and uncertain. Would the shuttle break into pieces and send him into a final rest?
When silence hung in the air long enough, Optimus continued to crawl forward toward the navigation control. He reached no more than three feet before another obstacle resolutely blocked his path.
Optimus drew his knees close and pushed against the obstacle. He pushed and shoved until the unknown object bent forward then snapped back.
WHACK!! It slammed into Autobot and the movement caused the shuttle to tip port-side. The squeak-creak of metal groaned as it tore asunder and struck Optimus' right side. He landed hard, his fall broken by someone else's body. A smaller object hit his helm and Autobot lay perfectly still. His mind reeled with an emerging memory:
One blow. Another. Another. Another.
"Do I have our attention, Autobot? You will not move. You will not speak. You will do nothing but exist until I say otherwise. You are not a person, but an object. I own you, Autobot. Now, let's play a game."
Major-General Shockwave liked to play games. He kept an inventory of five to nine ‘games; each chalk full of violence and brutality. Some games included beasts from other planets, others involved less drastic torture. All of them ended the same: someone always died. This one, game Number Four, was ‘guess this mess.' Autobot had to guess what was in the box before Shockwave ordered it destroyed.
The trigger wasn't always that Autobot guessed wrong, or missed a detail, but that he never showed emotion during the sessions.
Major-General Shockwave found the lack of reaction annoying and he always called 618131 arrogant and belligerent because he refused to beg for mercy, even when it meant someone else's life.
Again, the dead were fortunate.
They always hit Autobot with the flimsy, organic box. It never hurt. It could never hurt. But 618131's spark ached for days because the person or creature was beaten to a bloody pulp.
And Autobot was always responsible for it; his fault people always died in his stead. After the second or third blow the victim usually, mercifully, died.
Usually.

SYSTEMS DIAGNOSTICS
*system error*
He awoke from the miserable flashback. His processors ached from damage and suppressed grief. Why should he bother to struggle?
Autobot lay and listened to a chortle-peep, peep, chortle. The sound soothed his frustration and piqued his curiosity. What made the song? Why? Optimus decided the answer to his question was worth the struggle to free himself.
Rather than pushing against the obstacle, Autobot probed his way around it. He unintentionally crawled over his deceased companions and chose to silently apologize to them. Not that they heard, but that Optimus respected their fight and flight for freedom.
Once free of the indistinguishable obstacle, Optimus raised his damaged optics toward the bow. Thermo-vision gave him enough detail to differentiate between the ship and invading organic growth. The growth made him think of plantobots and metal-elastic vines. He enjoyed their free and unusual color.
With the shuttle's front section missing, Autobot glimpsed at the world outside.
Sonic notes drifted through the air in an alien sonnet. A cool white dwarf star blessed the atmosphere with gentle warmth. Plant life outside the shuttle perked while tiny life forms, many with more than four legs, bounced, flitted and crept through the gaping tears in the ship's hull.
Autobot watched the multi-legged creatures, deeply fascinated. Where were they going? There seemed to be no purpose to their patterns of movement-or choices.
To his delight, Optimus spotted another creature land nearby. Its oblong body shed deep, rich colors. Its huge gossamer wings delicately glimmered in the morning sun. As Optimus observed further, he realized the tiny life form was not totally organic. Its legs glinted cold and dark in the sun. Shifting his optic sensors, Optimus realized the creature was of silicon-titanium in nature. How was that possible? Could titanium-based life forms co-exist on an organic world? And if so, what was their power source?
The winged life form rubbed its two front legs together. It chewed its right forefoot before wiping its right optical sensor-oh, it was cleaning itself! Optimus marveled at the intricacy of its function and programing. He'd seen nanites at work, but they usually performed according to a preplanned program. This creature performed several tasks without waiting further instructions. This was life.
It took flight, zipping between great trees and out of sight. Such a privilege to be visited by another life form! Optimus considered the moment worth the difficulty to climb out of the wreckage.
The moment ended and Optimus examined the crumpled front bow. It spoke clearly of his situation: helpless and hopeless. Nothing remained of navigation or communications. As he stood there, unable to make a decision, the planet's sun rose and peeked into the shuttle. A ray of light hit a squared object off the nearby wall near communications. Text on the box clearly read "EMERGENCIES" in Decepticon.
That must be the repair kit, or so Optimus hoped. Decepticons seldom admitted damage before their command, but even severely injured soldiers have enough value to keep them in working condition.
The Autobot pushed to his feet; his joints complained of stiffness and they grinded painfully.
His left arm hung uselessly at his side and refused to obey his internal commands. Optimus failed to recall what happened to it. He tried to move his hand and fingers. Strangely enough, his hand obeyed; present and accounted for. But shoulder to elbow offered no cooperation.
With one hand, he unlatched the box kit from its secure place. He tugged the handle and almost dropped it. The kit, stashed in a larger box, weighed more than he anticipated. It yanked his arm at the shoulder and he winced.
The shuttle, jumbled with bodies and strewn with damaged debris, offered no space for him and the open repair kit. The only other option left to 618131 stood outside the confines and safety of the shuttle. He froze while his head, ransacked through years of abuse and reprogramming, struggled to think for itself. No one gave him permission to leave the shuttle. Neither was there anyone left alive to grant him said permission. Autobot gazed at the cold corpses around him. A sour scent drifted from one of them. Optimus chose to give himself permission to leave the shuttle. After all, who was going to punish him?
Stepping over two mangled bodies, Optimus reached to unlock the hatch and found it jammed. Optimus pushed against it. No go. He pounded, slammed and finally kicked it. The hatch held steadfast, determined to make him as much a casualty of the crash as his companions. Optimus stared at it as though his optics alone might make it compliant to his wishes. A world of freedom existed on the other side of the door. Now that Autobot realized he no longer answered to interrogators, tormentors or the director, he wanted that reality.
Maybe a gun will help. He searched the bodies for a weapon and would have used Brix's when he spotted one hidden under the communication consol. Decepticons always came prepared. In case of traitor, blast head, Optimus thought grimly.
He knew most Decepticon weapon designs and did not need visuals to mark a correct setting. Three well-placed blasts brought the hatch down and the walkway lowered on its own.
First step on the plank unnerved him. Tall organic structures surrounded the ship... trees, most likely. They looked like the aluminum, selenium trees on Cybertron. The ‘trees' branched off and little leaf-like flags fluttered in the wind. The shuttle landed in an organic forest. Was it possible they were on an organic planet?
First step off the plank gave Autobot another surprise: his feet slightly sank and dry organic matter crumpled under his footing. Setting the repair kit down, Optimus half-knelt. He winced at his grinding gears and touched the organic matter. Flat and crispy, it made an odd crinkling noise between his fingers.
As much as this fascinated him, Optimus thought it better with improved optical vision. a wide body of water lay twelve yards from the ship. It welcomed visitors with a mystical shimmering blessed by sunlight.
A strange form of plant life carpeted the ground all around the water. Soft and cool, Optimus settled on it with the lake stretched before him.
He set the repair kit down and realized, rather abruptly, the kit might be of little to no use. He was an Autobot, not a Decepticon. What idiot assumed compatibility between Decepticon and Autobot technology? 168131 sat immobile for a long stretch of time, wondering how or why he came this far. Was he so arrogant as to assume survival?
Optimus fingered the box with a heavy heart. Suppose he did survive, what then? He had no idea how far they traveled, what planet they landed on... he'd been held prisoner by Shockwave for such a long time, he did not know the year or day. And to make the situation bleaker, the shuttle's landing destroyed communications. Rescue was completely out of the question.
And if he had friends, Autobot did not think he'd know them if they arrived and introduced themselves.
His finger brushed against the box's magnetic lock and accidently opened the kit. The lid slid open and out folded two compartments neatly arranged above the bottom.
"System diagnostic." Optimus whispered. His own words surprised him, booming in his audios as though a guardian robot spoke them.
The sun warmed the kit's contents so that Optimus found it easier to read labels.
An external systems diagnostics tool caught his attention. Relief hit him first then skepticism. The diagnostics was for Decepticon design. Optimus chose to try it anyway. The worst to happen was if it blew up, it'd take him with it.
He connected it to his left wrist and the miniature LCD screen scrolled madly. Two lights flashed indicating he was of Autobot design.
A holographic display lit up but Optimus could not see it. He waited, staring at the two flashing lights. He expected no miracles. After all, he was of little significance and no one knew where he was. Yet, perhaps the tool could give him enough information to solve the near-blindness problem.
The afternoon sun's gentle warmth lulled Optimus into a comfortable, cozy sensation. He dozed enough to hear Dreadnaught's voice echo through his head. The Upper Level Interrogation officer screamed at him. The edges of his dreams twisted with the faces of the dead.
"Complete." The scanner's minuscule voice dragged Autobot back to the present. "Affixing repair."
Optimus' optics flashed on as a tingling sensation pricked his left arm, around his left audio sensor and across his optics.
"Complete."
Did it work? Did it repair his vision? It could not have; he was an Autobot.
Optimus shut his optics off, waited a moment then reset all controls. The world finally opened to him in full detail; not just hot and cold shapes, but an environment the likes of which he'd never seen-all in glorious black and white. The diagnostics tool, made for Decepticon physiology had given him sight, but left Optimus color blind.
He decided not to be disappointed; it could have been far, far worse.
A bizarre screaming, croaking echoed from the still lake. Optimus took two glances, unsure of his optics. A winged creature with an incredible wingspan dropped from the sky and glided just precious feet above the water. Its long beak opened and scooped up an oblong life form with a long sweeping tail and antennae as long as its body.
The flier lifted from the lake and shot over Optimus' head, providing full view of its breadth. Autobot shuddered in awe. The creature's wingspan spread one and a half times his height.
Optimus' core froze. He choked, turned and visually tracked the great creature until it disappeared over the forest. Its wings whipped the air and the branches swayed back and forth like fighters in the arena.
No faces. Optimus recalled no faces. The clash of the sword, the spew of the laser rifle and the unending screams of the tormented always laced the edges of his consciousness. A small voice, soft as silk, wove through and around the nightmare: "Your name is Optimus Prime. You're the Autobot leader! Seventy-three years ago you were brought to the Center... they rerouted your memories."
And Optimus wondered how many times his memories had been rerouted; did that mean life at the Center was not the norm? Did that mean he had a life on the outside? When? Who the Pitt was he?
The sun diminished past the horizon and tiny stars dotted a darkened sky. The air chilled and the organic carpet under and around him acquired a damp feel. Optimus closed and locked the repair kit. He raised his optics into the star-lit sky. Freedom came to him. Fear, pain, sadness and shame lost their hold. But Autobot did not know what to do with his new-found life. Lulled by the gentle clicking, cricketing of alien music, 618131 pondered the comforting sounds and drifted into shutdown.
********************
Sonic notes roused Autobot from sleep. He activated visuals and greeted a soft grey, predawn sky. Strange noises emerged from every direction, especially among the tall, graceful trees. Every now and again another winged creature sailed gracefully through the air. Optimus could sit for days and never tire watching them.
He sat up. What the Pitt was he doing here anyway? How many light-dark cycles had he been here?
The same alien sonic whine that woke him from his rest cycle called again. An answering echo returned the call with a sorrowful, beautiful wail.
Imlee? Another baleful melody answered the first with a soft hum that started slow and gradually raised its pitch.
Thump.
Thump, thump, thump.
From behind Autobot, an organic, cool soft scanner sniffed the back of his head and shoulder. It breathed out warmth and rounded him from the left.
Optimus sat perfectly still. Long years of torment disciplined him to remain absolutely still when a scanner moved around him. This scanner, however, came with a solid mass on four stout, sturdy legs and a long face complete with a broad proboscis. A set of moist lip components touched his left shoulder. They nibbled their way down his left arm.
Images of an energo-axe flashed across his optics, bright, hot and terribly sharp. He lifted his right hand to shield himself from something that was not there.
The creature beside him took half a step back. A gentle whine wavered softly through the air and the axe-image faded. Shaking, he stared at the silent world until he calmed.
No dark, filthy prisons. No would-be executioner. No merciless interrogation officer. The only screaming Optimus heard were of raw memory images.
The long-faced creature gently nudged Optimus' shoulder, forcing the Autobot's attention from those ugly memories.
Autobot turned wholly to face the planet's native life form. Long, ultra-fine organic strands naturally draped from atop its long neck. Its exostructure consisted of short, fuzzy material and Optimus thought it unnaturally vulnerable to attack.
A large grey eye blinked at him and the Autobot did not know how to respond to the signal.
"Hello," he said softly.
"Mmmm?" the sound lilted in the Autobot's audios.
The eye kept staring. "I can't speak your language," Optimus said, a little nervous. "I don't know anything about your world. Do you have a name?" His own question made him realize he had more than a name; he had a title: Prime. Even he, an object in the eyes of the Center's director, knew "Prime" was a title. Of course it meant nothing here. Everything meant nothing. Shockwave was just a name. The Center was just a place. And he was just the survivor of an escape gone wrong.
How many people died with him?
Should he bother going back to the shuttle?
Optimus could not decide if it was important enough. He solemnly shook his head and stared across the lake as the planet's sun dipped toward the setting horizon.
Night descended cold and damp. Autobot remained still and silent, his new found companion settled next to him. Every now and again, it spoke in soft song-tones as though asking questions. Optimus could not decipher the wordless tones.
He watched the stars overhead. Smaller life forms with legs of all numbers climbed over his form. They tickled and at one point, a very small creature slipped between the joints of his left leg and knee. It would die there, he knew, since he could not take his leg apart to remove the creature.
It's okay because although crushed, the little life form would not suffer.
SYSTEMS DIAGNOSTICS:
*repair system offline*
*scanners: 87.3%
*visual input: 64.9%
*audio input: 94.06%
*tactile input: 99.02%
-Power level: 52%
-Damage estimate: 43.2%

***********************
Imlee?
Imlee?
The song roused Optimus from a brief self-diagnosis. He woke to a dim, silver world. His companion ate the organic carpeting a few feet away while further over the lake, several numbers of its kind piped with the same gentle song.
Imlee?
Wheek!
Imlee?
Wheek. Wheek. Noomarrrr.
The exchange went on for quite a while. Optimus listened for patterns, consonants and sentence structure but the language eluded him.
Plip.
A drop.
More. Tiny. Cool.
A drizzle.
A gentle rain.
Optimus' companion nestled close as sweet-smelling rain washed over their bodies. 618131 thought of the cleansing rooms at the Center. He hated them because at random, the solvent changed to acid. Not everyone always died, but the survivors were never the same. Shockwave liked to play games in the cleaning rooms. He'd often ask 618131 who needed a ‘deep clean' that day. Never satisfied, the sadist frequently chose more than one victim. Their blood and fluids colored the solvent and stained the tiles.
Optimus bowed over, recalling screams and shrieks. Sometimes the victims begged for death as their exostructure melted down the drain. Robots were not the only victims; they were never the only victims.
Mree? Imlee? The companion called softly.
Autobot's mind wandered far away, wondering how to recover his life-long nightmare.

The rain stayed through the following day. It soaked everything and silenced the world. Optimus scanned for the tiny creature that crept into his knee joint earlier. It no longer hid in the crevice. Relieved, he'd not be the cause of its death, Autobot stood and carefully stretched his limbs. Mud caked the backs of his legs and seeped into his joints.
Uncomfortable.
Naturally, neither cloth, brush or spray availed itself for his use. And Optimus did not like to think how the dirt might damage his joints once dried.
He did not think he'd find anything in the shuttle. There, of course, lay the lake, stretching across the meadow under the grey, raining sky. Optimus supposed as long as the lake consisted of H2O and not ACI or H2SO4, (acid), he'd be just fine.
He toed the lake's edge and froze when a multitude of small, rock-like animals scattered before him, hopping on their back legs. Startled by their sudden movement, Optimus thought about apologizing. But the language barrier held his silence.
The water felt and smelled differently than at the Center. The scent of rain, of plants and life forms filled the air with each gentle wave. Optimus liked it because unlike the water at the Center, the lake held no harsh chemicals nor was it recycled from corpses. Autobot waded slowly in and measured the temperature every few feet. He sank to the bottom, immersing his entire form in a near-weightless state. The dark layers of fluid offered a comforting, calming effect Optimus did not anticipate.
Did he do this before?
Before?
Before what?
Before the Center?
What did Ibex tell him? He had a name, a title and a life all before the Center, before Shockwave. Before he lost his memory and himself. What else did Ibex know? How did she know who and what he was?
Or... was she misleading him?
If she was lying, what did she have to gain by it?
Clearly he had massive amounts of missing information; years, if not decades of it. What if-and a big if-there were more answers? Perhaps Ibex brought answers with her in her backpack.
Reluctantly leaving the comfortable water, Optimus tucked away the valuable repair kit where he might find it later. He pushed through the thicket, his weight crunched dead matter and spongy plants. New growth sprouted and colored the forest in fresh light tones. Sweeping vines hugged the shuttle where it sat, motionless as a corpse. Its mangled form confirmed it would never fly again.

He stepped into the shuttle-a bad mistake-and found the bodies of his former companions in decomposition. The stench chased him out at first. The gruesome sight kept the Autobot at bay for fifteen minutes.
Smelt you, Shockwave, he thought. Optimus leaned against an an old rugged tree and buried his face, wishing away memories that re-poisoned his spark. Shockwave, the sadistic, bloodthirsty director spent much of his free time inventing new ways to make others suffer. Even the morgue wasn't a sanctuary for the dead, but a place of greater horror. Shockwave picked the most mutilated corpses and invented ways to reanimate them; gruesome puppet toys for a depraved sociopath.
That was one of the nicer things the Major-General did with them. Who would have though that behind the faceless logic-driven mind lay the spark of a deplorable savage?
Optimus did not want to return to the shuttle. The inside looked better when his optic sensors malfunctioned. Did he really need to go inside? How important were those answers? All the answers in the galaxy would not solve his immediate problem, nor would they change the fact that he survived time in a concentration camp.
Maybe he'd discover something about himself, even if the attempt was a long-shot.
With an extra supply of cool air, Optimus braced himself to confront the ghastly sight of molding corpses and the potential for another flashback.
How long ago did he leave the shuttle? How long did he sit at the bottom of the lake? How long did it take him to decide what to do about himself or the situation? Whatever length of time, it was long enough for the bodies to decompose so that things bred and flourished from the rotted flesh.
Creatures crawled all over the corpses. Several bizarre life forms grew from the back and legs of one nameless escapee; things that softly glowed.
Although fascinated and repulsed, Autobot disliked leaving the bodies naked in the open. Decepticons recycled their dead unless the dead in question was of great significance. But they heartlessly recycled everything else. Shockwave even fed his ‘pets' with dead organic prisoners.
618131 removed Silica's and Brix's empty robotic bodyshells, first. He did not anticipate foul leakage or reflex motility to kick in. Autobot dropped Brix twice, shocked when an icy, foreign hand gripped his arm. He took a short break between the two deceased robots before attempting to remove the disgusting organic corpses.
The first corpse, partially dried, made it easy to remove. The second one, not quite as dry, stuck to the shuttle's flooring and Optimus utilized a metal plate to scrape up the dead alien. The third body, covered in mold and white spiders, produced a putrid, methane-sulfur stench. Autobot mistakenly tugged at the corpse and its left arm and leg ripped off at the joints. A green-grey gaseous cloud filled the shuttle and 618131 abandoned the ship.
Two hours later, when the gas dissipated and Autobot gathered enough strength, he tried to remove the alien's decomposed body much the same way he scraped up the second organic corpse. But scraping released more gas. Autobot considered abandoning the task until he came up with a solution: cover the body with leaves and other organic matter and then scrape the remains.
Optimus hauled the five bodies several yards outside and blanketed them with foliage, twigs and small rocks. At least he gave them a more dignified passing and eased his damaged psyche.
Optimus slumped against the nearest tree, weary, heartsick and a little horrified. He swore to say nothing of his feelings and thoughts to another spark.
Wait. There was no one around to betray his comments to the director. He did not need to fear punishment for what he thought, how he felt or what he said. That filament of comfort encouraged Optimus to face the abominable mess inside the shuttle.
He labored until sunlight vanished from the world. Autobot ransacked the control panels, unbolted the chairs and used scrap metal to partly patch the bow. The shuttle, small but roomy, resembled a one-room house. But tucked at the back lay Ibex's body, shrunken from lack of moisture; a procrastinated task. Although he cleaned the shuttle's hull of mold and other organic growth, Optimus chose to rest outside. Sleeping nearby Ibex's body made him feel invasive; she deserved privacy.
Sunlight activated 618131's consciousness the following morning. Autobot slumped against the familiar rugged tree and listened to a multitude of perky noises. Birds and alien animals chortled and sang, communicating on an unknown level. A pair of fluffy, long-tailed mammals chased one another down a nearby tree. They chattered until one pursued the other up a smaller tree further off. Optimus loved it.
Sadness fell over Optimus when he finally broached the task dealing with Ibex. She rescued him when Optimus did not know he needed help. She was a stranger who treated him with value.
Optimus stared at her backpack but did not touch it. He fingered her jacket, now covered in mold and dirt, stained by dark old blood. Ibex's face, greyed by death, held a peaceful expression. She was fortunate to be dead. If Shockwave ever found the shuttle and all prisoners alive...
A white triangle peeked from inside Ibex's jacket; a tear in the cloth. At first Optimus did not think it appropriate to investigate or take something from anyone, dead or not. Then he decided it did not matter. The dead neither speak nor complain.
Autobot tugged at the white triangle and a flexipad document slipped out of Ibex's jacket. The flexipad, the Cybertronian equivalent of paper, displayed a document scripted in Common Trader's language. Optimus surprised himself. He did not know he could read common trader or Decepticon writ-the language used as the letter head.
As per the agreement between Terminus and Alpha Trion, the sale of twenty-five Autobots, the Prime Unit and two DLL droids shall be exchanged for .>.750,009,269.
The Prime unit will sell for an additional .>.21,004,307 in lieu of Quintesson interest.
Did the ‘Prime unit' refer to him?
Alpha Trion sounded vaguely familiar, yet Autobot failed to recall from where. Did Ibex have any other intriguing documents?
Optimus checked her clothing and found three more flexipads and three photograms; photos inlaid with metal and colored by lasers. A female alien carried a young male child in her arms. Missing my love was etched at the bottom. The second photogram portrayed an alien city floating above an ocean of red water. A list of names marred the photo's backside as though etched with a blade. Shockwave. Hammer. Parish. Starscream. And the last: Alpha Trion. Only Shockwave meant anything to Autobot. A bitter mote of cold stabbed Autobot's spark. Shockwave no longer lorded over him and yet he feared the Decepticon's name. The third photogram, cracked by the accident, displayed a male of Ibex's species.
Optimus buried Ibex in a shallow grave separate from Brix, Silica and the other unnamed escapees. He laid Ibex's photograms like small headstones across the top and wondered if they might have been friends under different circumstances.
After the burial, Optimus remembered Ibex's mysterious backpack and wondered what was so vital that she risked her life to protect it. He returned to the shuttle, now devoid of the dead and barren of life. Optimus picked up the backpack with a sense of reverence. He hoped but did not know what to hope for; or, rather, curious without expectation.
Autobot reclaimed his spot at the quiet lake. His power reserves dwindled; lack of energon numbered his days. How ironic that he, 618131, a face with the ID of a number, survive when other people with names and histories died.
Optimus settled with a long gaze on the lake. The native creatures huddled in family groups for the evening. The sun dipped behind the darkening hills and Autobot examined the second flexipad.
Attention:
Dr. Reldka
Direct:
Major-General Shockwave
Item:
Preparation for transfer of Prisoner #168131 Optimus Prime

In lieu of transgressions committed against the Decepticon Empire, the Autobot Optimus Prime has been accepted by His Imperious Rym Racharg, Senior advisor of the Quintesson Continuum.
All memory banks will be wiped and all identification marks permanently removed. This prisoner is hostile and potentially deadly.
One Alpha Trion will advance further instructions per electronic transmission.
Sr. Major-General
Shockwave
Transgressions against the Decepticon Empire? Like what?
And there was the name Alpha Trion again. What was going on? Optimus reread the phrase ‘potentially deadly' and puzzled over it. How could they describe him as such when he did not have the will to escape the Center on his own?
Before reading the third (potentially depressing) flexipad, Optimus rummaged through the back pack. To his delight, he found three boxes of fresh energon chips. Several writing pointers lay at the bottom while a digipad hugged one side. A small personal recorder sat under a personal maintenance kit and an ID badge lay wadded under it.
Optimus also found a small laser pistol embedded under a false bottom and lubricating lotion in a side pocket at the front. Ibex had .>.13.00 in spare change and a receipt from a restaurant.
Retrieving the digipad, Optimus kept in mind it would be password protected. He was unsure if he'd find anything there, anyway.
The other flexipad contained prisoner names, time and manner of death, place of transfer and who bought slaves-or-‘raw material'
Optimus broke open one packet of energon, incredibly grateful for it. But the taste was not what he expected. Sweet and light with a bit of iridium gave the Autobot the most amount of pleasure he could remember. But he dared ingest no more than five until he found another source of energy.
"Hey, Mom, it's me."
The compact personal recorder contained more than professional sound files.
"I know you'll never get this, but it beats talking to myself and somehow, it feels better believing I can talk to someone.
His optics drifted toward Ibex's grave and realized she was a captive scientist or doctor who did horrible things under Shockwave's orders.
"I sure miss you. But I felt it was better that I go than Seesee. I don't think she'd be able to handle the horrors I've seen here. I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry."
He shut it off. Just how much information was on here? Was any of it censored? Did any of it honestly matter in light of his situation?
"I can't tell you everything because some things are top secret. But I can tell you that I live and work on an incredible planet-a place where everything you hold, walk or sit on is potentially alive. Not to worry, however. This recorder is not a transformer-I made sure of that.'
‘Oh, I wish you could see Cybertron! It's positively astounding! The buildings and the people and just everything is so HUGE! Haha, I even met a robot who was an escalator named Descender. He was VERY friendly. Even my quarters are part of a gigantic Decepticon city named Fort Metro. He's also extremely polite and helpful. The robots here are nothing shy of amazing. They have PLA's-personal light assistants where a light floats in the air everywhere you go.
There are fountains, here, Mom the likes of which I'd never seen. And instead of water, the fountains contain a liquid element called ‘energon'. Yes, I've tried it and let me tell you, it works FAR better than our processed fuel.'
‘But there's a horrible, nightmarish dark side to Cybertron, Mom. It's the kind of thing that makes me want to run away, makes me sick with stress and keeps me from sleeping well.'
‘Cybertron is in the midst of a millennia-long civil war. Actually, the robots count millions of years, not thousands. How any war could last THAT long goes against my comprehension. It's sad. Terribly, terribly sad.'
‘I'd blame the Decepticons except the Autobots have a hand in it, too.
Ibex spoke from there to her experience as both a doctor and a scientist. Optimus sat through the night and into the following day and again the night after, listening to a year's worth of entries. Ibex or Dr. Relka was bought as a slave from a planet conquered by Decepticon forces. Her people worked to keep the invading tyrants flowing with power and raw materials.
"I don't understand them." Ibex mourned repeatedly. "They take and take and never make anything for themselves. Their hunger is insatiable and their cruelty has no boundaries. They're mean to other species, lording over us like we were bugs (and we are). But they're especially mean to Autobot prisoners.'
‘Mom, do you know what ‘systemic extermination' means? It's a fancy way of saying ‘genocide'."
Reldka talked of orders to clean messes after torture sessions or experiments. Optimus shut the recorder off. Snapshots of unbounded horror flashed through his mind. Ibex's descriptions dug into the desert of his spark where memories lay buried. Some of the so-called messes she described were of victims superiors forced him to watch as they died. What ghastly horrors had he yet to recall?
Autobot sat, unable to express even to himself what he felt. Ibex said something about seventy-two years. Not weeks or days, years. And if he indeed remained a resident at the Center and considered it the norm, how much did they, his captors, inflict on him? How often did they reroute his memories? How does anyone push forward after living a nonexistent life? More than that, would it even matter?
Autobot had no answers.
**********************
Time lapsed from day to night, light to dark. Optimus brooded. How many locked and barricaded doors did his mind contain? Unprepared to face the monsters shadowing his memories, Optimus chose to break from the journal. Too much information in too short a time; too grizzly and too much sadness. By the time Optimus dragged himself from the dark recesses, several days came and left brand new blades of grass on the graves.
Optimus cleared and patched the shuttle's exterior. Although the craft lost its wings, its hull remained structurally sound. Autobot utilized damaged panels and formed a lattice for vines and leaves to protect it from heat and cold.
By nightfall of the fifth day, the shuttle morphed from a ruined space-faring vehicle to an open-door shelter facing the lake and the sunrise.
Plip.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
Rain smacked the ship's roof in a steady pattern until it turned bitter-strong.
Thonk, thonkthonkthonk. Autobot's four-legged companion tapped up the ramp and peeked inside. ‘Her' mane dripped and her withers twitched.
Imlee? She raised her head as her large soft nose whiffed the air, sifting through unfamiliar molecules.
Delighted she came to visit, Optimus stepped back.
"Come along, my friend. There's plenty of room here. Come inside."
Tentatively one huge hoof followed another until she passed the threshold. Her wet tail swayed while her large eyes examined Optimus' shelter. He hunkered against the bulkhead to wait out the weather and a moment later, she chose a spot beside him, lowered to the floor and laid her head on his leg.
The rain plummeted, steady and rhythmic. Optimus rested, lulled by nature's shower.
As rain fell for the fourth day straight, the Autobot sat in his make-shift shelter and stared at a black and white world. He asked himself, yet again, what kept him going. Why shouldn't he just lie down and terminate? He thought it odd or coincidental that something, some project or turn of events kept him preoccupied; getting his sight back, burying his companions, listening to Dr. Reldka's diary (and there was plenty more of it to hear).
Maybe he survived because he wasn't meant to die. But why should he care whether he lived or died? He had no memories of a life outside the Center. And certainly logic dictated that long ago he led an entirely different life.
If that were the case, was it worth regaining?
Rain washed the world again the following day. Optimus shut down to conserve energy. With nothing to do, his mind drifted between memories of the crash and a muddied past that haunted his dreams.
Sometimes Autobot thought he heard familiar sounds; voices, cries strangled from the tormented. The screech of weapons or tools. But all auditory sensations relegated themselves to the edges of shutdown, usually when 618131 startled from sleep.
The fifth silver, watery day closed into a wet, black night. The storm intensified and oppressed the world with larger raindrops. They pummeled the meadow as the only sound until a terrible and fearful ba-BA BOOM slammed the air like an exploding ship.
Autobot snapped out of rest and activated all senses and internal scanners. His companion startled too and she lumbered up, ears perked.
Light struck on and shut off in the tenth of a second. The atmosphere rumbled after. Following that, a distant, eerie howl rode on the waves of the wind.
Optimus froze and listened to everything inside the shelter and the alien world outside it.
Skreek. Skreek-ump.
THUMP-squish. THUMP-squish. THUMP-squish.
Eer-owwwl.
Silently peering between trees and vines, Optimus detected two bulky shapes, biped in nature, facing one another.
The sky strobed white two and three times, often enough, long enough and bright enough to reveal the mystery shapes.
They indeed walked on two legs. Thick coats of shaggy white fur blanketed their muscular forms. A single spiral horn rose off their foreheads and long teeth dipped below their lips.
They bellowed and growled. As the sky flickered, Optimus watched them interact on less than friendly terms. They punched, bit, rammed into one another as rain drenched their coats and puddled under their feet.
KRACK. One of them squalled first in shock then it sang the dirge of agony.
The injured beast lamented in tones so familiar to Autobot, Optimus ached with sympathy. He bowed over and remembered. He covered his face and audio receptors as phantom pains revisited old wounds.
They yanked off his hands. 618131 never knew the names of his tormentors. Shockwave never permitted conversation. And the director always relished anticipation. He ordered tormentors to take their time preparing for the task.
They always started with his hands. Dark memories rose to the surface of Autobot's consciousness. He recalled enduring torture that should have killed him. He remembered torture sessions that ended with him dragged down a corridor by chains, a ragged, bleeding mess.
In retrospection, 618131 realized much of the pain he endured resulted from his status: he was a political prisoner. Death was too kind a thing for him.
Autobot sat, optics and mind frozen with latent shock. he did not know how far time passed. The light before him glared bright then dimmed. His cell faded into the dark.
Lights out.
He expected Center guards to begin their nightly rounds. Often, during the three-hour rest period, prisoners cried out. Rape by the guards was not uncommon and never reprimanded. 618131 pitied organic based life forms. They were the most vulnerable.
Imlee?
Imlee?
Was there a new prisoner? If so, why did the sing-song sound reverberate with a sense of familiarity?
A soft, spongy object found its way under Optimus' chin and lifted his aching head. Optimus stared, unmoving until warm moist air dampened his neck.
Gradually his cell, the Center and all the smells and sounds of suffering and death disintegrated into the present. Optimus sat in the shelter of a wrecked shuttle. A sun blessed the world with gentle, natural light. The biologically organic world around him breathed in peace.
Before him stood the stout four-legged creature who befriended him. Her broad hooves tapped on the shuttle's metal flooring. Her long grey-white tail brushed off an offensive insect.
Imlee? The creature rested its head on Optimus' shoulder like giving a hug without arms.
Saved by compassion's grace.

The rain tapered by morning of the sixth day and left the world drenched but clean. The alien beasts, both the victor and the loser, vanished. Thick deposits of blood stained the grass. Water filled shallow holes left by the fight.
‘Imlee' never left Optimus' side from then on, except for a brief frolic with the heard of her own kind. Optimus watched them day by day as the weather grew cooler. He picked up Dr. Reldka's diary again. She sounded weary as the days and weeks turned into months for her. She started naming names, making notes of those who passed through her hands into death. She wept for the lives of innocent children and those robotic prisoners torn asunder for Shockwave's amusement.
618131 bitterly recalled the agony of those prisoners Shockwave forced him to watch as they died. That was Game Number Eight: Guess the Answer. For every incorrect reply, Shockwave severely tortured a prisoner in 618131's stead.
‘Guess the Answer' often dragged from days to weeks. Answering questions: never an option. Sometimes under Shockwave's foul mood, Optimus himself received the just treatment due him for failure. Unlike Autobot, however, those prisoners who took punishment for his mistakes often died.
Optimus recalled one incident when a scientist sorely ‘displeased' Shockwave. Not that 618131 clearly remembered the circumstances. But the result started violent and ended gruesome-"
"Optimus Prime..."
Reldka's voice called him back from the horror and he rewound the section.
"Can't stop shaking! My god, Mom, you have no idea ... I had no idea! It was all I could do not to look. But I am convinced now that Prisoner 618131 from Block A is Optimus Prime!'
(Pause) Okay, okay. I checked all the records and I am correct. But something's not right. He doesn't seem to know where he is, who he is or why he's there. He doesn't fight. I can't figure it out.'
(Pause) I tried communicating with Optimus Prime today. He's all but unresponsive."
Autobot paused the recorder and wondered if that was a lie. He did not recall anyone trying to communicate with him.
But Dr. Reldka said his memories had been rerouted and Optimus already suspected Shockwave rerouted his memories more than once. Ibex's observations confirmed it.
Optimus stared into nothing. They wanted him to forget who and what he was. Even as he sat in the bleakness of a world under a change of season. Optimus remembered nothing but life at the Center.
After another moment's reflection, he produced the flexipads Reldka stowed in her clothes and activated the fourth one:
Attention:
Staff
Director:
Major-General Shockwave
Item: Interrogation of prisoner # 618131
By order of Major-General Shockwave, Prisoner #618131 is to be handed to Major-General Ultra Magnus for questioning.

In light of current events regarding the trap, betrayal and humiliation suffered at the hands of the Autobots, Major-General Ultra Magnus retains the right to proceed as he chooses.

Warrior bar code 965-13-894 includes procedural interrogation and if necessary, strict disciplinary action to extract information.
If termination is a result of the interrogation process, Major-General Ultra Magnus is to file a report and submit it to Major-General Shockwave for review.
Sr. Center Director
Shockwave

Major-general Ultra Magnus? Trap, betray and humiliation?
Optimus mulled over it. Between the lines, the letter stated 618131 was just a political prisoner; he was a source of irritation. Otherwise, why would the letters be so adamant about his security? Why were they willing to accept large sums of money from someone who wanted to buy him? And why all the torture-even to the point of death?
Something very wrong must have happened between himself and Major-General Ultra Magnus.
Betrayal, or so the letter suggested, was the most grievous sin as far as Decepticons were concerned. Humiliation-that's a wrench in their gears.
Even if Autobots and Decepticons weren't fighting what would have motivated Optimus himself to betray, humiliate and trap Ultra Magnus? To what end?
Optimus (Prime) could not conceive why he would bother to lure a Decepticon into a trap if all he was going to do was humiliate and betray him (betray to whom?)
For that matter, why would a Decepticon of Magnus' apparent stature and status, allow himself to be betrayed?
For whatever the reason, Shockwave was more than willing to hand Optimus' life to Ultra Magnus. The Autobot concluded that if he really wanted to crawl under Shockwave's armor like an acid worm, he had to remain free. He had to stay alive.
However, the problem Optimus now faced was death by starvation.
Finding energon in the shuttle wreckage amounted to a waste of time. What precious little Autobot did find came in Decepticon formula. Too high in ions, too ‘hot' for an Autobot body. Optimus reluctantly buried it under a boulder.
He stared at the buried energy source. Were it not that he already knew what Decepticon formula energon did to him, he certainly would give it a try. Shockwave's minions made sure 618131 experienced the searing taste of Decepticon energon. He bled internally for days at a time until the director made them stop.
That did not preclude the same staff members from goading, razzing and belittling Autobot for his genetic weakness.
The gentle Imlee found Optimus still standing at the burial site half an hour after the deed. Imlee snorted, nosed a few dead weeds and stood closer to the Autobot.
"I am so sorry, my little friend," Optimus' voice sounded foreign to his own audio receptors, "I don't think I'll be around much longer. Without an energon source... unless I'm miraculously rescued. And I do not think anyone knows I've moved in with you." Optimus huffed, mused by his response to the alien life form. "Not that you'd understand, anyway."
Imlee snorted again. She back up then reared and set both hoofs on Optimus' hip plate. Surprised by this, Autobot stepped aside, confused. Imlee trotted around Autobot. The creature tossed her oblong head to the right of their position. She cantered off, paused and gazed expectantly at Optimus through her long hair.
Optimus only watched. He tried to decide whether or not Imlee attempted communication. Imlee returned and repeated her actions; hooves on Optimus, a ring around the Autobot then several steps to their right. Optimus took two steps toward her.
She lightly pranced, her movement suggested joy and Imlee advanced another few yards off. Optimus followed, hesitant and unsure. Imlee led him through a thick barrier of old forest railed between the lake, the ship and another meadow a quarter mile away. Imlee and Optimus pushed their way through thick brush and around trees as old as they were tall.
Upon stepping into the clearing, Autobot froze and panned his gaze across a wide meadow populated by large stones and a grand collection of stubby, half-organic, half-silicon plants. The half-silicon vegetation squatted round the clearing like ancient mushrooms with a circular middle surrounded by a long flat stalk capped with pointed tops. Between the stems hung little glowing spheres, dangling from a tinsel thread like dewdrops on a spider's web.
Optimus took a step and crouched before the closest plant. He glanced back at Imlee who nodded and stomped reassuringly. He scanned the whole plant and found exactly what he suspected: silicon-based life that produced purified energon. How that was possible, Optimus could not guess. He had medical training but scrutinizing the mechanics lay along the science lines of xenobotney.
He tasted the fruit and found it strangely sweet. Maybe it was poisonous. Optimus chose to wait and see if there were any ill effects.
Plip. A drop.
Plip. Plip. On his metal body.
The sky opened and water plunged so that it stripped leaves, forced winged creatures to land and flattened plant life. Optimus remained still while Imlee retreated to the forest lines. Her pelt soaked in three seconds.
The rain stopped as abruptly as it began. To Autobot's shock, new growth instantly popped to life. Stubby green plants exploded out of the ground like little drinking cups surrounded by broad, long leaves. They swayed as though dancing and inch by inch they sprouted higher in seconds. Six inches. Eleven. Two feet. Even the mechana-plants on Cybertron never grew this fast. Optimus had no experince with organic life, but the plants astonished him. He stepped back and accidently crushed one such plant underfoot. It seared him on contact.
Autobot's reaction to the sudden pain cost him another punishing streak along the left arm and back leg. Utilizing deeply imbedded self-discipline, he finally stood perfectly still while his pain receptors raged. Acid flamed under his exostructure. Optimus reinstated his high level of tolerance and gradually adjusted. But the pain zipped back and forth along the plated surface reminding him of his stupidity.
He picked one step between plants and paused. Imlee called to him from her spot under the trees, encouraging Optimus to come to her. One cautious and wary step at a time found Optimus safely out of danger. Imlee rested her head against Prime's right arm as if in apology. The Autobot stroked her mane while his senses reeled in agony. He waited the pain out and watched the world play on.
Sweep?
Mulk.
Sweep?
Mulk-gorrhg.
Optimus activated his optics, and found he automatically shut down. Repair systems kicked in without a system error message. Maybe using the Decepticon med kit did more for him than he thought.
Then he remembered the energon ‘fruit' and realized, to his delight, there were no ill effects. Daring to test his theory again, he ingested the other two pieces and immediately felt better. "I think we're going to be okay," he said to his gentle companion.
Optimus popped a stiff joint and clumsily stood when he spotted a sizeable herd of biped creatures stepping about the meadow. Long slender legs allowed them to avoid the acid-bearing plants while their necks stretched to gobble the same foliage. Long antennae feathered from their heads and spines jutted up from their backs. They groused and snorted, making nice pathways around and between the energon plants.
The sky above snarled and rumbled. Optimus' initial reaction was to crouch low; the interrogator was coming. But the interrogator, if alive, lived millions of clicks away. Optimus was free, but his mind still sat in the Center, waiting for torture.
Thunder shook the sky raw and the next moment, a shock of lightning skittered to the ground. Its intensity blinded Optimus for several moments. The long-legged creatures cawed and bellowed as they scattered. When Optimus' optics cleared, he saw the energon plants glow, slowly fluctuating with new-found power. The planet's very nature provided him with everything he needed to survive.

*************

Optimus counted 126-week cycles since the crash. He kept busy by means of exploration and gleaned furtively from the ‘energon garden'. Pain, a constant aggravating companion often forced him to settle in place and listen to Ibex's diary. He learned to live with his pain; a reminder of what he suffered before and what he had now. Optimus memorized names and places mentioned in Ibex's journal. At least Dr. Reldka gave him answers and another voice. He memorized the flexipad letters and by the end of his ninth month, Optimus managed to piece together a few events leading to his seven-decade visit to the Center.
It started with an attempt to negotiate a cease-fire between the Autobots and the Decepticons. Megatron disappeared without a trace, leaving his sub-generals in charge. One such general, Major-general Ultra Magnus, commanded one of the most well organized and respected armies on Cybertron. Magnus himself, a reasonable and no-nonsense leader, was willing to negotiate terms. But something happened, something destroyed any hope for a cease fire. Autobot had no details on the issue; only that Magnus was so infuriated over the betrayal, at one point Shockwave allowed him to torture 618131.
Lack of details did not mean Optimus did not have his theories and suspicions. The name of Alpha Trion haunted him both in Ibex's personal recordings and in his own dreams. Autobot mulled over Trion until a scant memory finally surfaced. Optimus tucked it away in a mental drawer and hung onto it. He believed that his sanity lay in the images of that one memory.
The rest of Dr. Reldka's diary consisted of rants and complaints of her job; forced to do things against her will and conscious. She kept sane by speaking to her mother and Ibex remained ever mindful of Optimus himself. He concluded she kept watch on him until the day they left Cybertron.
Optimus' rescue was not accidental.
********
Several cycles drifted into four years for the lone Autobot. Seasons chased after one another like Imlee's ‘people' during mating season. Optimus accepted his fate and reminded himself how fortunate he was to be free and alive, even if the price was isolation.
However, year five of his exile included visitors when a ship shot across the atmosphere and landed on the other side of the western mountain. Two hours later, four robots rose from the ridge of the mountain. Three heavily built and armed guards surrounded a fourth trampled their way with an air of self-importance.
Unable to conceive how anyone might have found him, Optimus remained in one spot, even when the visitors signaled a greeting and invited him to approach.
"Prime!" the ‘important' robot greeted just ten feet away. He spread his arms, "My friend! Did you not recognize me?"
Autobot did not. He examined each unknown robot, expecting someone to declare him under arrest. Optimus acknowledged the face sigil on their bodies; that they were not of Decepticon faction. Ergo, they had to be Autobots.
The slender robot, their leader, came just inches from 618131. He kept his voice light and friendly. "Hello, Optimus Prime. It's so good to have finally found you! I can't believe it's taken us this long to locate you! Many of us think you're dead."
618131 hesitated. "Who are you?
"Uh-" the leader's happy facade dropped. He obviously expected Shockwave's personal project to know and recognize him off the hand. But Optimus' seventy-year captivity never included family reunions or visitors with datatablets packed with photographs or video feeds. The leader stole a glance to his right and forced his thin lip components to smile.
"I-I'm Alpha Trion, Optimus. Don't you remember me? I'm the one who saved your life after a horrible incident and rebuilt you from the ground up. I-" he cut himself off. "Well... we can spare the rest for anther time. Right now, we're here to take you back. Take you home."
"I see." Optimus did not know how to react.
Trion stared a moment, lost to confusion. But it quickly passed and he changed the subject. "Well! We've had a time looking for you. We heard about the rebellion on Morbis Canne and sent recon. Shockwave, unfortunately, was long gone but we pretty much dismantled the entire base."
Optimus crossed his arms and silently nodded, recognizing the lie. He was at the Center, not Morbis Canne... wherever that was.
His silent manner ate into Trion. "Aren't you the least bit happy to see me? I've come a long way looking for you."
"What would you have me say? You plan to return me home, to the Center. I do not wish to leave."
Trion looked surprised. "We're not here to take you back there, Optimus. How could you think us so villainous?"
Optimus gave the group before him an icy glare before reciting Ibex's flexipad letters: "As per the agreement between Terminus and Alpha Trion, the sale of twenty-five Autobots, the Prime Unit and two DLL droids shall be exchanged for .>.750,009,269. The Prime unit will sell for an additional .>.21,004,307 in lieu of Quintesson interest." Optimus paused, daring any of them to prove him wrong. "Or perhaps this one," he challenged: "Preparation for transfer of Prisoner #618131 Optimus Prime: In lieu of transgressions committed against the Decepticon Empire, the Autobot Optimus Prime has been accepted by His Imperious Rym Racharg, Senior advisor of the Quintesson Continuum.
All memory banks will be wiped and all identification marks permanently removed. This prisoner is hostile and potentially deadly. One Alpha Trion will advance further instructions per electronic transmission."
Trion's face fell blank with surprise, he went very quiet and dropped his gaze. After two point nine minutes, the older Autobot raised his head. "I understand how easy it is for you to accept their lies, Optimus. You've been missing for... an unaccounted number of years. And it's only natural for them, for the cruel Decepticons, to deceive you with lies to break your spirit and fold you under their control." Trion smiled and with a hand on the Autobot's shoulder, guided him round the peaceful lake toward the sloping hill crest and the ship on the other side. "We have diligently searched," he insisted. "We were at such a loss and honestly thought you were terminated. And it wasn't until the... meteor storm hit the... Decepticon Eastern side that we found traces of Autobot... life signs."
Trion faced him again, his optics glowed with delight. "It has been such a long and arduous search, Optimus. I can't tell you how happy we are to have finally found you. After all this time."
Optimus said and expressed nothing.
Puzzled and at a loss for words, Trion removed his hand from Optimus' shoulder. "So! Is there anything you'd like to take back home? Any mementos?
"No," Prime looked toward his humble makeshift home. Autobot thought about Ibex's journal and the documents she smuggled off the Center. In light of her sacrifice and all the one-sided conversations he heard and memorized over the years, Optimus decided to trust her rather than the stranger. For all Optimus knew, this Alpha Trion could be an imposter, a Decepticon disguised as Trion to gain Optimus' trust. Autobot shook his head; not that he said no to Trion, but that he did not wish to mention the six bodies buried by the lake. Those people, his rescuers, deserved to remain in peace and quiet.
"Good!" Trion clasped his hands together. "We have a long trip ahead and the Council of Elders are eager for a full report. They'll want to know what you might know about the Decepticons."
Optimus stared crossly at Trion. After surviving seventy years under Shockwave's treatment, the last thing Optimus wanted to do was relive those years-especially if Trion planned to force all those buried memories to the surface. Optimus was free and wanted to stay that way. "No," he objected. "I will not report to the Autobot Council or anyone else."
"What?" Trion stared at him hard.
"I know the deals you were involved with. I have proof. Major-General Ultra Magnus was betrayed. I did not betray him but clearly, I was set up."
Trion's facade melted into pity. He laid his hands on Optimus' arms. "They lied about it all-"
"ENOUGH!" Optimus snapped and pushed Trion's arms away. "Do you think time spent under Decepticon torture would deaden my common sense? I read the order signed and sealed by Avain Kappan himself. Why should I trust any of them-including you?
Anger sparked in Trion's optic. "Would you rather I just left you here? Look, the Autobot council members aren't perfect. But they're all we have to keep the cause-and our people together. I don't understand the logic behind your suspicions. It was the council who sent me here-"
"My decision stands, Trion. I will NOT cater to a political circus. A treaty with Ultra Magnus would have earned us valuable allies with the Decepticons. But the council are only concerned about power and their own welfare. I will not answer to them."
Trion again stared, clearly disappointed. "After all I've done for you; came to your aid, rescued you. This is how you repay? You owe me! I saved your metallic backside. I rebuilt your body, made you better, stronger. You were nothing before I took you in. You have so much potential-everyone knows that and Ironhide would certainly welcome you back. Prime, how could you act like this? I know you've always been bull-headed. I just... find it disappointing that someone of your ability can be so selfish."
There it was, Optimus thought, the six-word phrase ‘after all I've done for you.' Certainly Optimus wanted to return to Cybertron and rediscover the life he lost. But not under someone else's terms. The attack on Magnus and those Decepticons who risked trusting Optimus were openly betrayed by power-hungry politicians. They were guilty of perpetuating the war.
Trion stared for an eternal moment, scrutinizing Optimus like a bug examined by an indifferent scientist. "Well, then," the older Autobot declared, "I suppose that says it all. I guess you'd rather play alone, work alone and live alone."
He turned away, Trion and his guard. They disappeared behind the mountainside. They blasted off the planet, leaving Optimus alone yet again.
Autobot reflected his decision. Returning meant agreement with Trion's erroneous policies.
If solitude and exile was the price he paid, so be it.
Even if it meant forever.

End note:
Six years later, a ruthless band of slave traders en route to market found Optimus. Space pirates raided the slave ship, freed the prisoners and left Optimus on another planet. A year later Optimus met a trio of robots: a pair of brothers and an Autobot rogue specialist named Jazz.

Not so much the end.