Chapter Text
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Curse Jetfire and curse that stupid heroic spark of his.
Sky-byte's helm was aching, a warning flashed in his processor, informing him that small streams of energon were leaking from the shattered remains of his arm and dripping slowly onto the dirt below him. He snarled in frustration and pain, every bit of his frame hated Jetfire with a burning passion. The world around him started spinning and he got down on one knee to stabilize himself. The air still smelled of heated metal, the shots from both his and his opponent's blasters, all the dust still settling down after the battle and - he proudly observed - energon… not his own. Though he hadn't scarred his rival as much as he wished, only Primus knew how much he wanted to rip that arrogant seeker's wings off, unfortunately this time he had only managed to damage his chassis, barely snipping his wings.
He closed his optics and winced as that odd feeling of the world warping around him came back stronger, his sensors were working overtime, trying hard to make sense of what was happening around him. This however caused him to be too acutely aware of all the details around him, the murky smell of the ground below him damp with energon and scorched with blasts, the low hum of seeker jets getting closer- He opened his optics wide, scanning the skies in a panic, assuming that Jetfire was back. The world around him swiveled once more, and he found that he lacked the strength to stop himself from falling forward, onto the battle-worn dirt. He exvented with a hiss of relief as his comms buzzed, he opened the call immediately.
.:SKY-BYTE!! YOU FOOL!! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?! LAYING DOWN WHILE THE REST OF US ARE PURGING AUTOBOT SCRAP!!:.
He had never been so pleased to hear Starscream's reprimand, now that his processor noted that he is in no immediate danger, it sent him a warning that he will be put into desperately needed stasis in approximately 5 nano-kliks. The last thing he recalled was hearing Starscream's angry screeching over the comms.
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Curse Sky-byte and curse that stupid poetic spark of his.
Jetfire's processor was throwing warnings at him, mainly related to his rapid increase or decrease of altitude and his criminally low levels of energon. The wounds on his chassis had been leaking for a while, his self-repair systems failing to stop the flow. He was not worried about that right now, energon levels could be restored, his chassis could be fixed, but only if he didn't crash into something first. His wings were clipped, though it may seem like a detail to someone else it mattered quite a lot to aerial frames, especially if their gyroscope was banged up and unusable. He was essentially spinning and zig zagging in the sky, the smell of burnt hot metal clouding his sensors, the sting of his rival's teeth and claws on his chassis. The cold air around him pushed painfully against his alt-mode's sides, his processor becoming more dizzyingly crowded with warnings of falling altitude.
Next time I see Sky-byte I will tear that fragger's fins off-
His uncharacteristically cruel thoughts were cut short by none other than Bumblebee's worried voice coming from his comm link.
.:Jetfire! You're falling! Land somewhere as fast as you can- I'll get Ratchet!:.
.:I'm- trying -:.
He groaned as the sound of metal shrieking and cracking filled his audials, his whole frame flooding with sharp pain. He ran internal diagnostics to find that his wing bearings had been damaged, burning hot panic rising in his spark he realized he was losing feeling in his wounded wing. He tried his best to stabilize, to keep himself from crashing into the ground, which he could have done had he been able to tell which way was up. One more scream of metal bonds tearing apart and his processor engaged in a last ditch effort to save his tumbling frame. His emergency Autopilot clicked into his steering controls and he slowly felt the horrible sensation of being pulled away, of losing all control, his consciousness floating in a frame he could not move. His processor was assaulted with one more warning, informing him that he is about to fall into stasis in approximately 5 nano-kliks.
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His poetic spark told him that his rivalry with Jetfire was akin to his old friend Megatron's with Optimus. That he was leading in his friend's - now leader's - pede steps. That as Megatron beautifully described it.. 'One shall stand, one shall fall'. He hoped that one day both him and Megatron would defeat their nemesis, that they would triumph together. Ever since he had lay optics on Jetfire, ever since his audials heard his overconfident voice, his spark was lit up with a hot feeling. That feeling was hatred. The almost animalistic need to kill. To hunt his prey, even if that prey had dragged him to the end of the universe and back, thought unknown star systems and unexplored galaxies. This rivalry had also resparked an old guilty pleasure of his, writing poetry. For what was more poetic than battling with someone for almost a million of solarcycles, across millions of planets, in that time at least two generations of Cybertronians could have been raised and fully educated, if that didn't say how long they knew each other, then he didn't know what did.
As his mind wandered around in such thoughts, he made the painful realization that he knew Jetfire for almost as long as the war had been going on. Almost, because the war had lasted so much longer. His spark ached at the thought of how long the two factions - Autobots and Decepticons - have fought one another. And for what? Oh right… for Cybertron…. Cybertron, which was now dead after Optimus Prime exiled the Allspark, carelessly threw it out through a space bridge, transporting it to some desolate, unknown place. He could not fathom how someone had the spark to discard the literal, physical incarnation of life, how could he call himself 'merciful', how could he be the 'hero'. Optimus's selfish actions forced their kind to scatter across the galaxy.
To think… that the fight was once for rights, turned into a fight for power over Cybertron, now a fight for the Allspark - thought he heavily doubted Megatron's 'good' intentions, he knew his leader, his friend, the millions of solarcycles of war had made him power hungry. There was something oddly beautiful and spark-wrenching about the whole idea of the war, of trying to desperately find the Allspark, it was something inspiring, something he could probably make a poem out of-
"Having a nice beauty recharge scrapheap?"
He lazily half opened one optic, he was still incredibly tired, though he had been given enough energon to survive his systems were still sluggish, his sensors and processor clouded with the painkillers given to him while he was taken care of by a Decepticon medic. The bright lights of the medbay blinded him for a couple nano-kliks before his optics got used to his surroundings. The dark silver warframe before him was none other than Megatron. With a click he reset his vocalizer, he grinned, showing off his razor sharp teeth, ready to do what he does best, poetry.
" I am awoken
Awaiting command
Great leader "
Megatron rolled his optics.
"If you're well enough to make prose then you'd better get to work"
He walked over to the medbay doors, the cold lighting of the room making his silver armor look icy blue, he rested a servo on the door frame and turned his helm back at Sky-byte, a slightly unsettling smile on his faceplate .
"Oh, and enjoy your new arm…"
His processor was still running on the lowest settings, he was barely aware of himself and thus Megatron's comment struck him as odd. He furrowed his optical ridges, still looking at the door where his leader stood nano-kliks ago, trying to understand what he meant.
New arm?…
He flexed his servos. He couldn't feel any digits nor a wrist on his left. He shot up into a sitting position, he still felt stunned, numb, failing to comprehend the information his sensors were receiving. He could feel the cold trickle of panic slowly spreading in the back of his processor, he couldn't quite figure out what he was seeing. What used to be his forearm now seemed to function as a jet engine with four long, sharp spines jutting downwards out of its end, near where the after burner could be visible. The panic creeping up on him dwindled, settling into an oddly calm uncertainty, somewhat resemblant of blissful confusion. He wasn't sure how to react. He didn't know what to do. He felt like he just saw something blow up. The knowledge that it's dust and rabble now and will never be rebuilt. Things changed, he hated change…. But he needed it. Change was often a muse for poets, and on this day he decided not to dwell on the loss of his hand, but to think of it as a new part of him, something he will come to cherish and appreciate.
A small smile started to tug at the corners of his intake, he had a habit of smirking when he was thinking about poetry. He also had a tendency to wiggle his dorsal fin when he thought of, talked about or recited his poems, often also tapping his claws against one another. Apparently it annoyed others almost as much as his poetry, which he thought was always quite foolish, he could do whatever he wanted and if anyone told him otherwise they could frag right off. He glanced at his new arm again, yes, he could definitely get used to it, he could own it the same way he owned his unique tone of voice and his shark alt mode. Now that he took more time to appreciate it, he thought it made him more intimidating, made him look just a bit more threatening, especially the sharp spines. He could probably try to stab someone's optics with those, maybe he could stick their helm in-between the spines and alight his afterburner, melting their faceplate off. He grinned at his totally evil plan, he was a Decepticon after all and he took pride in it. Speaking of being a Decepticon, he had duties to fulfill.
He slid down from the medical berth, his body still felt hazy from the medicine given to him but his mind was excited to beat some Autobot aft, or do some routine reports, whatever job Megatron saw fit he do. He rather clumsily stumbled on his pedes as he walked through the corridors, letting his mind wonder though lines of prose he might one day write, while he auto-piloted to his office. Once in his working suite he found a whole stack of datapads along with a recording of Megatron telling Sky-byte his work schedule for the week. Reports and database duty it is.
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He slowly opened his optics, like it was bringing him pain, only for the blinding lights of the medbay to shine into his eyes, he shut his optics with a sigh. His spark felt weak, though he had suffered little - at least little by his standards - surface damage, he had many of his flight systems broken or faulty. It had taken Ratchet a long while to recalibrate his sensors, to get the perfect angle on the new wingtips attached in replacement of the ones clipped off by Sky-byte.
Sky-byte
The very thought of him made his spark tingle with something he assumed was anger… maybe even hate- no. He didn't like to think that he 'hated' anyone, it was a strong word and though Sky-byte boiled his energon he could not bring himself to quite label his frustration towards him as hate. He just wished he stopped being a menace and hurting everyone and everything around him, he wished he knew when to quit, maybe then their fights didn't have to end the way they often did. With both of them retreating to fill up after leaking almost all their energon through the wounds inflicted on one another.
They were both incredibly stubborn, and thought they could go on and on against each other through time and space when left to their own devices, they were both now part of a team - Decepticon and Autobot respectively - and had duties, and others to account for. Though they were once like this before, after the first couple times they clashed in battle they took off, leaving their factions to fight one another. Yet here they were again, back with their old allies, he had doubt that it would stay like this, something in the back of his processor told him that his frustration with Sky-byte would grow further and vice versa until their fellow soldiers would become irrelevant to their battles and they would once again leave, perhaps to return again in another million or so solarcycles. He didn't want to leave, he liked Optimus and the others, he loved their enthusiasm and dedication to the cause, he wanted to be a loyal and reliable teammate like them, not a honorary Autobot that shows up every now and then.
But he can't, he has to defeat Sky-byte if it's the last thing he does. He doesn't understand why, his spark just so yearns to destroy him, because why else would it spin the way it does when he sees him? Jetfire heard approaching pede steps and opened his optics, this time the movement seemed easier but not as easy as it should be. He tried to sit up, slowly raising his helm, then trying to prop the rest of himself up with his arms. Each little bit of movement hurt like a fragging smelter, which was politely noted by his processor sending him a warning, informing him that if he did not let himself heal damage would be imminent. Just as he had managed to hold himself up on his elbows the medbay doors slid open with a quiet hissing sound.
"Primus' sake Jetfire! Lay back down! Now!"
Ratchet seemed quite calm when he first entered but once his optics lay on the jet his demeanor quickly changed to 'I'm your medic and if you don't do as I say I will rip out your spark chamber'. Jetfire let a groan of pain slip though into his vocalizer as he tried to let himself back down slowly, his arms shaking. He felt Ratchet quickly rushing to his side and placing two servos on his back, letting him lift the weight off of his arms. His touch was surprisingly delicate for his current mood, he carefully set himself back down onto the medical berth, dropping his helm back with a sigh.
"Your left wing is still heavily damaged, and it's not an easy issue to fix either, it sustained structural damage, it's broken at its very base. It will take time and patience to heal, and most importantly-"
He grabbed Jetfire's helm with his servo and - once again gently - turned it to face him.
"Absolutely NO fighting."
He opened his intake to respond, but a sharp, piercing sting stirred in his chassis and he gritted his denta to hold back a whine. He carefully turned his helm away from Ratchet, too tired and sore to argue. He felt a growing ache starting to spread through his processor, he shut his optics to minimise sensory input, hoping that would help prevent more strain. His back strut and left wing were pulsing with blunt waves of pain, the sensation grew stronger and he audibly gasped, rolling to his side and blindly grabbing at his wings.
"Ah… that'll be the painkillers wearing off"
He heard Ratchet chuckle quietly, that made him want to really punch the medic, he knew the old scrap heap had seen things that would harden anyone's spark but for Primus' sake! Was him squirming around in agony that hilarious? He felt the doctor's servo on his shoulder, his digits were attentively spreading apart his arm plating and stilling his pain-caused wriggling. He felt the horrible sensation of a needle slowly sliding into a energon vein, for all his clueless macabre humor, the medic was really precise and good at his job. Though he had once given someone an accidental spark attack….oh well! He just had to hope Ratchet knew what he was doing. After all, a doctor who didn't go to medical school is better than no doctor.
Jetfire knew that well, he had often retreated after a battle with Sky-byte, barely holding on, packing himself with the strongest medical Highgrade he could find just to be able to concentrate and fix himself up. Way too many times he had to patch up shark sized bites with scrap metal he found, scavenged or even - thought he was truly ashamed to admit it - stolen. In fact, most of his resources were not paid for, which only further proved he should make up for his acts and finally rid this world of the villainous Decepticon Sky-byte. Sky-byte. Sky-byte.
Sky-byte
His name echoed through his processor, back and forth, what a stupidly fitting name, sky bite indeed. He thought about the bites still left on his back where he couldn't quite reach, his self-repair systems were able to only patch the wounds so much and his back has since then become a permanent weak point. His back… his back strut and wing didn't hurt anymore, though there was still a dull ache there was no agony. He opened his optics, but only slightly, slowly letting them get used to the bright medbay lights. Thank the Allspark the painkillers started working. Now he just had to iron things out with Ratchet, try and find a way to bargain his way back into battle field duty.