The Child Dances

5.Nov.08

The Child Dances

Part Two

She couldn’t tell if her optics were on, off, broken, shattered. If she was blind. There was darkness. And light. Crossing and breaking over each other.

But the face. That yellow, teal, green, red face. The optics on her.

Guardian Protector Omicron no.

Wind help me.

There was no reply. But as she laid in the quicksilver, her optics off and shattered beyond repair, she heard something. Something. A low keening, like a wounded cleaning droid, its gears stripping against themselves.

It was coming from her throat, and as silver fluid dribbled down her mouth, into the arm she was cradled against, there was darkness, and in it, the Guardian swarmed her vision, and then there really was darkness…and it was good.

Her chronometer said time had passed. Times had passed. Oh yes. Yes indeed.

The child stood in the ruins of the home. Had it?

Is it mine was it mine, Wind? Wind?

She couldn’t enter, and knew why, even as she stared at the shattered walls, the collapsing structure. Nightwind. Her parents. Oh Primus, they were really offline, really dead. She could walk through their bodies, skip through their mech fluid.

Primus please no Wind no please.

The thought brought a strangled gasp to her face; she was unaware that her hands were pressing on the sides of her head, as though trying to force her mind still. Halt all CPU functions. Find the monster.

Nightwind. She trembled and fell on her knees, still clutching her head.

There was a time of darkness, and then her optics online again. And she was painfully hungry. Starving. Oh yes. First comes life and then comes Energon.

She stared upwards, at the top of the ruins, at the sky beyond. A Guardian ship danced in her mind. Depth Charge behind its wheel.

He screamed I think did he scream he saw me he SAW ME

He….he…

But there was no going back now. No bases. No freebies. Her body ached and screamed for something more now. Energon. Oh, she needed relief.

A part of her wondered about relief. She was alone. Omicron was dead. The Guardian was gone. And she was hungry.

All fake, all dreams. But she wiped a hand across her optics and saw only quicksilver. Dreams. She would never wake up.

This is a dream Wind wake me up dreams

She shuddered, unknowing, and her mind collapsed as she entered the ruins, searching, searching.

The first wall had collapsed when she returned outside, her fists at her sides, her head sobbing incoherently. Thought was insane.

Gone. Everything. Gone. And silver handprint near their Energon storage.

I suppose I guess I suppose even monsters need to eat monsters monster

Monster. Oh Primus. Primus.

There was no food left. There was nothing. Even monsters have to eat.

But there were so many on the colony. She remembered them vaguely, as one would recall a dream of difficulty, blurred faces and muted voices, and passed them on the ruins. Mech fluid excess and death had changed little.

There was Energon somewhere. Everyone dead. Not as if they needed it.

She started out, optics flashing and shivering, trembling in shock as she moved. The bodies still scared her, the empty, broken torsos, the mindless limbs, the wide-mouthed heads. Faces. And spark chambers, cases, holders, monster food, empty and spilling with mech fluid.

She had never known there were so many colonists. No. The shuttles coming and going. Nightwind holding her up, to look out a concave window, pointing at a rock in darkness.

See that Dancer?

See it?
Yes…

That’s home.

That?
Well…it will be.

Would. Should. Can’t. There were no windows, no shuttles, no colonists. A rock in darkness. A child in darkness. And Wind’s head popping up and off like a toy. Her chamber was empty, clawed at.

She shuddered again, barely realizing that she was tracing her fingers on a wall, passing out of another house. Nothing here. Nothing. Monsters have great appetites.

The next wall was traced in silver, and her hand was nearly trapped in a shattered optic hole; she withdrew it numbly as the shards pierced her metal skin, as more silver welled.

She stared at the silver dumbly. Energon. Of course, she devoured and used it, so parts of it would exist within her. Small parts. Waste, her teacher had said. Plasma.

No, waste. No. Use in systems. Overload, and she licked her finger, trembling.

The house was empty. She moved on.

The next and the next and the next and sometime, much time later, according to her internal chronometer, and she was on the ground again, huddling against the Guardian building. A headless torso, arms akimbo and legs half a hallway away, next to her.

The house was empty. She found herself staring across the hallway, at the legs, and then her optics faded. She knew enough, dimly, that her internal systems were fading too. Energon. Her systems were working, fading, dying, and using her internal systems on internal systems to live.

No Energon anywhere. Monsters are hungry, Dancer.

She trembled against the body, her arms coiled at her sides as she shook. Monsters and Energon, heads in the walls, limbs in the streets and hallways and a headless Guardian beside her. Wind was dead and Plasma was dead and Omicron was dead. No colony. No Guardian. No stars, no dancing, no Energon.

The child lowered her head against a broken elbow shard, optics off, and shuddered. There was no end. No Energon. And no life.

Why aren’t you playing with the other young ones Dancer?

They they don’t like me Plasma they hate me

They don’t hate you little one, little StarDancer

But I’m new I’ve never been here here before

I know and neither have they at a time, Dancer, Dancer

I’m alone, Plasma

No, not alone, never alone, little Dancer. You are not alone.

Plasma lied, of course. Guardians lie. No protection came from the dead.

Something was dribbling against her mouth, and her optics powered up weakly. Silver. It was always silver, and she shut her mouth swiftly as it ran down her jawline.

Mech fluid. But…

We use mech fluid it’s like organic blood do you remember the butterfly, class?

Yes, yes, the butterfly, the organic insect, yes. Or dragonfly. Organic studies were far and few and always so small. They always died.

She knew she was dreaming; in her mind, she saw not mech fluid, she saw no Guardian, but a large bot, perhaps even her mother, but the face was shielded and murky and gray, offering her something to use, to devour, to rebuild dying internal systems.

You are not alone, little Dancer.

The wings…the wings like jet wings, so small, so thin, we can see through them.

Green and blue and they always died and Plasma looked sad.

She trembled in her dream, her optics wide and glowing, but the gray figure offered again: Energon in a form. Silver. But Energon still. The form had changed, the matter not.

Class this is where we use the Energon see this here? This circuit, this, this, Energon and we use it.

She heard a few fatal clicks inside, and one optic shorted out entirely; the other was dim and going too.

And the figure, the silver Energon.

Liquid to solid and back and forth class. See?

See. No, no, there was no sight, but there was liquid silver Energon, and she slowly opened her mouth, and drank it in. The rain fell in shimmering, sterling sweeps, and this time in the darkness, there was also saturation and recharge sleep.

Time passed. She no longer distrusted her internal chronometer, save the fact that it was draining on slowly. Or descending with velocity. There was no telling the difference.

One day had passed. Then two. And beyond that there was only the gray-faced figure, leading her on. On and on to a new source.

She could not see them as people anymore. They were…well, the gray-faced one insisted that they were dead, that they had Energon in a base form. Which she needed. And she was alive.

She couldn’t tell that difference anymore either.

“Come, Dancer,” said the gray-faced one now; she rose. Both of her optics were working again, her hands no longer cramped in death. She could move, if only to follow the gray one.

Even her voice was coming back. And time passed.

Energon was growing hard now; she had to force it away from its container, from the dead, and twice she realized what she was really doing, not merely taking Energon, but drinking it, and not Energon, but mech fluid. Drinking from the dead.

The first time she knew this, she had withdrawn inside herself, screaming silently, but someone had slapped her, and her optics blew out and on, only to see the gray-faced one again, offering a hand down. “Come.”

Come. And she had followed weakly, because the gray-faced one was larger than she was, because the gray one seemed to know about Energon, and because, because…she was not alone. There was the gray-faced one too.

But it was hard and dried and her systems were failing again. That was when the gray-faced one brought her back to the Guardians, to the colony and not into the darkness anymore, and she couldn’t merely dribble her fingers in the mech anymore. She had to scrap it off, lick it off, and her head ached the entire time.

Pools and puddles.

She remembered, vaguely, spreading her tiny fingers in an all-embracing silver pool, and then suddenly afraid, hiding her face in her hands, the silver slivers dribbling into her mouth. Fear.

And…

But she had to. Or else…the gray-faced one, the one, she was not alone, would make her.

You must live Dancer little Dancer

The Guardian.

The gray one…she feared her and loved her and in the dark, when her hunger was sated and her optics dead, she laid in the ground, shaking, trembling, still afraid, and the gray one watched over her and the dead Omicron.

There were still monster hand prints everywhere, but the gray one was not afraid of them. She simply walked on, and the child followed her.

There was still mech fluid. But it was old and dried and even now she could not gain any.

Her chronometer ticked down seven days, days from when the monster came, days and the gray-faced one watched her still, days from when the Guardian…

When she thought of the Guardian, that was what scared her even more than the monster. Almost as much as the gray-faced one.

Days ticked. And on the ninth day, her chronometer died.

Dancer…Dancer…

Someone was calling her, but she scrunched down deeper in the ground, spoil and refuse from a ruin offering protection.

Dancer…StarDancer! Come here!

Mom? No, not Mom….not her dad, not Wind, and she whimpered, optics off and digging deeper.

Wind. She’s the gray one does not like Wind Wind Nightwind.

“Dancer!”

This time she opened her optics, light pouring down, and the gray-faced one was before her. A tower of gray and silver, and she whimpered. Her vocals were shutting down again.

“Energon,” said the gray-faced one, and she could only shake her head. No more. There was no more Energon, the bodies were clean and dry and she was so afraid, so alone.

“Dancer,” said the gray-faced one, and

I know and neither have they at a time, Dancer, Dancer

I’m alone, Plasma

No, not alone, never alone, little Dancer. You are not alone.

The bug! She tried to scream, to cry, the bug the insect Plasma he has no air organics need air. Plasma. Plasma!

And the tubes gone and the blue and green so big and bright like stars themselves the bug was dead they all die Dancer

She blinked her optics, and Plasma was gone, the gray-faced one was before her, the insect was gone. She whimpered.

But the gray one was not looking at her, but away. Looking at the sky. And she looked too, afraid.

There was nothing but air and sky there. There was nothing…but a sudden humming, and the gray one looked at the child.

For one moment, there was a face, shimmering and silver there, and then nothing again.

“One comes,” said the gray-faced one, raising an arm skyward; the child’s optics trained on it, drawing up its length.

Dancer

No words aloud, the gray one inside her! No loud voices. Inside her CPU, her head, her spark, and she tried to scream through worn-through circuits.

Dancer StarDancer dance little child dance find

One comes Dancer one Dancer comes

oh Primus I’m so scared Wind WiND help me!

She can’t help you there is no help find him find them one comes comes Dancer

She tried to scream again, and fell to her knees, her head cradled in her silver-streaked hands, silvery white bands on her face, dried and hard. Dancer.

She whimpered as a small pile of trash and rubble collapsed under her weight, and she held her head, staring at the gray-faced one.

Dancer. Dancer.

And then there was another sound, a mirage, a dream, Wind let it be a dream, and her audios wailed as there was sound. Not the gray one. Other sounds.

Her optics flashed on and off without pattern as cries reached her, and then on, staring at the gray-faced one. Dancer you must live Dancer little dance stars.

She knew, knew the dream was over, and reached out a hand, shaking, her form weak. The gray-faced one looked at her, then held out a gray smoke hand. Digits and fingers streaked silver and those gray paused before the touch, and then

Oh by PRIMUS!

We were warned we were! We KNEW what to expect!

That Guardian…to find this place alone

By Primus look at this….oh Matrix…

No survivors he killed them all

Monster. Monster. The Guardian-

Depth Charge-

Yes, I heard he is gone

Gone? where?

After X

The protoform the monster

Oh Primus here’s a leg

Here’s the rest

All dead, dear Primus, a massacre

Monster monster freak poor Guardian

I would have gone mad mad mad

Knowing what to expect….is nothing

Dear Primus, this colony is not just empty

It’s dead.

Dear Primus…

“Dancer,” said the gray-faced one, and the child looked at her, frozen.

She had heard the voices too…from within or without did not matter. She could not tell the difference.

The bug is dead Plasma the bug is alive Plasma dead bug organics need AIR

She shuddered, staring at the hands. Outstretched. Not touching.

Nightwind holding her hand, swinging, Wind, green, blue, insect, organic air, hands and limbs and dear Primus they’re in the WALLS

“You are alive,” said the gray-faced one, and then was gone, swirls of gray face gone and she was alone suddenly, shaking, trembling.

NOOOOOOOO Plasma lied you LIED I am alone NO don’t leave me alone no

She fell to her hands, her body shaking, optics wild and desperate, but the gray one was gone, she was alone, and she hung her head to the ground, her arms nearly giving out, and as her vocal unit split its wires at long last, she screamed, her voice an echo of a child, of Omicron, the sole sound from the dead colony.

She screamed and shrieked, and then as her unit died, its wires unraveling in spurts of mech fluid, her optics flashed off, and her body collapsed.

Dancer Dancer you are alive not dead not ALONE

She shuddered once, and then was still.

By Primus someone get over here! GET OVER HERE NOW!
What what what did you find?

You won’t believe this look! Look!

By the Pit…she can’t be! No survivors there were none!

All dead by the Pit!

Give me vital stats! Medic, anything!

Primus alive, she can’t be!

GET OVER HERE! I NEED SOME HELP HERE!
Dear primus a child a child

She can’t be she can’t be what could she have lived on

Don’t tell me can’t be she is! Vital signs check….

She can’t be alive there were no

He missed her dear Primus X missed her

Is she moving

No, no, I think she’s in shock by Primus

dear Matrix

Medic, I NEED now Primus alive

Oh…she’s alive barely alive she is alive

Vital signs check she’s with us

Shocking shock she’s a child he missed one

Radio Cybertron someone we found one!

Wake up child, wake up little one, come back to us

don’t let him win come back

Dear Primus did she move!?!?!

There was something. Something, and her optics flashed on weakly, staring blankly.

No sky, no gray-faced one, no Wind, no monster…something.

A face. She stared.

Colors colors what color is this class?

Nothing. But something, and her optics flashed again. There was…black and yellow and some white and yellow optics at her. A face. Something.

“Primus she’s here,” said a voice, echoing, echoing, and she opened her mouth, creaking, her body shuddering as two hands closed on her arms.

“Stay with me, child…stay with me.”

No gray in the face. No…no…there was nothing something.

She trembled again, and even as her optics met his, holding him, holding the non-gray but white and black and yellow face form, she slipped and optics still on, and there was good, and there was darkness.