Chapter Text
As always, Sentinel wakes up in the miniscule berth whose mattress hardly alleviates the hard surface feel of the wood beneath.
As always, Sentinel trudges from his coffin of plush and blankets and takes a shower. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, he would last half an hour under the showerhead as the pleasantly warm water caressed his frame - but here, the water carries only a ruthless frost that embeds its fangs into him, and he can only bear it for five minutes or less.
As always, he brushes his teeth, but afterwards there is something he had cut off from his schedule: the brief yet keen glance in the mirror. There is no mirror here - what do you think this is, some spacebound hotel? - and in truth, there is none needed. Sentinel already knows his frame has lost its sheet of flawlessness, now in lieu a canvas of cuts and dents which there is nothing available to remove, and he would fare better without the reminders that a reflection of himself serves.
As always, he then scours the kitchen. Well, it's more of a compartment center, no larger than a window, that holds the contents of his breakfast. Energon soup. Contrary to the substance implied in its title, it is surprisingly dry, and barren of taste, and oftentimes Sentinel chooses to skip the only meal available if it means protecting his tongue from such an unforgivable offering of consumption. His hunger soon gets the best of him, however.
Tanks fueled for no reason, Sentinel returns to his waiting, undone berth with a trudge laced in his step. He cocoons himself in the covers, and powers down to recharge. As always.
Oh, you thought there was something different, didn't you? Nope, this is all that there is: sleep, wake up, cleanse the self needlessly, eat, and repeat.
Welcome to the first few centuries of Sentinel's new life as an exile. Expect nothing.
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On the days where there are holidays, Sentinel lays in bed far longer than he should and entertains himself with recollections of what he did, once upon a time not so long ago, on the holidays. Remembers laying in his own bed, in his own gilded castle, munching on energon treats as a movie plays on the television before him.
How terribly he yearns for those energon treats again, the sugars and salts that melted and danced on his tongue. He thinks back to the guards that prepared this miniscule podship for him, and a twinge of vexation curls within him. They could have at least provided him more than merely one option for the breakfast meal. Bastards.
Sometimes, he dances with the foolish albeit amusing hope that, if he prays and wishes with sufficient fervor, a bag containing energon treats will, upon but miracle, pop up before him, prepared for teeth and gnashing jaw. It doesn't, obviously, but there's no harm in dreaming.
As long you don't depend on it to alter even a fraction of your reality.
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The podship comes barren of many requirements to the daily function of one's life: The complete and utter lack of decent food, warm water, what have you. But it does have a window.
It's rectangular and medium-sized, providing a relatively decent opportunity for stargazing if ever the desire arose, which it rarely did, given that Sentinel never quite found stars alluring, as most others did. His amazement was reserved for riches and wealth and gilded things.
But because such things belonged to a time that is so long past, possessed a great difference to the one he resides in now, it could be defined as another's lifetime, Sentinel does cast optics to the window to eye the cosmos on occasion. There isn't much to be amazed by, in truth, unless you find the abyssal darkness of the universe, coupled by the rare appearance of a distant star's light, wonder-worthy. Which Sentinel does not.
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The podship has a control panel. Ironically, it will do nothing under Sentinel's servos.
This can be evidenced by the first few times he attempted to gain some fragment of control, regardless how miniscule, of the ship, only for his attempts to prove fruitless as he pressed buttons on repeat and fiddled with the controls; neither responded to either his touches or movements of the hand. A month or two into his exile-fueled, ever-slow trek through the abyssal expanse of space, he had grown a vexation in regards to the unsavory circumstances at hand and sought thus a way to change them, if only slightly. If only to steer the course of the pod. If only to, at the very least, be privy to the information of this pod's destination.
Said destination about which the Autobots never took it upon themselves to inform him. Sentinel finds that funny. Would it have killed them to do that, to tell a prisoner the details of his own sentence? At least spare him that dignity. But no, the capability of during such could not be found within them.
You see, and Sentinel wishes he could broadcast this across the cosmos, let it reach what is no doubt a warton Cybertron right about now, if his presumptions align with the actualities of reality -- the Autobots are a petty bunch, akin to children, almost.
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Though small it may be, the podship - which Sentinel has decided to call the Venturer - has proven its ability to house both an entire mech and two tons' worth of depression thereof.
Well, Sentinel thinks he has depression, anyway. When he wakes, he doesn't rise. Cannot, it seems. Primarily it started off as an act of giving the self some leeway, you know, relieving his schedule of the majority of its immediacy with which it had first been attached to the function of his daily life. But now he doesn't want to rise from this berth to which it seems he is wholly tethered, blankets clutching at limp limbs, pillow suffocating the lain helm. Frequent and urging in its beckons, no matter the time, because, to be quite franke, time is an irrelevant factor in space, recharge comes to him with increased ease; he drowns under its waves without even an attempt to oppose, as if willingly. Sometimes his sleep is flavored with a dream or two, sometimes not. Nightmares, never. Peculiarly enough.
Well, he did have a nightmare, once. He'd dreamt that he was slumbering in that gilded apartment of his, when two, insignificant miners - one red and blue, the other gray - invaded his space and randomly planted a bomb that was to set off in five seconds. Everything exploded, including Sentinel himself; when the dust settled and the remnants of his collapsed and destroyed building lay, so did he, in the heart of it all - er, well, what remained of him, at least. A servo and a bloodied leg, specks of energon dotting the disturbed earth. Citizens breezed past the grisly scene, rarely sparing even a glance its way. When an alarmed child pointed a digit to the parts of his destroyed frame, the mother, unfazed, grabbed her child's hand and led her away, saying lightly, "Happens every day." Sentinel awoke then, gasping, relief washing upon him soon thereafter as he soothed himself with the thought that It was all just a dream. But the podship walls and the thin blankets and the poorly stuffed pillows upon which his helm sat soon refuted said thought. That day, the option of crying was a temptation.
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Time becomes irrelevant, as does the concept of minutes, days, weeks, months, years, centuries. Half insane, Sentinel busies himself with counting stars. One. . .two. . .three. . .
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No books, no television, no nothing. Sentinel wants a book, any book. He wants to read something other than the WARNING descriptions in the cockpit of his podship (another unusable attribute thereof) and his own thoughts, slow and disjointed as they are.
Bastards, he thinks when recalling the Autobots. Thought of so often whenever the group flashes in his processor, the name has become synonymous with their official title; the definitions intertwine, intermingle, become a myriad of sorts. Both represent the group they are attached to.
The bastards couldn't bother to install not even a library , huh?
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. . . . .
. . .
. . .
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It is official, maybe. Sentinel has depression. He can feel it: a great weight crushing his chestplate, devoid of ruth of mercy as it binds his unmoving frame to the bed akin to unseen Quintesson tentacles. Oppressively heavy and unrelenting in its drive to bring his spirits to the ground, it is unlike anything he has ever felt previously,
Fortunately, the embrace of covers is a small, albeit by no means alleviating, comfort.
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More often than not, Sentinel conjures in his mind a notepad in his hands. On this imaginary notepad, he writes down all the things he misses, and the things he yearns for:
-Decent food
-Energon treats (loads)
-A nice, tall, gilded apartment
-Money. My lifeline.
-A nice berth & blanket. A glass of high-grade.
-All of Cybertron, really.
-breakfast and dinner that doesn't make me want to purge my tanks out
-All the power
-A RIGHTFUL execution of those two miners, make it SLOW and PAINFUL , I get front seat of course.
-happiness that I can't find here
-the matrix. I deserve it.
-power power power
-My life. My life back.
Sometimes, he finds himself adding one more thing to this list of wants:
-Airachnid
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They weren't what you would call friends. Not exactly. Airachnid was his bodyguard, and per that title, she stood by his side when the requirement arose, which it did 90% of the time, but otherwise? He was the superior, she the inferior, the subordinate. An acquaintance of his, terribly loyal till the end, and nothing more.
But he relished her presence. Airachnid was quiet, an open opportunity for all his (very much imperative, very much influential) words to flow out and about, flavor the air. And she listened. Without vexation coloring her optics or tuning him out. And, well, Airachnid was Airachnid, eccentric and all, and Sentinel liked that, and that was that. And her best trait? Again, the aforementioned loyalty. It was nice to know that, while others turned their backs on him (rightfully so, he must admit) and sought no longer his praise but rather his helm, she fought for him, until the bitter end. He wondered what became of her, after his fall. He hadn't seen her since the gilded tower of his last fell, but he'd heard talk among the prisoners that she somehow escaped the claws of the hunting government, and was now on the run. He doesn't know if she has heard of his exile yet.
A part of him wishes she were on the same boat as him, trapped in this tin can, if only for the company of another, to keep him grounded, because, Primus, this vacuum of space and stars is not enough. Too quiet. Too silent. Too. . .
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If you ever asked Sentinel if he regrets anything he did, the answer would have been a swift and firm Yes. He regrets his lack of vigilance over the city he ruled. Regrets. . .well, that's pretty much it. If he had only been more vigilant, had imposed upon his citizens harsher rules and regulations, perhaps, you know, he would be in the comfort of his apartment, hunched over his desk as he slayed with pen and paper the seemingly infinite loads of contracts he was sent, and not floating in space in a tin can without true direction or aim.
But that is all that remains a regret of his, a rotting reminder sticking to the very pits of his processor. Anything else he has done is a victory, a medal he will willingly wrap around his neck for all to bear witness to. Slaying the Primes, falsely claiming himself among them per Primus' choice, placing Cybertron under his control - he regrets none of it. Why should he? He gained power and fame. Tore himself from the shadow that was the wholly insignificant job of mere advisory.
And if given the chance, he would do it again and again and again.
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Centuries pass; galaxies are entered and exited, crossed. In a span of a few years, the Venturer passes a sun or two, perhaps even an entire ring of them. Some are red or orange, others white or blue, the blue ones burning the hottest.
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Sentinel may have been erroneous in his assumption that space is nothing more than a great expanse of darkness. Because, though so rarely it happens, he spots planets as the Venturer continues in its journey, its speed laced with a laze.
Though wonders they are, given the otherwise barrenness of the universe in terms of aforementioned wonders, none of the planets he passes are even close to Cybertron's size. In fact, they're incredibly small, they look like pebbles. Sentinel wonders if any of them can sustain life. He wonders if one of them will be his new "home."
It is fitting, he thinks, in an ironic way: falling from grace, he returns exactly where he started: somewhere small, and insignificant.
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When Sentinel wakes, he doesn't have any plans of rising, caressed as he is by the covers, the pillow. For days now - the exact amount is doesn't matter - he has disregarded the continuous and far-too-frequent growls and grumbles of his empty tanks as they hunger for consumption, and his body has grown a powerful stench he can hardly bear, yet such unsavory circumstances seem lilliputian in size as he slumbers without a care in the world -- the universe. He really should eat something, however. Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself for the umpteenth time; a promise barren of commitment, weaved into a mantra of repeatedly thought falsehoods as if they will fill his empty tanks and temporarily obliterate the stretch.
His optics open slightly, mere slits through which the shining blue peeks through. Nothing is new, what he sees, except -
The window. Something - the zenith of a planet it seems like, the hues of an atmosphere, just barely visible to the mech's optic, and oddly near. The Venturer almost never passes a planet with such an extreme proximity as it is now. Could it be. . .?
For the first time in days, and with a new urgency that had not reemerged within him since centuries ago, Sentinel rips off the covers and approaches the window. Only an inch separating the thick glass and his faceplate, he takes a look outside.
The planet is minuscule, even more so than the previous ones he'd seen, and vividly blue, with swirls of white speckled here and there --- clouds. Pieces of land are visible, of varying colors as well, from green to pure white to the lightest of browns. No metal can be seen. That must mean. . .
He's going to an organic planet, isn't he?
What are the odds. He could hardly handle stepping foot on the Surface during those laborious, horrid, monthly rendezvous with those beastly Quintessons, with all the vegetation that stuck out and onto his frame and dirtied it, the impossibly great humidity of the air; and now he's got to somehow find a home on this ball of rock and soil?
Suddenly there is a shift in the pod's speed, a quickening thereof, which Sentinel notices only because he's grown accustomed to the crawl of the pod as it ventured space and star for countless years. The ceaseless hum of the engines turns into roars and he stumbles a little at the abrupt change in force, pressing himself against the wall to maintain footing.
The podship only goes faster. And faster. To a point where it should be impossible, and Sentinel feels like purging a little, and he might if this damned tin can doesn't slow down.
"Shit," he grinds out, but it could have been a mutter or a gasp or a yell, he doesn't know through the incomprehensibly loud roar of the engines. Or the impossible speed of this ship. He feels like he's going to pass out, he feels like - -
Just when he thinks he's going to black out, the podship begins to slow. Its engines don't roar as loudly. If feels as though the brewing chaos, as quickly as it roared to disjointed life, is being soothed its way to a state of rest. Onlining his optics, Sentinel finds himself on the ground, in a crouched position; a servo has flown to his abdomen as an ache prevails inside.
. . That's it, then? He feels as if there's something else.
He looks up. The window hasn't changed - obviously -, but now a bright light shines through, and Sentinel cannot decide if it belongs to a sun or something else entirely; he has so rarely seen color other than darkness. Standing up, he looks through the window. Blue optics widen in surprise.
It's not just light, and holy Primus above, it's not a sun either.
It's sky.
A sky.
Dressed in gray cloud, it is a vast expanse towering over damp great land. Grasses sway vigorously from left to right as a harsh storm wind barrels pass, although any and all outside sound is swallowed by the pod walls. Sentinel stares and stares. He doesn't know what to think.
For one thing, it's a goddamn miracle that he's reached an actual planet. He had come to the conclusion that the Autobots were never true to their word when stating his exile to another place. But he's here.
On an organic planet. Which isn't quite the ideal place of exile for a Cybertronian.
That's a lament for later, however. All he wants to do right now is finally place his pede on something that isn't a ship floor. Much to his approval, there is no password required to be entered as he approaches the cockpit; it swishes open without him having to even press a servo to it, and suddenly, sound returns, invading the silence carried within the ship. So much sound, a cacophony that has seemed to wholly overtake the land. They're no doubt sounds of storm, but they're enough to form minds in Sentinel's servos; they fly up to cover his audials in attempts to prevent the oncoming processor overload.
A part of him tugs at the rope that has grown and tethered him to the ship, suggesting he return to the safety of the pod. But no. Far too many centuries have been wasted in this miniscule space.
He steps forward and presses a pede to the ground, flinching when feeling the sensation of wetness of softness alike. "Ugh." Just like the Surface. Only, here, it has no end.
Damn bastard Autobots must be pretty proud of themselves, flinging a Cybertronian to the one place it's ill-equipped to take residence on.
The rain is getting on his frame too, but Sentinel doesn't bother to wipe the droplets away or dry himself. He takes another, uncertain step forward, all the while despising the feeling of the ground beneath.
He turns, then. Right before him, swifter than possible, the podship just disappears. Just. Like. That.
Sentinel stares.
"Fucking Autobots," he mutters. Hopefully the vitriol with which he utters the profanities leaks into Cybertron and poisons them all.
Now, he'll never get home. Or anywhere, ever again. Fucking wonderful.
Suddenly, right where his pod unceremoniously evaporated from reality, something else appears. It's small, and as Sentinel steps closer, seems to be a wristband of some sort. . . huh.
He slides it onto his wrist. Then, a holographic image of a message appears, words appearing as a feminine and inappropriately exuberant voice speaks.
"If you're getting this message, you've reached your destination. Congratulations on your 17 million year journey to your new home as an exile!" Oh, so the Autobots got jokes now, huh? Ha-ha. "I will scan the nearby skirts to further aid you in adjusting to your new home." Something even smaller, barely the size and length of Sentinel's thumb, emerges from where it was placed in a miniscule compartment in the wristband and ascends nearly to the ether. From it, thin and translucent light beams forth in all directions, true to the voice's statement.
Then it reenters the compartment and it slides closed, now only a line on the smooth surface. Sentinel raises a brow in question as the voice continues.
"Many inhabitants have been spotted in the area. To blend in, you will go through a process called 'transformation.' Wow, Sentinel definitely hasn't heard of that one before.
"Please shield the optics as best you can as the process commences."
He doesn't like the sound of that. "Hold on, what-" But then a powerful blast knocks the breath out of him. Somehow, he's still standing.
As a fleshie.