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The rains on this planet are so different from the rains on Cybertron. Dihydrogen monoxide, simple and abundant on this little blue and green ball of dirt and vegetation. It hangs in the sky as puffy little clouds in the bright blue sky, and, when they become too laden with their own weight, the rain showers across the land.
As cool droplets fall across Lonestar’s armor, she turns her optics to the sky. Lightning cracks across the grey storm clouds, thunder rumbling soon after. It calls to her. Sure a storm makes for unsafe flying conditions, but when has she ever listened to warnings like that?
Transformation is second nature. It’s so wild to think that there was a point where she had to learn what her body could do, but, like the avians of this world, she now caught the wind with ease.
As she pushes higher, electricity crackles across her plating. It’s euphoric, flying in a thunderstorm. Like what she imagines recharging without going offline would be like, electricity seeping into her and giving her a boost of wakefulness. Maybe she should suggest using Earth’s electrical storms as an alternate charging source. It would certainly save on resources in climates where the phenomena is common.
Lonestar pushes higher, into the clouds and then up above them. The sudden sunlight warms her plating and the winds banish the droplets of condensation that tried to cling to her. She changes out of her alt mode, savoring the sun on her faceplate.
She stays as long as she dares. Technically, she’s still on patrol. But their posting is so remote. Hidden away on this little organic infested rock far from the front lines. Far from everything she’d worked for and all of her dreams.
Maybe it was a punishment. Unbidden, she feels a tightness on her helm. Her servos fly up, expecting to feel a hand larger than her head, but nothing is there. A memory flux. They happen less frequently now, but they never really go away. A pain in the joint where her wings meet her back or a pressure on her helm. Sometimes she hears the wrenching of her helm being crushed.
The medic said it was normal after a traumatic experience. That it was better for her to keep the experiences than to try and resort to mnemosurgery to rid herself of them, since her processor would continue feeding the phantom sensations whether or not she remembered why.
Lonestar dives back down into the storm, offlining her optics and relying on her nav systems to keep track of where she is. All she wants at the moment is to feel the storm and let its energy fill her. She would turn off more non-essential systems, but you never know.
The rain skids across her plating again, cool and cleansing. It washes away the memory flux and reminds her that she’s whole. Nothing is missing, nothing is broken. Everything is where it should be. She is where she should be. And one day the war will end and she’ll go home. She just has to be patient.