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Description
I'm afraid there's no denyin'
I'm just a dandy-lion
A fate I don't deserve.
I'm sure I could show my prowess
Be a lion, not a mouse
If I only had the nerve.

--The Cowardly Lion of Oz

The good and bad thing about having a top speed of mach 1.9 is that the ground recedes awfully fast after takeoff. I'd barely launched and already the hangars of the abandoned airport reserved for Autobot training sessions are the size of my fist.

50 meters flight level.

500 meters.

1000 meters.

When I hit 2000 meters, a blast of icy fear slaps me like a shock draft. The air is so thin at this height that I can't snatch enough lift from my wings- or that’s how it feels, anyway. Dammit, I remind myself, you’re a modified Concorde! You’re built for these heights! - To no avail.

In this particle-stripped altitude, the ground and the sky switch places. Too bright. Too sharp. Vertigo. Nausea. My jet engines flare. Conk out. I transform into robot mode and plummet head-first. Goodbye cruel world. Again. Something like a large comet slams into me- it’s Skyfire grabbing my armpits. I grind my fingers into his torso and he swings us both like Tarzan and Jane on a vine. We coast before landing on the same tarmac I’d so recently departed.

As soon as my feet touch the earth I crumple into a heap, babbling incoherently. I'm vaguely aware of Skydive's own smooth descent a few meters away. Skydive must have brought Skyfire for rescue backup, knowing he couldn't carry me alone. You see, I’m a cargo plane, so I tower above Skydive, who’s an F-16 Eagle. Skyfire – being some kind of Cybertronian fighter-jet--- is bigger than either of us.

He’s also incredibly considerate, fussing over my mechanics and dabbing at the fuel I belatedly realize I’d voided during freefall. "Are you all right, Silverbolt? Is anything damaged?"

"I'm fine," I manage to stutter before retching mech fluid. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

I feel- rather than see- the two planes exchange pitying glances. They both know I’m lying, that there is a problem. Not a physical debilitation, but just as crippling: I, Silverbolt the Aerialbot, am afraid of heights. Yes, I'm an airplane. An acrophobic airplane. I was built out of a low-altitude cargo jet. Let's get that out of the way, shall we?

It takes some effort to convince Skyfire and Skydive that, yes, I'm okay, really, and would they mind if I walked the rest of the way to the Ark alone (emphasis: ALONE). They still insist on accompanying me until I resort to threatening them with a scene-by-scene analysis of Dynasty and the relative merits of Kristle versus Alexis (Joan Collins forever, of course!). Predictably, this makes them back off. I watch as they transform and takeoff in perfect unison, twin vapor trails marking the dusk.

It's not their company that bothers me. It’s the fact that they followed me. Skydive must’ve figured that I’d be practicing my flying when I left the Ark, which of course meant that my aft would need saving thanks to the agoraphobia thing. Right now they’d probably be explaining the situation to Optimus, who’d get ready to lecture me yet again on the Importance of Having a Training Buddy. But I was sick of training with seasoned combatants like the Autobots or even my teammates, the Aerialbots. I was sick of their constant taunts: “Why can’t you just fly?” Why can’t you just let go of the fear?”” Why can’t you just do what comes naturally?” The only Autobot who’s expressed empathy with my situation is Red Alert. Unfortunately, he’s also too much of a hypochondriac to baby-sit.

On second thought, I don’t want to return to the Ark. Maybe the drive-in movie theater off Route 865 is showing something decent. I’m an Earth-lover. I like Earth movies. So what?

At the drive-inn, Maggie Meyers at the ticket booth bursts gum bubbles. "Heya Silver." She smiles through large yellow teeth, stained permanently by a fifty-year nicotine addiction.

"Good evening, Mrs. Meyers. Got room for an interstellar cargo plane today?"

"Sure. We're pretty empty on Mondays. Go figger- we even got a double-bill for tonight: 'Camp Coagulate' and 'Slasher in the Dark.'

I hand her my credit card- a gift to the Autobots from the American government- and Maggie deducts about ten parking slots’ worth of tickets. Actually my hull fills up thirty slots, but Maggie’s a sweetheart with a discount. The bad thing about having an oversized transport jet as an alt-mode is that everything costs more. I bet Bumblebee never has this problem.

There were one or two other cars in the parking lot. Both were shaking slightly and had foggy windows. I'd seen enough movies not to bother with them; Ratchet, when he’d just arrived on Earth, curiously peered into a quivering sedan and discovered two humans in the midst of a courtship ritual. So I creep past them, trying not to attract too much attention, and squat into my familiar spot at the rear.

The first movie starts a minute later. It’s about a group of human teenagers who vacation in remote woodland. Before long they find themselves besieged by naked female human zombies. A zombie is a kind of walking human shell that's lost its Spark, so it’s forced to consume other humans. Since a Cybertronian without a spark is just an inanimate structure- indistinguishable from, say, a garage- I find the concept of zombies fascinating.

Tonight, however, I can’t concentrate on the movie. The disastrous flight replays in my head. I’m trying to pinpoint the exact height at which I'd lost control. And I couldn't. Past 2000 meters it had all become a wall of sky and wind and space and light that I’d been powerless to penetrate.

Even Skydive couldn’t make port or starboard of it, and he’s the real brain of the Aerialbots. As the youngest members of the Autobots, Optimus insists we study human culture as well as the usual combat tactics and Cybertronian history. My studying usually involves sneaking off to the movie theater or convincing Teletraan I to download Bollywood movies and television shows. Skydive takes his lessons more seriously- the only good movies he’s seen are Top Gun and Star Wars. He’s obsessed with human history- specifically, their air combat history. Despite only acquiring the means for heavier-than-air craft a few decades ago, they'd accrued a vast amount of research into the dynamics of flight and the physics of flight equipment. Skydive devours their research with ease. Sometimes I think he’d be more comfortable trading his wings for a custom data-port.

I inquired whether he'd ever come across references to acrophobia. He mentioned that certain humans attempted to cure such phobias through a technique called 'psychotherapy.' The technique involved discussing one’s ailment with a trained practitioner in the hopes of discovering an underlying emotional trigger which almost always originates in one’s childhood. “Skydive,” I told him, “we're Cybertronian. We don’t have childhoods. We’re both only three months old.”

The second film is bout a dwarf who lures teenagers (why is it always teenagers in these kinds of films?) into her bed-and-breakfast, then kills them and feeds their bodies to the pet Komodo dragons she keeps in her basement. The heroine outwits the dwarf and feeds her to her own dragons. Then the heroine eats the dragons for breakfast. I’m not kidding.

“I’ve seen this one about a billion times, hon. She's gonna go for the pickaxe."
It’s Maggie. Halfway through the movie, cloaked in a dense fog of cigarette haze, she sidles up and leans against my ankle. She could give Smokescreen a run for his money.
"You don’t seem like you're paying much attention, hon.”
"It's not that, Mrs. Meyers."
She spits out a cigarette butt and lights another without skipping a beat.
"Where's all your little friends? Keeping America free from the Defcons?"
"Decepticons," I corrected.
"Yeah, yeah. Where's the baldy with the yellow head? I said I'd give the little sh*t a fat lip to match his big mouth. No offense, hon."
"None taken. Slingshot's working out trine maneuvers with Air Raid and Fireflight."
"How come ain't you with them?"
“Work problems. Nothing serious."

Maggie exhales. "Silver, honey, I’m not yet too drunk to notice that something's bothering you. A mother knows, and believe me I’ve popped out six brats’ worth of ‘knowing’. Y’wanna talk about it?’

I looked at her with renewed fascination. “Are you suggesting we engage in Psychotherapy?"
"Sure, if y’wanna pay me eighty bucks an hour," Maggie laughed. “Just a friendly talk. Ain't nothing else to do around here anyways- 'cept that," she said, pointing to the still-shaking cars.

I end up blurting it out: the agoraphobia, the afternoon’s near-crash, Skydive’s rescue, and my inability to gain the confidence of the Aerialbots- particularly Slingshot, who grows closer to open mutiny everyday. Even Optimus wouldn’t approve of divulging such intimate information to a human noncombatant, but I couldn't help myself. Besides Skydive, Maggie’s the closest thing I have to a friend. I needed someone stronger, and I sensed that Maggie is a strong soul, despite her frail human body. I was like the Cowardly Lion following a chain-smoking Dorothy through Oz.

If this were a movie, she'd say something insightful and wise that would help me discover a vital truth about myself. I'd probably discover that all I had to do to overcome my fear is believe in myself. Cue the moral of the day. End credits.

Maggie does nothing of the sort. By the time I run out of things to say, she’s smoked two more cigarettes down to the filters. She coughs ferociously, hacks, and lights yet another stick.

"You got yourself a problem there, hon," she finally rasps. "My brother-in-law Harry used to work for Animal Control. Got mauled by mastiffs. Now he gets the shakes if a poodle so much as pees on his lawn."

I’m not sure where this is going, so I ask if she can help me.

"Do I look like I know a g*d-damn about giant robots with fr*gging mental issues?"

Description
I'm afraid there's no denyin'
I'm just a dandy-lion
A fate I don't deserve.
I'm sure I could show my prowess
Be a lion, not a mouse
If I only had the nerve.

--The Cowardly Lion of Oz

The good and bad thing about having a top speed of mach 1.9 is that the ground recedes awfully fast after takeoff. I'd barely launched and already the hangars of the abandoned airport reserved for Autobot training sessions are the size of my fist.

50 meters flight level.

500 meters.

1000 meters.

When I hit 2000 meters, a blast of icy fear slaps me like a shock draft. The air is so thin at this height that I can't snatch enough lift from my wings- or that’s how it feels, anyway. Dammit, I remind myself, you’re a modified Concorde! You’re built for these heights! - To no avail.

In this particle-stripped altitude, the ground and the sky switch places. Too bright. Too sharp. Vertigo. Nausea. My jet engines flare. Conk out. I transform into robot mode and plummet head-first. Goodbye cruel world. Again. Something like a large comet slams into me- it’s Skyfire grabbing my armpits. I grind my fingers into his torso and he swings us both like Tarzan and Jane on a vine. We coast before landing on the same tarmac I’d so recently departed.

As soon as my feet touch the earth I crumple into a heap, babbling incoherently. I'm vaguely aware of Skydive's own smooth descent a few meters away. Skydive must have brought Skyfire for rescue backup, knowing he couldn't carry me alone. You see, I’m a cargo plane, so I tower above Skydive, who’s an F-16 Eagle. Skyfire – being some kind of Cybertronian fighter-jet--- is bigger than either of us.

He’s also incredibly considerate, fussing over my mechanics and dabbing at the fuel I belatedly realize I’d voided during freefall. "Are you all right, Silverbolt? Is anything damaged?"

"I'm fine," I manage to stutter before retching mech fluid. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

I feel- rather than see- the two planes exchange pitying glances. They both know I’m lying, that there is a problem. Not a physical debilitation, but just as crippling: I, Silverbolt the Aerialbot, am afraid of heights. Yes, I'm an airplane. An acrophobic airplane. I was built out of a low-altitude cargo jet. Let's get that out of the way, shall we?

It takes some effort to convince Skyfire and Skydive that, yes, I'm okay, really, and would they mind if I walked the rest of the way to the Ark alone (emphasis: ALONE). They still insist on accompanying me until I resort to threatening them with a scene-by-scene analysis of Dynasty and the relative merits of Kristle versus Alexis (Joan Collins forever, of course!). Predictably, this makes them back off. I watch as they transform and takeoff in perfect unison, twin vapor trails marking the dusk.

It's not their company that bothers me. It’s the fact that they followed me. Skydive must’ve figured that I’d be practicing my flying when I left the Ark, which of course meant that my aft would need saving thanks to the agoraphobia thing. Right now they’d probably be explaining the situation to Optimus, who’d get ready to lecture me yet again on the Importance of Having a Training Buddy. But I was sick of training with seasoned combatants like the Autobots or even my teammates, the Aerialbots. I was sick of their constant taunts: “Why can’t you just fly?” Why can’t you just let go of the fear?”” Why can’t you just do what comes naturally?” The only Autobot who’s expressed empathy with my situation is Red Alert. Unfortunately, he’s also too much of a hypochondriac to baby-sit.

On second thought, I don’t want to return to the Ark. Maybe the drive-in movie theater off Route 865 is showing something decent. I’m an Earth-lover. I like Earth movies. So what?

At the drive-inn, Maggie Meyers at the ticket booth bursts gum bubbles. "Heya Silver." She smiles through large yellow teeth, stained permanently by a fifty-year nicotine addiction.

"Good evening, Mrs. Meyers. Got room for an interstellar cargo plane today?"

"Sure. We're pretty empty on Mondays. Go figger- we even got a double-bill for tonight: 'Camp Coagulate' and 'Slasher in the Dark.'

I hand her my credit card- a gift to the Autobots from the American government- and Maggie deducts about ten parking slots’ worth of tickets. Actually my hull fills up thirty slots, but Maggie’s a sweetheart with a discount. The bad thing about having an oversized transport jet as an alt-mode is that everything costs more. I bet Bumblebee never has this problem.

There were one or two other cars in the parking lot. Both were shaking slightly and had foggy windows. I'd seen enough movies not to bother with them; Ratchet, when he’d just arrived on Earth, curiously peered into a quivering sedan and discovered two humans in the midst of a courtship ritual. So I creep past them, trying not to attract too much attention, and squat into my familiar spot at the rear.

The first movie starts a minute later. It’s about a group of human teenagers who vacation in remote woodland. Before long they find themselves besieged by naked female human zombies. A zombie is a kind of walking human shell that's lost its Spark, so it’s forced to consume other humans. Since a Cybertronian without a spark is just an inanimate structure- indistinguishable from, say, a garage- I find the concept of zombies fascinating.

Tonight, however, I can’t concentrate on the movie. The disastrous flight replays in my head. I’m trying to pinpoint the exact height at which I'd lost control. And I couldn't. Past 2000 meters it had all become a wall of sky and wind and space and light that I’d been powerless to penetrate.

Even Skydive couldn’t make port or starboard of it, and he’s the real brain of the Aerialbots. As the youngest members of the Autobots, Optimus insists we study human culture as well as the usual combat tactics and Cybertronian history. My studying usually involves sneaking off to the movie theater or convincing Teletraan I to download Bollywood movies and television shows. Skydive takes his lessons more seriously- the only good movies he’s seen are Top Gun and Star Wars. He’s obsessed with human history- specifically, their air combat history. Despite only acquiring the means for heavier-than-air craft a few decades ago, they'd accrued a vast amount of research into the dynamics of flight and the physics of flight equipment. Skydive devours their research with ease. Sometimes I think he’d be more comfortable trading his wings for a custom data-port.

I inquired whether he'd ever come across references to acrophobia. He mentioned that certain humans attempted to cure such phobias through a technique called 'psychotherapy.' The technique involved discussing one’s ailment with a trained practitioner in the hopes of discovering an underlying emotional trigger which almost always originates in one’s childhood. “Skydive,” I told him, “we're Cybertronian. We don’t have childhoods. We’re both only three months old.”

The second film is bout a dwarf who lures teenagers (why is it always teenagers in these kinds of films?) into her bed-and-breakfast, then kills them and feeds their bodies to the pet Komodo dragons she keeps in her basement. The heroine outwits the dwarf and feeds her to her own dragons. Then the heroine eats the dragons for breakfast. I’m not kidding.

“I’ve seen this one about a billion times, hon. She's gonna go for the pickaxe."
It’s Maggie. Halfway through the movie, cloaked in a dense fog of cigarette haze, she sidles up and leans against my ankle. She could give Smokescreen a run for his money.
"You don’t seem like you're paying much attention, hon.”
"It's not that, Mrs. Meyers."
She spits out a cigarette butt and lights another without skipping a beat.
"Where's all your little friends? Keeping America free from the Defcons?"
"Decepticons," I corrected.
"Yeah, yeah. Where's the baldy with the yellow head? I said I'd give the little sh*t a fat lip to match his big mouth. No offense, hon."
"None taken. Slingshot's working out trine maneuvers with Air Raid and Fireflight."
"How come ain't you with them?"
“Work problems. Nothing serious."

Maggie exhales. "Silver, honey, I’m not yet too drunk to notice that something's bothering you. A mother knows, and believe me I’ve popped out six brats’ worth of ‘knowing’. Y’wanna talk about it?’

I looked at her with renewed fascination. “Are you suggesting we engage in Psychotherapy?"
"Sure, if y’wanna pay me eighty bucks an hour," Maggie laughed. “Just a friendly talk. Ain't nothing else to do around here anyways- 'cept that," she said, pointing to the still-shaking cars.

I end up blurting it out: the agoraphobia, the afternoon’s near-crash, Skydive’s rescue, and my inability to gain the confidence of the Aerialbots- particularly Slingshot, who grows closer to open mutiny everyday. Even Optimus wouldn’t approve of divulging such intimate information to a human noncombatant, but I couldn't help myself. Besides Skydive, Maggie’s the closest thing I have to a friend. I needed someone stronger, and I sensed that Maggie is a strong soul, despite her frail human body. I was like the Cowardly Lion following a chain-smoking Dorothy through Oz.

If this were a movie, she'd say something insightful and wise that would help me discover a vital truth about myself. I'd probably discover that all I had to do to overcome my fear is believe in myself. Cue the moral of the day. End credits.

Maggie does nothing of the sort. By the time I run out of things to say, she’s smoked two more cigarettes down to the filters. She coughs ferociously, hacks, and lights yet another stick.

"You got yourself a problem there, hon," she finally rasps. "My brother-in-law Harry used to work for Animal Control. Got mauled by mastiffs. Now he gets the shakes if a poodle so much as pees on his lawn."

I’m not sure where this is going, so I ask if she can help me.

"Do I look like I know a g*d-damn about giant robots with fr*gging mental issues?"