Photon Storm was most upset – the crate was small and dark and cramped. There was nothing he hated more than this place. Was this a punishment? Had he been a bad robot? Photon Storm hated the dark – there was nothing to reflect off his feathers. He hated the the smallness and the cramp, he couldn’t stretch his wings or move or chomp. How long was it until America? Not this long, surely. He’d never taken this long to get to a competition before, at least he didn’t think so. Maybe the dark was getting to him. Playing tricks with his circuits. Yes, that must be it. Unless he had been a bad robot, had he? He couldn’t remember. Worry building up. If he was a bad robot, he wouldn’t be let out. Wouldn’t be allowed to show the world what he had become. Be left in the dark and forgotten like so many other bad robots. No, stop thinking that way Tib… Photon Storm. It’s unbecoming. You’re better than that.

He couldn’t have been a bad robot. Never a bad robot. Storm 2 wouldn’t have married a bad robot. Even before he became Photon Storm, he hadn’t been bad. He hadn’t been the best, tobot – he wasn’t Razer. Oh how he always wished he could have Razer’s success, his power, his good looks. Every young crusher wanted to be Razer. But there’s only one, no imitator could really come close in his mind. None the less, he tried and had never disgraced himself. He must have been a good robot. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been rebuilt, wouldn’t have been made so shiny… Photon Storm was most proud of his mirror bright finish. Even Razer wasn’t this shiny. Maybe he was more powerful too. Razer is older, and old robots can’t stay the strongest forever. Every robot knew the story of Chaos 2.

He smiled to himself remembering the day his rebuild was finished. It has been a long job. His armour completely rebuilt, his wedge redesigned and reinforced. His internals upgraded to within an inch of their lives. Storm 2 had thrown herself off the table in excitement when he was finished, eager to see the results. At least he assumed it was excitement to see him. It had brightened up an otherwise painful day, before he had gotten used to his new self. Everything had felt so peculiar that day and the ones immediately following, like he was himself but not himself. Looking back, he wondered when he had stopped feeling like someone else. It must have been gradual, he supposed. One didn’t suddenly start feeling like they were a new person overnight. In any case, she hadn’t been disappointed with the results.

To pass the time, he tried to remember what his life had been like before her, before he became Photon Storm. When he was still Tiberius, all those years ago. There wasn’t much there? Had it really happened? Photon Storm sits quietly thinking. He has lots of time where he is, in this pit of black. It must have happened, he decides. He remembers the tastes. The subtle difference between iron and steel, aluminium, plastic, glass and batteries. Yes. He must have been Tiberius, must have been a good robot. No one could imagine the taste of metal in such detail.

Finally, after an age. Too long the dark gives way to the light. So bright! Was America this bright all the time? Photon Storm liberates himself from that place, the crate he was shipped in. Was that all that it was, a few pieces of wood? Something so insignificant causing so much darkness. He drives clear, exploring his new surroundings. This must be the pit, he surmises. No robots he knew around, but that’s not unexpected. His wings flap and his crusherrises and falls working the kinks out of his hydraulics. A large, yellow six wheeled tank of a robot notices him and scoots over.

“Good evening… I think, fellow robot.”

The Strange American Robot says nothing and drives around Photon Storm. “Photon Storm, eh? I fought your sister robot once.”

“Pardon? I don’t have a sister, do you mean my wife, Storm 2?”

“She’s your wife? You’ve done well there, Photon. Very well indeed! The name’s Stinger.”

“Photon Storm, charmed I’m sure.” The armoured robot bows its crusher.

The yellow tank laughs “You ain’t anything like your wife, you know that Photon? You’re all fancy and with that little crusher… betcha grew up worshipping the ground Razer drove on.”

“I did not! I’m my own robot, thank you very much.” The British robot replies a little too quickly, metalic feathers definitely ruffled.

“Sure you are.” He chuckles. “Fought his brother Warhead, fun battle. Don’t remember it real good though, just that I won. The years weren’t kind to him.” A pause and a sad shuffle “Shame, really but that’s what happens when you rest on your laurels, letting past glory cloud your vision of the present…”

“Umm congratulations?” Photon awkwardly responds, not quite sure what to say.

“Thanks, Photon!” Stinger says much more happily. “Got a touch melancholy there for a second, but you can’t dwell on these things.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Photon Storm is getting quite unnerved by the intensity of the older American robot.

“So, do you remember much of your battles Photon?”

“Not really, no. I know I’ve fought before, but the specifics escape me. In a way, its like they happened to someone else.”

“Rebuild?” Stinger asks knowingly.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Since my marriage to Storm 2 I’ve become a whole new robot, inside and out. ”

“That’s a shame. A robot should always try to remember, as long as it doesn’t blind you, ‘course.”

“Sometimes, when I was in the crate I tried. All I could recall was the taste of metal and a fear of the dark and the small, the pit I guess. But no more. There’s not much left of Tiberius. Not anymore.” The polished robot shrinks into itself, its crusher resting on the bottom of its wedge, saddened by the memories of a life it no longer recalled.

“Photon, I remember every fight I’ve ever had… well bits and pieces. When you’ve been repaired and rebuilt as many times as I have, things tend to blur together.” He pauses and gets uncomfortably close to the British crusher. “But the pain, oh I remember the pain. Every slam into the wall, every flip and self right, every time Tombstone’s blades hit…” The Killer Bee now sounds more than a little manic. “Oh yes, I remember the pain. Your wife, fast isn’t she? Real tough. She tell you she broke a gearbox fighting me? Never complained, kept fighting, slamming me into the walls. I respect that. Not everyone could do what she did. I might not be able to do what she did so easily. Musta hurt like hell. I bet she remembers.”

“I… I never knew she went to America before today. It was before we met.”

Stinger pushes down on the ground, flipping up its killer bee board. “If we fight, you’d better not hold back Photon. You’d better try and tear me apart wheel from wheel.” Stinger now starts making over excited whirring noises, its board rising and falling, with loud bangs. “Make me remember you, Photon Storm.” The bee looks the feathered robot board to beak before landing back down ad the six wheeler turns on the spot.

“I will, Stinger.” he whispers to himself, not quite sure what to make of the first American robot he encountered.