Hi! Here is my new Transformers story, Alone!
Title: Alone
Universe: Prime AU
Rating: T, may be M for angst and depression and gore (horror)
Warnings: There Will Be Angst and Depression
Summary: Knock Out is alone after centuries of war that have ravaged the paltry planet known as Earth. He has seen horrors no sane mind would be able to comprehend and has committed horrifying acts himself. There is nothing left to fight for. Everything is dead. So when he find a young survivor, will his current beliefs change?
"To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there...there is the torment." George Lansdowne.
There was nothing, just beautiful silence. A cloak that wrapped itself around everything, one that was welcome with its cold and unfeeling grasp.
Silence. Yes. He liked it that way.
This path was so silent. The only noise, however, faint it was, was the light crunch of his pedes over the rotting metal of the corpses beneath him. Oh, the lovely corpses. He could only think about the supplies he would be able to obtain with such wonderful parts. Things he needed desperately...but not as much as the joy of dismantling former allies.
He doubted there was such a thing that was not silence. He had become so accustomed to it that it was just…natural. There was nothing but the breathtaking silence. Not the one that possessed one to stare in awe. No, this silence was different.
This was the silence that was heard at the end of the world.
Sure, he had seen the destruction of his homeworld thousands of years ago. But this war, this new war started by the alleged Lord Protector ...there was nothing. It was just...pointless.
They had continued to fight until there was nothing left. Death and destruction had followed them, nipping at their heels, until it reared like a savage and feral animal and tore them apart with a cold and merciless venomous dripping maw.
Humanity was just a faint speck in the great shadow of the universe. The universe was lucky to be alive. And so was he.
He just found it hard to actually care about it.
Ever since most of the entire Cybertronian race had been terminated, either by the ruthless war or by the relentless hand of Time, he had learned enough to know that one found there was little to care about when everything they had cared about was destroyed.
His appearance, for one thing, was an example. He had once been a loud and narcissistic mech with a bright red paint job and golden rims that were polished enough to blind anyone idiotic enough to look directly at them. There had been no scratches or scars anywhere on his frame. He had rarely fought as a result of his intense appreciation and love of his appearance.
Now, there was no one left to show off to. No one at all. He had found it much easier to be able to blend into the dark like the stalker some believed he was. The only major thing he had changed about his physical appearance was his paint. He was now a darker red, a burgundy, really, with black chrome rims instead of the blinding and bright golden ones he had had. He realized it was much more inconspicuous to blend into the dark or to give the impression he had been terminated long ago...a wonderful illusion for those who dared attempt to raid his ship. Ah, yes. He could remember those few idiotic stragglers that were foolish enough to actually try and steal from him. No, he had not been pleased when he had found out.
Their bodies were reminders to those: a decaying and foul reminder that should one attempt to purloin his supplies, they most definitely would not make it out alive. Not with so much...well, there really was nothing to put on the line. The line was nearly gone now, depleted of all faith and energy.
His paint was not all that had changed. With his Energon depletion, his optics were darker than ever, and his movements, however slow or sluggish they were, were only enhanced by his more than normal reflexes honed by vorns of dodging airborne weapons. His paint was not kept in pristine condition, either. Normally he would have raged and sworn at the scars and scratches on his frame. But, like before, there was little in him that actually cared. The only thing in him was anger and the need to survive by any means necessary.
Yet, despite was others saw on the outside, and despite the current turn of events, his narcissism had all changed when the war had corrupted him.
Corruption was so hard to avoid when one was chased by the death throes any industrialized skirmish dragged along behind them like a child waiting for a piece of some sort of sugary sweet that would never come. On Cybertron, politicians were the main sign of corruption, results of political machines and bribery from large and worldwide industries and senators. Every now and then, he remembered, there was a ruler who was captured or assassinated or even publicly tortured and executed (by a rather disturbing assigned executioner) because they could not resist the temptations the beckoning hands of corruption and greed and power held.
No, he had not been a politician or senator or some other nonsense like that, and truth be told he was pleased he had never achieved that childhood goal.
He had been corrupted by bloodlust and insanity.
He may not have given the impression about it on the outside, with his ever-present smirk and infuriating jibes that had run his superiors and colleagues up the wall, to steal the strange human term, but his sanity had been best doubted by the agitation caused by his experimenting and scavenging, which were his hobbies, believe it or not.
Yet deep down he knew his alleged "insanity" was caused only by his deeply hidden depression.
The war did nothing to soothe it. It had only made it worse, like the outside vermin attempting to infiltrate the supposedly advanced protection protocols used to keep out unwanted and lethal viruses that used their irritating furtiveness to scope out the defense mechanisms and somehow find a way in.
His depression was not normal. Not by any means. There was nothing to be affected so strongly by anymore, nothing to make the infected wounds of grief and pain fester.
No.
Wait.
There was one thing. One measly, formerly insignificant thing that could affect him. There was only one thing that could make him feel this way.
It was his desire to be alone.
It had not altered his condition in any way before, not until the war had decimated everything his kind had touched.
Normal alone was when he tired of a certain someone's rants over authority and being the rightful heir. Normal alone was when he had a massive processor ache and wanted to head to berth early to futilely attempt to recharge...and wanting to rip out the vocalizer of anyone who spoke during his aforementioned attempt. Normal alone was merely wanting to be shut and wrapped in solitude to read the contents of a favorite datapad or to clear his processor.
The type of alone he so wantonly desired as of present was not normal. He liked being one of the only type of his race left. He liked the silence that accompanied the watchful eye of death and misery.
It was not healthy.
Yet he found that there was little feeling left in him to actually care.
Alone...yes. That was the key word in this dead and crumbling world, was it not? Death was hardly comparable and the Pit even seemed so promising right now.
He found that he needed the silence.
It kept him sane.
Now, one might wonder how the one thing that was slowly killing him somehow made him sane in addition...well, he was not so sure himself.
The silence gave him something to do.
He could actually think and clear his processors without the looming threat of retribution, one that had more often than not caused him immense physical and psychological pain.
It gave him time to think about the past actions he had committed...memories that had never truly gone away like he had thought they had.
The things, in order to explain, that had plagued him for centuries incessantly.
He could also think about those he had cared about.
Oh, how he missed him so. He had been the only one who had truly understood him.
It was that femme's fault he had been taken from him so quickly.
Without a chance for him to say how much he had actually cared, a feat that was rather astonishing in its solitude.
She had better hope he would not find her. That is if she was still alive.
With a broken vent, he trudged on through the diseased world.
Hope you liked! This was an idea that came to me a while ago. I just had to find time to put it into words.
Questions, concerns, suggestions, please PM or leave it in a review!
Bye! :)
