Article writing
Headlines
Loosely based off 'Outlast'
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are not brothers in this fan fic, they were forced to become split spark by experimentation.
The next chapter will be longer, and will of course contain Sideswipe and Sunstreaker
What is it about the processor that makes it so easy to tick? So easy to fall victim to emotions, to relationships, to a bond that you cling so tightly to. What mechanisms are there to function solely for another person, to grasp a tight hold, and keep them there while you feed off each other? Why would one do such a thing? What would happen when it's time to let go?
The grip would eventually become too tight, and the straining too taut, and the backlash so strong it would send you hurtling back, throwing emotion after emotion and leaving you alone, stranded in your own drowning sea. And what do you do after that? Heal? Or the opposite? Do you sit in a dry corner and weep until your spark simply couldn't endure another wail? Or does the hurt turn to anger, a bitterness that turns into rage and continues to boil and build until there's only room for an eruption of harsh words and regrettable actions?
Is that the limit of a bond? Of a processor, or can it be stretched even further, until it's malleable and unbreakable.
As a race, we share comms, EM fields, breathless words and deep relationships that can be easily snapped from just one flick of the flimsy string that's holding the entire connection together.
Has anyone pushed past that limit? Pushed past that point of a strong relationship to access the greater, and more powerful parts of two people. Has no one thought to unleash that sort of power? Mechs, connected like no other, working in tandem, becoming indestructible as they merge into one force. Mechs that would have to endure the others poignant disposition, or the others gregarious nature.
No one?
The answer is quite straightforward. It has nothing to do with the processor.
Kaon- Eons ago.
4th Orbital Cycle - Miners, degenerates, and any other low-class Cybertronians, are been plucked off the streets, gone before we can notice. If anyone cares too.
5th Orbital Cycle - Mechs are disappearing left and right. Picked straight out of their jobs, missing with no trace, and no one willing to look. Their co-workers scratch their heads, some don't notice and others grow anxious as they fear that their turn may be next.
6th Orbital Cycle - Enforcers are left scratching their heads as Dead End mechs are targeted for countless cases of kidnappings.
8th Orbital Cycle - Miner revolt occurs in the depths of Kaon.
9th Orbital Cycle - Miner found mangled in sewer.
10th Orbital Cycle - Rise in kidnapping; no chance for Dead End residents.
12th Orbital Cycle - The last end?
15th Orbital Cycle - Targets are diversifying; Bodyguard adds to kidnapping count.
17th Orbital Cycle - New exhibition for hidden truth leads to disappearance of Senator *DISCONTUINED*
Kaon- Present Time
The camcorder crackled, lens fritzing as it focused on a blurry figure illuminated by a bright light in an otherwise dark room. The camera brightened, focusing and bringing in a clear view of an average sized red and white mech lounging lazily in his chair. His paint was peeling off in some places, and the little flakes fluttered off his body and floated to the ground with each intake. The medic's cuffed hands rested stiffly on the interrogation table, optics vacant as he stared straight ahead.
A voice coughed off camera, clearing their vocaliser as papers were shuffled.
"Start from the beginning please, and spare no information." A cold voice intoned.
The mech sniffed, bringing his cuffed hands to his chest so he could jab a finger at whoever was behind the camera, "First things first. Before I get started, I want you all to know that I'm giving up this information because I'm not like them, I'm not," He paused, face considering, "one of them."
"Understood."
The medic eyed the mech behind the camera for a second, face serious as he considered him. But after a couple more seconds of silence, the expression dropped and he sighed, suddenly looking very tired and worn down. Whatever was weighing him down obviously gnawing at him.
"You all know when it started? When those miners went missing eons ago?" He asked as he lifted his head.
The mech behind the camera must have nodded, and the medic only spared a small glance up at him before he continued.
"They were all brought up to Iacon."
He paused again, making sure that the mechs in front of him were listening.
"There's an asylum and it's been there since the first war. Mechs who were deemed mentally unstable or a threat to themselves were put there. Locked away in the stuffy cells, some in cuffs for the majority of their time."
He paused, wincing as he averted his eyes, "I guess I didn't know how bad it was, but obviously it was too late to leave. They wouldn't let me, with all the things I had seen. With all the things I had done…"
He trailed off into a whisper, face mournful.
A sharp cough brought words tumbling from his mouth once more and the medic brushed flakes of paint from his shoulder as he told the enforcers about the miners, and how they were easy targets because no one could be bothered to report them, or even notice their absence. He told them about how Dead End mechs used to throw themselves at them, preferring to be submitted to experimentation than the starvation and rape they suffered through in the slums of Kaons.
"They had been doing experimentation since they opened, trying to create bigger, more powerful Cybertronians to fight for them. And it worked for some time. All they had to do was stick them in front of a screen, virus submitted into their processor to freeze their optics, forcing them to watch what we call 'lucid dreaming'. It drove them mad, drained their sanity away. You should have seen them. They were rusting, pale and all colour to their armour was melted down to grey."
Ambulon shuddered, remembering how patients would scream, empty processor nibbling on lost memories and forgotten normality.
"They were mentally deteriorated, and not many made it to the final stages."
"Final stage to what?"
Amublon shrugged, "I don't know, I didn't have the clearance."
He frowned, "But it angered the boss, and it was just when he and the other doctors and scientists were brewing up another idea. They sent us out, a reasonable amount of information withheld, and into the slums of Kaon once more."
Ambulon paused, glossa darting out to swipe over his denta nervously,"That was when we spotted him. We weren't given a specific mech, but the other mechs were adamant on him. However, times had changed, and it wasn't easy snatching bots off the streets anymore."
"Good." The voice said dryly, and the enforcer must have been glaring coldly down at the poor medic, and he hurriedly talked on, returning the glare.
"He was a trader, so it was easier to get him at the docks. But the other one, an artist or something. Always holed up in his apartment."
"How did you know that these two would match? That they would take to one another?"
Ambulon shook his head, "We didn't, it was a wild guess. But they did, and it was something I had never seen before. It was horrific, the creation of something... Abominable."