Silent as the Grave
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"There are times when silence has the loudest voice."
--Leroy Brownlow
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It was something newcomers never failed to comment on. His designation was just too ironic, they would say, and it was. After all, he had not spoken a word since his home city was destroyed all those stellar cycles ago.
He did not know who had started that battle. He remembered only the clash of titans, only purple on red, and when all was said and done, the Autobots stood victorious over the broken, burned-out husk of his dead city.
That was why he joined them.
He was the only survivor. That knowledge left him…empty somehow. It was an unbearable feeling, and all he could find to fill the void left by his deactivated companions was sullen resentment and a seething hatred that would not be sated. He did not want revenge for his loss. He sought only some way to deaden the pain left by absence.
He doubted his old friends would recognize him now.
He was an invaluable asset to the Autobots, their finest sharpshooter. It was a skill honed to perfection by thousands of cycles of lonely practice—gunshots filling the silence left by words he could not bring himself to speak—and had sent innumerable Decepticons to premature graves. Killing was the only thing he ever felt like doing now. It was the only thing that took the sorrowful edge off his bitterness, and he was very good at it.
There was more opportunity to kill with the Autobots than with their soft-sparked enemies. The Decepticons were too hopelessly noble to snipe casually at their opponents from the safety of afar, which was really all he could do. He was not of the make to be able to stand, unflinching, at the frontlines and face the adversary honorably.
Sometimes, when the steady cycle of endless battle slowed and despair clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach to wail dissonantly against his spark, he killed one of his own. There was little camaraderie among the Autobots. There were many that would not be missed. It was all he could do to keep the memories at bay, to sit, shrouded by darkness and distance and—with one calculating glance down the scope of his rifle—feel his spark flair up with life as his target's sputtered and died.
Rarely did anyone care enough to find the body.
They barely cared enough to find his.
It was incredibly unlucky—or lucky, depending on the perspective—that he was hit. A Decepticon flier was shot near him and jettisoned his cargo in a desperate attempt to stay aloft. Among that cargo was a brace of cluster bombs, and the desolate, decrepit husk of a building from which he was sniping at entrenched Decepticons—and, occasionally, Autobots—shielded him from sight, not from high-powered explosives.
It took ages to die, his lower half crushed beneath a chunk of the ceiling while he slowly bled out, without enough motor function remaining to grab the shattered rifle a half-inch from his left hand. Without the means to call for help if he cared that much to live.
Cycles later, a shuffling, and a face peered over a ruined wall.
"Aw, fraggit. 'E is dead."
"You fraggin' me? We hiked all the way out here fer nuthin'?" Another face. "Slag, he was our best sharpshooter."
"Weird fragger, though. Ya ever 'eard 'im talk?"
"Naw."
"Me neither. Dunno if 'e could. S'funny."
"Yeah, with a name like Bluestreak, ya'd think he'd, y'know, 'talk a blue streak.'"
"'E'd get hisself shot, then."
"S'not th'point. He ain't aptly named. He was always silent as th'grave."
An ugly sniggering sound.
"Lit'rally now."
Another.
"Guess so. So should we haul him in fer spare parts?"
"Nah, 'e ain't a real common build. Don't think 'is parts are compatable. 'E's busted 'alf to slag anyways. Jess leave 'im."
Another shuffling, and they were gone.
And Bluestreak's cold, lifeless optics glared hatefully up at the darkened sky.
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A/N: Today's angst-fest presented to you by BlackMarketTrombones' twisted mind in conjunction with SuperMoose's unwittingly provided impetus.
Yesterday, I was chatting with SuperMoose about Shattered Glass and she mentioned that Bluestreak (one of her favorite characters) was not in it, to which I replied, "I cannot even imagine a Shattered Glass Bluestreak." Apparently, I can.
It was fun writing about "hopelessly noble" Decepticons. Also, dialogue is an interesting medium.
And I hate it when the title is a direct quote from the content, but it just fit.
--BlackMarketTrombones