What you need to understand is this:
Our universe has no shape.
You see, in order to have a shape, a thing must have an end.
Humans in general have a very limited understanding of this concept.
The root of this problem may lie in the fact that humans themselves are a finite species; bipedal and mammalian, unable to grasp the concept of eternity. They live their lives as if they will simply never die, even as they spin steadily towards their ends on a speck of rock in a speck of a galaxy that hardly registers as 'existing' at all in comparison to what's going on around it.
Many of them can say with the utmost conviction that their universe is endless, but they will never quite know it. There is a rather large difference between knowing and knowing, after all.
Perhaps, if one of them did know, they would consider that with an infinite expanse of possibility with infinite degrees of infinite variables, there would absolutely have to be at least one other planet, moon, or rock that had something impossible existing on top of it.
Regardless of a human's definition, 'impossible' in the context of eternal endlessness is really much more alike to 'Incredibly likely to happen' or 'definitely happening now' than it is to 'never'.
'Never', like 'Infinite' and 'Forever', is also incredibly hard for a human to process. It is also endless, and in this way it is much closer to 'Always' than it is to it's own definition.
One might argue that nearly any statement invoking the concept of something 'without end' would actually be stating the exact opposite.
"Pigs will never fly".
"There is no other life in the universe."
Oddly enough, assuming that pigs will always exist, also that as long as flying is physically possible wherever the pig in question is, one of them certainly will fly at some point, which is also to say that as long as there is a universe, there will be things inhabiting it. The kind of arrogance that says that Humans are in some way special in our improbability is the same kind of arrogance that says, in incredible confidence, "Animals are fake and nothing is real."
Now, the question of whether we exist at all is far too complicated and besides the point in this argument, but I can tell you right now that we are not alone, between this universe or any other we may or may not inhabit.
It simply depends on one's definition of 'being'.
In fact, there is one specific planet out there that said it was alone and was wrong long before earth even existed to question itself.
It is a planet inhabited by a kind of life so improbable that we might just be able to say it was destined.
It is called Cybertron.
Well, it isn't actually called Cybertron. Not by humans. It was given a name long, long before earthan alphabets were decided, before any creature called human made any kind of noise. It's name, unspeakable by any kind of organic tongue, is very different and not at all similar to 'Cybertron', but this is an Earth story and so it will be called by an Earth name.
Cybertron.
It is, or was, an incredibly normal planet. Those who lived there didn't question the logic of their metal skin, the energy that gave them life, or the ground at their feet.
Those who lived there, Cybertronians, were very much like humans would be, many starcycles later.
They were giants, men and women whose height rivaled that of earth towers, whose lives spanned lengths that witnessed the births and deaths of stars.
Mechs and Femmes who could change their forms at will, who were brought into being by an artifact called the Allspark: giver of life.
These beings built around them great cities; full with art and music and sport and a thriving economy. They were lead by a single mech, one chosen by Primus to guard and protect the inhabitants of this world. They called the chosen mech the Prime, and the Prime was just and fair to all. But some mechs became suspicious of the Prime; they thought it was unsafe for a single being to have such control of their planet.
Thus the Council was erected: twenty Cybertronians who led alongside the Prime, who reviewed his decrees and judgments before they became law. The Prime, understanding his people's need for security, allowed this. The arrangement lasted many cycles, but soon enough the council became corrupted by wealth and greed and a yearning for greater power. They demanded more production from the mining cities, who bored holes into the ground which collapsed buildings and crystal farmlands. Energon was over-mined, and great ships built of metal were sent off-world in search of new sources.
The once-great nations of Cybertron sunk into poverty, creating red-light districts and gladitorial pits to combat the harsh conditions.
Then came the uprising.
It started out so innocently; a few mechs challenging the council here and there, a few mecha that simply faded out of the public view. The inhabitants of the planet grew nervous and scared, mistrustful of their feeble government's inability to aid them in their time of need.
Whispers spread of a revolution. The name 'Megatron' became well-known as the gladiator of Kaon spoke openly against the corrupt rule of the council. Some followed his great plan for a better Cybertron; some were content to live their lives as they were.
Two sides of the ancient world grew apart:
'Autobot', and 'Decepticon'.
And so started the war.
Kaon had been overrun by the Decepticon force.
Shineshade frowned as he worked, stirring a new batch of paint. This tub was custom-order, a rather unique shade of fluorescent aquamarine that glittered with microscopic fragments of phosnium crystal. He didn't ask questions when he received expensive orders like this. He didn't want to know who could afford to purchase his more luxurious products when sparklets and mecha were terminating in the roads. Decorative crystals were high-priced before the economy dropped; now that crystal gardens weren't being maintained, pure crystal was practically nonexistent. It was one of those things that gave a career in ornamental customization so much difficulty. Still, with pit-fighting so popular, champions were known to pride their colors higher than most other things. Most of his business these orns was gladiators or hopefuls looking for something that would stand out.
He was afraid of how many mechs he had painted for battle might not have made it out.
Someday soon he'd likely have to start offering combat custom as well as his usual work. Termination wasn't an uncommon thing in the arena.
Shineshade himself didn't approve of such barbaric sports, but he knew it wasn't as simple as 'do' or 'don't'. Some mechs enjoyed the brutal competition, but most simply gambled or fought for survival. More mechs bet nowadays than worked. There simply wasn't enough jobs anymore. The mines were still open, but fewer came out than went in, and how long would that even last? The planet had long since run dry of energon and precious metals. Armor and upgrades were recycled from the parts of the mechs that fell apart in the coliseums and mines. It seemed only a matter of time before people stopped waiting for others to terminate. How far away was a world where a carrier killed a mech simply for their sparkling to have a frame?
Now that was an unsettling thought.
Shineshade could remember when Iacon had been a city of colour. Crimson and white gold and sapphire, black like oil puddles and ochre like the cliffs of Vos.
Nobody just bought paint anymore.
It used to be a normal thing. A sparklet's first alt mode, by tradition, earned a new complete colour pallet. It was a symbol of pride, of standing, of honour.
It really meant something tank-churning to Shineshade, seeing rust-browns and steel-greys so common to now.
Colours were a choice of what mecha wanted to be, a symbol for a hopeful future. He had once lovingly sprayed helm-pieces and delicate servo joints in bright shocks of topaz and emerald, with detailed decals of fire and glyphs and patterns.
When had that been exchanged for the uniform phaser-holsters of enforcers and the pompous luxuries of noblemech headfins?
Whoa, that's done.
Shineshade stopped stirring. Too much heat from friction and the paint would begin to clump or thin. Or explode. That had happened once with a vivid sunsrise-orange, back when he was just an apprentice. It hadn't washed out, either. Nor had it complimented the glossy magenta-pink he'd worn at the time.
Shineshade took a second to admire the fresh can of blue-green after he poured it into it's transport container.
It was a very nice shade, he had to admit. The phosnium crystal was a perfect touch, causing the liquid to glow and shimmer with a faint iridescence. It was the kind of paint he'd mix for a mech's final upgrade, back in the golden age. The final upgrade was the most special, after all. He himself had mixed a coppery burnt silver and coral scheme for his own armor.
He still had that paintjob, even after all these vorns. He had taken good care of it as well. Still, time had taken it's toll. The once-bold colouring was now faded and scratched from street scraps, and spattered from the servos on up in little rainbows from the toil of his trade.
Next to the mix he'd just made, it seemed shabby an worn, like copper piping. Still, he had to smile.
Definitely some of my better work.
Too bad it was probably destined for some bloated creep's aftplates.
Dock-dock-dock.
Shineshade looked up to the shop door. It wasn't often a customer showed up in person.
"Enter."
The entryway doors vssh'd apart, and a good-sized fourwheeler transformed inside.
Oh my.
The first thing his optics picked up, trained and maintained for shade and hue after so long, was of course the armor. It had once been silver. silver was a good color. Tough mechs liked gunmetal, performers preferred mercury. Honest working mechs chose silver or iron.
Now, the compliment of a paint depended heavily on frame type, so that was the next thing Shineshade noticed. Wheel-heeled pedes on long legs, wide shoulderplates and amazing rectangular hips.
Wary amber optics.
It was common for one mech to size up another before attacking.
Frag.
Shaking some sense into his helm, the flustered mixer tried to look as unthreatening as possible as he greeted the silver mech.
"Designation Shineshade, primary function: ornamental customizations. How may I aid you?"
The stranger seemed to weigh something in his processor before he replied.
"Designation Diesel, primary function: armor forge and repair, looking for a business agreement."
Business agreement. Okay. Business was good. His voice was good, too. But his frame'd definitely be better complimented in a nice smooth-shaded white-gold, maybe with an industrial iron tracing?
But business came first.
"I'd be interested in an agreement. What kind of business?"
Now, Diesel- interesting name, perhaps an ex-racer type?- looked more relaxed.
"I've secured a contract with a mass-production upgrade-frame line, but my previous finishing supplier is no longer in the market. I'd need 5,000 frames finished, polished, and ready for supply per vorn for the next metacycle."
Now that sounded like good business.
"What's my share?"
"What do you charge?"
It had been awhile since the mixer had actually been hired personally for fresh framework. It took him a klik to calculate.
"Adult frames?"
"Fliers, yes. Black and mauve."
"Fourteen credits a frame," he decided.
"Done."
Wow. That was… actually good. Really good. 5,000 frames per vorn, nine vorns a stellar cycle, thirteen stellar cycles a metacycle, fourteen credits a frame- that was great. Better than he'd been expecting. It made him wonder who needed that many uniform flier frames, and who had enough credits to pay for it.
Better not to ask questions.
"Then I suppose we have an arrangement."
The other mech grinned a little, and the action seemed to somehow brighten the atmosphere.
"I suppose we do," he affirmed, and then gestured to the bluish, glowing can Shineshade had yet to seal.
"That's a nice shade. Custom order?"
'Shade'd almost forgotten about it, actually. He slapped a cap over the container as soon as he remembered that the mixture wasn't supposed to be exposed to the air to long. He'd been distracted by a customer; the professional discrepancy almost made him wilt.
"Um, yes, actually. Thank you. I'm glad you reminded me, the crystal blends are fairly volatile in high concentrations before they dry."
"Crystal? You still use crystal?"
The mixer nodded, slapping a label on the can before filing it in the desk below. He'd been told beforehand that it would be picked up by a personal messenger later in the cycle.
"Yes, but not very often. It's hard to find quality supplies anymore, you know?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause in the conversation as Shade considered Diesel carefully.
"Would you like…would you like me to give you a new paint job sometime? If I've got a steady pay coming in, it won't cost me much to mix a complimentary shine…"
Not a total lie, and it would be worth it. That frame was crying for a sleeker look.
Diesel, for his part, mostly just looked surprised. 'Shade couldn't blame him; he probably just came off as a total glitchead. It was too late now, though.
Diesel surprised him with a nod of acceptance.
"I would- appreciate the service. Thank you."
The mixer's spark beamed.
"Are you free next cycle?"
"Not until mid-joor."
"I'll be open."
"It's on my calendar, then. I'll leave the colour to you, but I'm rather fond of greyscale."
The silver mech's faceplates morphed into a bigger grin this time, and he gave a small, somewhat sheepish wave before going into alt mode and revving out of the shop.
Shineshade watched the doors close before releasing a small sigh, and returned to work. One of his more frequent customers wanted more scarlet and stargazer-blue, and it had to be finished and sealed by the end of the cycle.
The world was falling to pieces at the seams, yes, but maybe for him… Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe things were looking up.