Been feeling angsty lately and the Twins seem to be my favorite outlet. Drabble written off the top of my head, not much editing at all. More or less based off of Thing With No Talent's Forged in Hell. Too tired to tell if I like it or not (probably not).
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Sometimes I see things...
...things I shouldn't see. Not here, not anymore: Hulking shadows waiting in the corridor. Optics devoid of any feeling, empty and broken. Energon stained weapons held by half-crazed, murderous fledglings. The bodies of the most rebellious ones, beaten and tortured to deactivation and put on display, examples for all. Acid dripping down my arms and chassis, searing through the armor and circuitry with unending, unimaginable agony. The filthy, scarred walls of our cell. My opponents, bigger, more violent, and more numerous every time I'm forced into the Gladiator Ring. The thousands of optics watching me, jeering. Mechs I thought were dead - knew were dead, made sure they were...
Sometimes I wonder if this is even real. If we even escaped, or if I'll wake up next to Sideswipe in our cell, waiting to see which one of us would be dragged out to the ring next. Waiting to see those shadows make their way around the corner towards us. I lose track of what I see and what I think I see. And I lash out, never knowing if it's one of our now fellow soldiers...or another shadow, another monster, come to drag us back down to the Pit.
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Sometimes I hear things...
...things I know I can't be hearing, not anymore: The thunderous footsteps making their way closer and closer down the hall. The cruel bark of laughter, finding amusement in fact that we can barely stand anymore, let alone fight back. The clash of weapons and fists as desperate fledglings fight to survive - some not even for that anymore; they have been broken and consumed by the bloodlust. The lash of an energon whip as mechs are punished for not being fast enough, fighting hard enough, for hesitating, for questioning, thinking, feeling. The sound of my own muffled screams as the branding rod is shoved down my throat. The hum of the bars of our cell. The roar of the crowd surrounding the Gladiator Ring, louder and louder, engulfing me and swallowing me whole...
Sometimes that's why I'll pull one of my pranks. In the confusion, I hear not only the anger of the victim and the exasperated mutterings of the commanding officers, but also the murmurs of the crowd, the laughter and wonder and amusement. A crowd, for the most part, devoid of any real malice. Sometimes it's enough to block out the roar of the crowd waiting in the Ring, demanding to see energon spilt and limbs ripped apart. Sometimes it blocks out the thunderous footsteps that I can't tell whether or not are real anymore, making their way closer to Sunny and my cell - blocks out the dark, cruel chuckle of the monster coming to throw us back into the Pit.