((Okay, this random one-shot just came to me out of the blue. I don't really get it either. It's supposed to take place after the Season 2 finale, in an AU where the Autobot/Decepticon war went worldwide. It's supposed to be like an angst/tragedy thing, I guess.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. If I did, the movies wouldn't have sucked.))
The city was empty except for a few rats, the skeletal remains of buildings towering up to the cloudy gray sky, litter-covered asphalt cracking and breaking. There was very little sunlight to illuminate what had once been a bustling metropolis, which cast the city into a sort of grayscale atmosphere.
The silence surrounding it was broken abruptly by a loud metallic clank, followed by another, turning into a steady beat against the pavement. A stray dog, sniffing at some garbage, whined and scampered away as the giant turned the corner. Its metal coat provided the only color around: a deep navy blue, highlighted by silver and pink, glowing blue optics casting off enough light to help see by. It kept moving, the giant, shivering at blast of cold air. Its optics flitted from one object to another, their cores dead, void of life. It gritted its teeth before speaking, voice as monotone as its gaze, "This is Arcee. I'm in Sector 17, no signs of life."
"Affirmative," Ratchet's weary voice was burdened by guilt and remorse. "That's all for today. Return to base now."
Arcee ignored him, hanging up. They couldn't even call it what it had once been—New York City—without feeling overwhelming guilt. Her optics could still pick out shards of bone intermixed with ashes, the spent shells of machine gun fire, used futilely to hold back swarms of Insecticons and Vehicons. The city had been overrun, its inhabitants killed. But then again, she had to wonder, were they any different?
They'd left a dead world out of fear and hope, searching for a new one, capable of sustaining them. They'd never thought that, by abandoning their homeworld, they'd reduce another world to its state. They'd left a dead world for a dying world, a world that had only required a spark to be set ablaze.
"Jack," Arcee murmured, turning away from the buildings, from the remains of what had been. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." But the boy, dead since their war had engulfed the planet he called home, did not answer, and her words fell on deaf ears. She took a step forward, transforming, before gunning her engine and revving off, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the city.
It was dead and gone, and yet they remained. And after the bombs had fallen and the fire had been snuffed out, the Autobots—powerful titans as they were—had to ask themselves:
What had they done?
((Dun dun! R n' R people!))