Nightmare of a nightmare
He was proud of his collection, he'd always been. Transformers hanging from the ceiling, how awesome is that?
Well, usually it is. Everybot likes keeping their trophies around, so that when they wake up, the first thing they'll see is the rarest and most treasured item. And he had been envied for his collection. Usually.
Today, the Prime of the Shattered Glass was woken out of recharge by an odd clashing of metal. He looked around, and was horrified to find half of Overlord lying on the ground, perhaps broken from the fall. What could have happened?
He took the ladder, carefully grabbed the lifeless form, and attached it back to its proper place with an almost loving touch. He would look after the injuries later.
Since he was already up in the ceiling on the ladder, he moved his arm to check on his complete Mini-Spy collection. It wasn't easy to get both Autobots and Decepticons of all types and colors. He rubbed a marking, just for the familiar sight... but nothing happened. He rubbed it again, but he couldn't see any change this time, either. He tried for the third time, and was terrified to see that he had scratched the sticker. What was wrong?
He got off the ladder and put it aside. A collection like this obviously had its disadvantages, but... wait. What was that? A... a fallen fist? Where did this come from?
The Prime of the Shattered Glass looked up. He was standing under the Seekers. He stored them in robot mode especially because he didn't want to loose an accessory or two! So, who did this fist belong to? He climbed the ladder again, he reached out for Sunstorm's golden plating...
Then...
... his worst nightmare came true. At the lightest touch, the elegantly shining Transformer fell to pieces in his hand. He was shocked. GPS? Here? Local gold plastic was supposed to be the hardest and longest-lasting material! Was it maybe infectious? Did it possibly slip from that alleged other universe, where mint-in-box Transformers were worth more than loose ones? He panicked. He never had Gold Plastic Syndrome before! There had to be a cure. There had to be!
He detached the remains of the GPS-affected body and carried them to the workbench. Luckily it was right next to his recharge berth, so that he could continue work immediately after getting up, and he could fall into bed directly after working on a figure overnight. It was convenient.
He stared at the golden form, not daring to tinge it again.
He spun around at the sound of somebot stepping into the collection room. And the fraggin' visitor even had the wires to touch the newest item, as if it was there for... being played with! So much not!
He grabbed his nearest weapon and aimed it at the intruder. He was willing to protect his collection, no matter the cost.
He fired.
He shouldn't have. The shot ricocheted, hit the suspension cable, and before he could have done anything to prevent the catastrophe, the collection of over a hundred different Transformers was falling on him.
„NOOOOO!" he cried.
„NOOOOO!"
Silence.
There was silence.
He onlined his optics, rebooting in a panic. Was he... dreaming? Was it just a dream? Could it be?
He made a quick count on his collection. Everyone was there, Sunstorm, Overlord, fine. It was just a bad dream. A bad dream, he told himself.
He got up, and his gaze fell on the dusting stick he set on the workbench the day before. He immediately remembered why it was set there. It was time for the monthly dusting-off.
He looked up at his collection, and sighed. It was an amazing sight, indeed. But dusting them all was a pain in the tailpipe.