Disclaimer: Lennox, Epps and Ratchet belong to their respective companies. I own my OC's only.
It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment when I realized my home was just another battlefield. Maybe I've simply always known, but hooded my eyes in awe of these sentient beings. Maybe, I thought, our home will be the final arena where these titan gladiators will duke it out in a one for all movie scene.
I didn't expect Earth to become just another pit stop on their journey for destruction.
Chasing after an extinguished pride and glory.
Not too different from us humans.
So, here I am, sipping a whiskey in some bar-at-the-end-of-the-world, her dog tags clenched in one fist, this pen in the other. They should be looking for me still, 'less they've given up like- [water splotches blur the next few words].
But I shan't spend another moment on them than is absolutely fucking necessary.
They don't deserve my attention – she realized this too late. I won't make the same mistake– goddamn her to the pits of Hell.
Oh but Hell would be all the richer for her in its claws.
I've been drinking liquid courage for the past half hour, on my sixth glass now, and I don't see an end in sight any time soon. This bar is full of the homesick, heartbroken and betrayed. I've never felt more at home.
Hah, I can see her now, shaking her head, a mocking smile adorning plush cherry lips (she never had a need to paint them). She'll strut forward, snatch the glass out of my shaking hands (I never was a stable drunk) and some lovable quote from a long dead poet about the side effects of alcohol on the psyche will roll off her wicked tongue. Then, with a toss of her mighty head and flick of a wrist too delicate for a soldier, she'll finish off the glass.
That's how she was; telling you off for doing dumbass things, but easy to enjoy the moment alongside.
But I – oh, how I was another being from her entirely. To stumble off the bar stool, head bowed meekly in submission, a mumbled apology springing from my thin crooked mouth - that was my way. I would refuse to meet her eyes for the rest of the night, despite her joking manner and attempts to get me to loosen up.
I do not drink to celebrate – I prefer to be aware of the festivities, the joy.
I drink for opposite reasons – so I can escape my chaotic sorrows.
I believe she knew this, and the fact that she still tried to [sentence cuts off, water has soaked through the napkin].
She often compared my eyes to a jungle – deep green foliage and sprouting golden flowers to hide the depth of what secrets lay beyond.
Her own were like a wading pool by the ocean – free to explore, and often overfilled with emotions. And yet her mind was a budding super nova; ever expanding and encompassing.
Or a mine full of gems: precious pieces of knowledge and wit to be treasured as it is gifted. My own always seemed to be ten steps behind, filled with the bare minimum compared. I was an unfaithful who had been found by a goddess, a traveling companion to the main attraction.
[The napkin is ripped in a jagged line here; the pen's scribbling having torn through]
I can't remember when we met, or the important moments – I should, God knows I've tried, but the images are fuzzy, fading away with time, pain, and every sip of this whiskey. All the memories I have left of her, so clear and concise, are the ones where we are alone, legs tangled up in cotton sheets, her hair wrapped gently in my hand, her lips on my neck, the moonlight illuminating her honey-oat skin in deep contrast to my own burnt sienna.
Memories of battle, where fear renders everything in high definition: each explosion, wound and scream assaulting the senses. My mind jumps around from one battle to the next.
There, a grunt's arm is blown away by Cybertronian shrapnel. To my left a lithe body goes flying. The screeching of metal on metal drowns out shouted commands. All I can think is "how am I going to get out of this?"
A year later, a new field, we're winning, pushing the 'Cons back. I can taste the victory, even through the rustic taste of blood where I'd bitten my tongue. My eyes seek out hers in confirmation, and my heart explodes with relief to note she too can feel it.
Six months earlier, and I'm going to die. Trapped beneath a fallen trunk, right leg broken in three different spots – I can see the bone sticking out. But I'm numb for the time being. All I can hear is a high pitch, my wounds clogged with dirt from the cannon blast that went off only meters from my position. The dancing metal feet are shuffling closer. My wingman is dead on the ground – I couldn't save him – and all I see is his slack-jawed expression of surprise as the tree comes down too fast, too heavy. Now the pain comes through the haze and the blood loss is creeping on. Bliss is not too far behind.
One week later and I wake up to sickening anesthetic and drab tan walls. My leg's suspended, there's a cloth around my head and an I.V. drip connected to my left arm. They tell me she saved my life – saw me go back for my wingman, but didn't see me come out. I call her in, the loss still bitter in my throat. But she offers a nectar with her words. In a month, all I can taste is honey when I'm around her.
We never went into a fight alone after that – always together; had each other's backs.
Until she put her trust in him.
He came back dead.
Nothing left of her but the dog tags with some ashes left clinging in the metallic strands.
"Where are the others? Excuse me, sir? Were there any more?"
"Nah, that was the last one. I should know – I was the one who kicked her temperamental ass out."
"I apologize for any ruckus she may have caused."
"Damn straight she did. Over here, snifflin' and sobbin' the whole damn time, rubbin' some metal togetha' that made some annoyin' clackin'. Tch, and then, when she really starts to lose it, I come over, good guy that I am, and ask 'you ai'ght ma'am?' and she bares her teeth at me, tells me 'less I'm another shot o' whiskey to piss off. So I tell her I don't need no black woman makin' one of 'em scenes- draws in the bad crowd, yah know?"
"I highly doubt that, sir."
"'scuse me?"
"I mean, this joint's seedy enough. I doubt anyone could draw in a worse lot-"
"Epps, he's not worth it."
"Tch, take your trash and get the 'ell out of here. If I see you step foot 'round my lot again I'm callin' the 'thorities."
"We are the authorities – you racist motherfucker," Epps mumbles the last part quietly, but his glare is enough to get a shake of the bartender's fist. Once outside, he turns to his companions.
"Lennox, you should'a let me finish back there."
"Man, people like him; they see the world through a funnel and talk through their ass. He was too far gone to save with your well qualified beat down." Lennox tosses an arm around Epps' shoulders. "But right now, we've gotta find Sergeant Thompson."
"I agree. While that man may warrant schooling in the meaning of equality and racism, Sergeant Thompson is a much larger bomb we must first diffuse. I fear her outbursts are getting stronger and, from what the internet has told me, they may soon be turned inward, if these," here Ratchet, the third companion, raises his hand with the bar napkins, "are anything to go by. Her mentality cannot take much more – and she says herself alcohol makes her unstable. I fear for those around her just as much as I do for her own well-being." A somber look is exchanged among the trio.
"Where would she go?" Epps finally speaks up. A brief silence follows before the sharp clap of hands.
"Dr. Thornton. I remember her telling me he's her personal therapist for her depression."
"Time is of the essence."
"You said it, Doc bot. Let's roll."
AN: By saying "meek" and "submission", I do not mean to infer that, as a woman of color, that is why she is like that. I say those words as a description on her personality as another human being – a human being with depression. All in all, I just wanted to write on some of the troubles of the other soldiers drawn in by the war. There are so many stories you could write about that, and this was the one I chose. I would also like to note that I have done my best not to offend anyone through this story, but if I have, please let me know. It was not my intention to do so, I simply wished to try writing from a different character than I was used to.