It's kind of a dark and depressing read, but I think it sums it all up pretty good. And you know what, even as I wrote this, I knew that there was a good possibility that I'd join those in war, to protect everything I hold dear, even if it was for nothing.
I own nothing. And I don't even know who the bot is, but feel free to leave your guesses.
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It's a senseless thing. No one wants it. Yet we continue. - Unknown
The bot just stood there, staring out to the battlefield. No, war was, by now, too common to this particular bot. As were the deaths that followed each battle.
The once immaculate field of dirt and metal was now beyond recognition. Back before war ravaged Cybertron, tearing it apart at the seams, it was a playground for those who worked, who played, who lived. At one point, mechs and femmes of all ages and frame types had congregated here for a concert maybe, or an outdoor play, or a bonding ceremony.
Maybe there had been perfect crystals growing, humming their own tunes as wanders came and went. Long before the first bots walked upon this planet, there had been a liquid metal sea here, judging by the bowl-like shape. Who knew what kind of creatures Primus had let walk, swim, and fly upon the land that had been created.
Perhaps a small settlement had been here, energon miners eking out a living among the many caves that dotted the surrounding area. Where the mechs and femmes mined for the crystalline substance while younglings and sparklings romped around, chasing one another, laughing and smiling, without any cares in the world.
Another theory of the place was that, once upon a time, there had stood a primitive city, spiraled towers reaching for the Seeker-dominated sky. Where bots made, sold, and bought goods, and where parks were near the center of the bustling metropolis. There was most likely a couple energon bars where, after a long orn's work, mechs and femmes came together to swap politics and listen to enjoyable music played by either a DJ or a live band.
Now, however, it was unsuitable for any living creature, be it critter or bot. The bowl was unrecognizable, and it was impossible to envision what it had looked like before frames fell and craters that were created by explosive bombs.
The ground was covered in the horror known as spilt energon. In the natural dimness of the planet, barely lit by a very distant sun, the vibrant glowing blue energon gave the area an eerie feeling. The empty, sparkless frames had long been removed from the death field, by both fractions that looked to either smelt down the armor and reuse it or give them a proper burial. The latter, most depressingly, wasn't very common during these dismal orns. Most, if not all, mechs and femmes had long decided that if they didn't need their frame, someone else could make good use out of it.
It was an unspoken rule by each fraction, even the few Neutrals that still were barely scraping by on the dying planet. You only retrieved your fraction's dead and not the others. Deactivation was never a pleasant thing, and was something no one wished for, but if they believed as strongly as they did in their side, in their ideals, they'd be more than willing to die for what they believed in.
Still, such a horrible thing war was. So much death, and for what? For something that could've easily been negotiated by talking it out, or peaceful protests? Why did everything that had a conflict in it have to end in violence, in the destruction of themselves and so many others? Politics ended in violence. Disputes over land ended in violence. Arguments over who owed who ended in violence. Even minor arguments between friends ended in violence.
Was it because every bot online or offline was sparked with a natural sense of evil? Did they all want to destroy what couldn't be conquered with peace? Or even if it could, it all ended with the deactivation of someone, didn't it?
As the bot stood on the edge of the cold, silent battlefield, a slight breeze stirred up the dust kicked up from explosions, numerous pedes, and holes. The cries of the long gone whispered in the wind, pleading for the senseless death to end. To stop while they were ahead. But their pleas and cries for help and salvation would go unanswered, because as much as they all hated it, it had all gone too far to cease the fight. There would be no forgiveness for an endless war, for the countless bots lost and returned to the Well, for everything.
So, there the bot stood, hearing those whispering calls, but unable to do anything. And it pained the bot endlessly, to their last ventilation.
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Well, there you have it. I hope it gives you something to think about. I had some downtime when I wrote this, but instead of my usual muse coming to mind, I had to write this. Now, I have not read this over, as of 9 Sep 2013, and it's not beta-ed. I'm posting like this, raw words, because of the emotion I poured into this short story, and I feel it would be wrong to change anything.
Please leave whatever you have to say in the comments. I would be much appreciated to hear what you have to say, even if it is to say I'm a %* $! or something like that. Thanks anyways. Have a great day, everyone.