Author's Note: This is actually a failed chapter - one of many that didn't quite hit what I was aiming for, but it's close enough to warrant posting. So it's really not part ten. Kind of. It's what my first intention was for ten to be, before I realized this was less churlish and more 'Blackout whines about everything ever'. So, bonus, I suppose. Yes, let's call it a bonus. And it let's me dabble in my ongoing Brawl and Bonecrusher backstory, which is always both disturbing and oddly entertaining.

This ramble is seven kinds of pointless.

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The cold of space was all-encompassing. In even the most insulated of vessels, it crept and wormed its way inside, chilling halls and stealing whatever warmth was to be found. It was the slow killer, the chafing, constant presence that loomed silent and dreadful as any specter of death.

This might have been a concern to an organic primitive, as they generally had to keep their internal and external body temperature at a certain designated level. Robotic life, however, had very little to be concerned with as far as a chill went. As long as there was nothing to freeze their limbs and lock their joints, what threat was the empty cold? It was as meaningless as the vast nothingness, and justly disregarded.

Blackout shifted, attempting to find a comfortable position in which to rest himself. Beside him, the viewing platform was alit with innumerable stars, black and white and little else to occupy the mind with. On a rare occasion, a bright whorl of color appeared in the distance, managing to attract his optics for a few moments before it drifted out of view again. What appeal did space hold? He wondered. Why did some actively choose such endless nothingness when they could enjoy planetary existence?

But as the universe did not care for the thoughts of one Cybertronian, his questions went unanswered, skittering off into the quasi-silence of the ship. And he was left with nothing more than the contemplation of the physical. The vibration from the engines – on low power, allowing the Decepticons to drift senselessly through the void as they searched – was barely noticeable, a little tickle on the parts of him that touched the floor. The lights above were grey-blue, nearly off, but the darkness was of no true concern to any Cybertronian. Scorponok lay draped across his lap, luxuriating in the stretch after having been so long and thoughtlessly imprisoned within Blackout's body.

It was the boredom, he decided, absently playing with Scorponok's wicked scythe-tail, more than any other environmental hazard that one had to be wary of. It twisted the central processor, irritating as rust in a joint or gear, and twice as maddening.

Sometimes more so, if Brawl's recent lunacy was taken into account.

The Decepticon elite grunted softly, remembering the frantic skirmish. It hadn't been expected; far from it. Brawl had seemed mindlessly aggressive and standoffish, but that was the normal state for the patently violent mechanism. Hardly worrying. Duly unnoted.

It had been a standard enough cycle. The collective that was their group had congregated the main deck for some sort of strange socialization to alleviate the tedium, driven out of their various hideaways by the sheer boredom of their endless flight. It wasn't much by the way of company, but any conversation was welcome, and the command deck was a wide enough area to allow a feeling of personal space. In truth – though Blackout would never admit it – the impromptu gathering had been rather enjoyable, in its own peculiar fashion.

Then, in the style of his luck, something had to go terribly awry.

One moment Brawl – a being that had become something of background noise to all save Bonecrusher – had stood placidly by, staring out at the command deck, surrounded by most of their meager force. Brooding, strangely quiet, and full of menace, but nothing particularly worrisome.

Blackout hadn't seen what had occurred. He had been quite happily occupied where he was, taking passive snipes at his loathsome commander. Barricade was in the middle of perhaps-defending, perhaps-insulting Starscream's military prowess, and, quite simply, something exploded.

This was followed by a roar fit to shake their very Sparks, and at large portion of Bonecrusher's arm and torso spraying out in a wave of ruined parts.

Immediately, the assembled Decepticons went on the attack, overwhelming the glitching Brawl and subduing him with no casualties – though not for lack of trying. The fool had gone mad, firing what little live ammunition he had been allotted before flinging himself at his fellows. It had been a furious battle, with Brawl simply flailing while those still in possession of their wits were forced to dodge delicate equipment and each other.

In good time, the badly damaged Brawl was trussed up and sent packing to the lowest cargo hold, and promptly was forgotten once the entertainment value wore off. Sometimes the occasional clank or roar made its way up through the decks, but it was but a passing thing of note, hardly worth the processing power it took to register the sound.

Bonecrusher, oddly enough, became restless and surly, staring at the floor with a vague sort of rage. Eventually, he stormed out, and was, in the style of his fellow shock trooper, forgotten shortly thereafter.

The what, why, or how of Brawl's madness were never divulged to Blackout, nor was there any particular reason for those happy little facts to be illuminated. It was what it was, and that was that. Brawl had had a malfunction. It mattered little after the danger had been nullified, and, in truth, most had been glad for the break in monotony, and opportunity for gossip.

The few remaining sane members of the crew looked to themselves for harm. Save for a few crushed fingers on Blackout's part and Scorponok's shorn tail, there were few wounds to compare.

It was declared that Brawl would be fixed… eventually. When they felt like it. And that had been the end of it.

At least, it would have been, had not Blackout loudly and stridently protested Starscream's dismissal of both his and Scorponok's damage, superficial though it was. And, true to form, he'd pushed a little too far, shoving Starscream out of his good humor and right back into his typical, foul temperament. The commander, after a rather lengthy description of Blackout's unsavory origins, physical impossibilities involving a sprocket and what sounded like a painful amount of scrap metal, and the possible spawn that could result from such an engagement, stiffly told Blackout to take himself and his offshoot elsewhere, and hope he didn't happen upon them.

Prudently, Blackout did in fact make himself scarce, walking all the way to the aft of the ship. The last reprimand was still heavy in his mind; he had no desire to repeat himself of that particular lesson.

Which, of course, left him here, in the back of the ship, hiding away like some battle-rattled Autobot.

His gaze flicked back to the window as a splash of brightness was revealed on the far edge of the synthetic glass. Blue like internal fluids, fading to yellow as it neared the center. Ugly colors both, he thought. Autobot colors. He rumbled out a harsh growl-click, disliking the view, willing the ship to move faster to sooner pass by the blemish.

Heh. What then? More scorn, more empty planets, and pointless raids on alien vessels? He vented air from his shoulder intakes in frustration, sneering into the darkness. This was not a warrior's existence. This was not a Decepticon existence.

… He missed Kolkular. He missed his rank, the known quantities of loyalty and privilege, and knowing where he stood, and being favored, and respected, and treated with deference. He missed being regarded with anything other than vague contempt.

He wouldn't call it lonely, per se. He felt more indignant than forlorn, aggrieved by this communal shunning. Admittedly, it was an extreme lapse in judgment, calling Starscream out like that, goading him on. If he had waited, bided his time but a small while longer, the seeker would have been at a disadvantage, and damaged enough in both body and status to close the power gap between them.

Had he not made a fool and a failure of himself before them all, Starscream's dint as leader would have been over, and he would not be so spurned among his kin. Instead, he had strengthened the seeker's rule, allowing him to escape unscathed (in a manner of speaking) from what surely would have been his ending.

Oh, yes, politics had such a part to play, as he should have accounted for. Before the scrimmage with Prime, Starscream's leadership had been under question, built upon the fragile precipice left by Lord Megatron's absence. Certainly, he could have provoked the seeker, seeded doubt, just enough to cause unrest among the ranks. Maximo knew, he would not have had to do much; it seemed every passing cycle, the others became more bold with their transgressions, encouraged by the inability of the seeker to rebuke all of them.

If he had waited until Starscream had proven himself impotent, until after the skirmish with the rabble of Autobots, it would have been ever so simple a matter to dispose of this elite who fancied himself a commander. The others would have supported him, perhaps even joined with him.

But he had not waited, and they cared not for the company of a substandard Decepticon.

From below came a burble of unhappiness, and the unsettled shifting of multiple legs as his thoughts seeped into his symbiote's mind.

Blackout grunted ambiguously, stilling himself. He absently patted the peeved parasite, optics drifting away from the window and to the floor. Perhaps he wasted too much thought on such trivialities of his current existence. In good time, circumstances would change. Surely he was not so weak-willed as to become what other perceived of him.

And what of these insults heaped upon him? Soon enough, they would be repaid in full. He need not think so intently over such matters. When they found Lord Megatron, he could again rise up to his esteemed position, and punish those who had so slighted him. But not now, not yet. He had learned his lesson well – perhaps not the one intended, but the one needed. He would wait. These were but passing things.

He was elite, he was Decepticon, and he would not falter again.