10. Dancing Catechism
Catechism did not dance. She flew with the accuracy of an aerobatic ace. She marched with martial pride. She could do drills with the best of them. Catechism never danced. The flathead Seekers did not tolerate coneheads dancing.
At last, she came to the hall of the frozen statues, where Shockwave kept excess Seekers in stasis while Cybertron slowly ran out of energy. Her doom was to join them, those piteous frames clinging together in tears. Theirs was a cold equilibrium, a life that never changed. Failure, harsh and biting, had not condemned her to this house, where even the algid flame of disease would seem warm. Failures had their lasercores removed and stored in Shockwave's filing cabinets, their bodies recycled. No physical flaw marred the Seekers here, though. They would not be here were they injured or ill. The repairable were repaired and stored. The incurable were recycled. Catechism had been checked out by the medic, cool hands probing but to preparation for the cold to come.
She had passed the recycling centre. She had passed the failures, now nothing but lasercores or less, kept in those neat filing cabinets. Catechism would be intact, a statue, testament to her success, ready to wake and spring into action should Cybertron ever again possess enough energy to justify waking her and the other statues.
They pressed her into the vault, the ice creeping into her joints already. She felt stiff and thoughts came sluggishly. Stirred by the movement and influx of heat, the statues stirred, their colours glacier-pale like icing on wings. Fingers crept and reached, perhaps all that was left of them at could move, and clutched at Catechism, eager to partake of her bare warmth.
Her vision slowly going a clear blue, instead of the usual black, Catechism realized that there was a pattern in the stillness.
The statues danced.