To Truly Live

Inferno sat ramrod-straight, alone in his quarters, lights off, waiting for his Queen to summon him. To anyone watching, he had no purpose in life other than what Megatron willed, and he knew that they were right. The other Predacons thought he was insane to follow the tyrant so blindly, but he knew he had the choice. He could fight the faulty programming if he really wanted to, or choose a new Queen like a mutinous drone seeking a colony more powerful than the last.

Oh, yes, he knew that it was his programming that made him this way. No matter how confused the animal, he was a creature of metals and complex intelligence. There was more under the veneer of ant soldier than the other robots guessed. It had taken him weeks of thought to decide that it was best this way, no matter what the Predacons or Maximals thought of his decision. He couldn't find it in himself to care, once he'd made up his mind. The only one whose opinion mattered was Megatron, and Megatron set an example by not giving a slag if he was feared, loved, or loathed. With that precedent, it wasn't hard to ignore the others.

It did make it rather lonely at times, though.

Inferno pulled out one of his flamethrowers, thinking to clean it and make sure it was in good condition for any emergency that might come up. That was a soldier's job--to always be ready for battle--and he was, above all, a soldier. His posture didn't relax as he eyed the gun critically, and that, too, was a soldier's life. No slouching, no slacking off; only a stiff retirement into a drawer somewhere like any other tool, ready to be pulled out at any moment by the hand that wielded him. He had no initiative and little desire to lead others except at the will of his Queen. That was his lot in life, to always follow.

The pilot light of his flamethrower cast a small globe of pale light in the dark room, and at the very edge of it came the miniscule disturbance of tiny wings. He dug out a chunk of dirt left over from some fight and watched the moth waver in and out of the light. Outside of the lit area, he couldn't see it, and, in not seeing it, he had to wonder if it existed at all. After all, he couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, and wouldn't have ever known it was there if it hadn't ventured into the light. Could anyone really say that there was a moth at all if there wasn't proof of its presence? Inside the light, there were flashes of patterned brown and gray, but there was nothing when he moved the flame.

He found another smear of grease to clean away, most of his attention on the gun but enough left over to note that the moth had come seeking the light again. This time it floated nearer, circling the edges of the glow but spiraling closer as if drawn by the heat. Such a delicate thing, a construct of dust and air exploring the boundaries of danger as it drifted toward the source of light.

It would die if it didn't turn back, he knew. It was not meant to dance with the fire. Some things, like metal guns, were meant to feed the flames from a source locked away from outsiders, like the napalm reservoir dripping slowly into the spout for the pilot light, keeping it bright. Like his gun, these things were only channels, turning the raw material into fire. Megatron was like his flamethrower. Megatron held the potential for a dream, a burning passion that would torch anyone else. The Predacon tyrant fed the power of that dream into a brilliant beacon, and into that light came Inferno. Outside of the sphere of light generated by his Queen, he didn't exist. He was one of the many 'bots that existed, but he knew the truth: he was not a dreamer.

There were some who could dream, who held the mad genius of talent, charisma, or tyranny, but they were few and far between. Everyone else could aspire to those visionaries, or hate them. To try and imitate them would be stupidity, because it would be like trying to capture fire in pictures of paint: the fire would seem to burn, but it would be a brief, weak illusion that had nothing of real strength. To hate them would be to stand against them, and while it could be done, the opposition would only make the light flare brighter, a gush of flame all the stronger for their defiance.

But there was another way, for those who knew and acknowledged the bitter truth of their lack of ability. Outside of the light, Inferno couldn't see the moth, and he was like the moth. If one couldn't be the channel for the fire, then he would at least exist in service to it. The universe was seen in pinpoints of stars, lives of people who made a difference in one way or another. The Maximals hated Megatron, and the other Predacons aspired to him. Only Inferno circled the flame diligently, not caring about whether the flamethrower was "right" or "wrong." The other Predacons were pale shadows to Megatron's glory, and Inferno was proud to be a moth flying in the corona of illumination his Queen carried everywhere. As for the Maximals…

He pulled the trigger on his flamethrower, and a roaring gout of fire burst up to hit the ceiling. He knew that if he held the trigger down, the metal of the gun would eventually melt. Before that, the ceiling would collapse. Provoked to fiery, towering rage, his Queen would destroy those who opposed him, and be destroyed. That was the way of dreamers, to burn out in the passion of their visions. An immolation of life and daring to live it, and what of him, the follower? He loved the flames, a pyromaniac rejoicing in the heat and danger of daring to walk out of the darkness and intrude on the light, but to be consumed by them? What point did it serve other than his own death? Was existence worth the pain of burning up in Megatron fire?

The trigger released, and Inferno cast a glance around for his fellow light-worshipper. He found it plummeting to the floor, wings like burnt paper, tiny torches streaming a miniature globe of fading light. The moth hit a dot of grease he'd cleaned out earlier, and the last feeble waving of the crackling wings lit an inferno of its own. It was small, almost easy to miss or put out, and it ran out of fuel quickly. Even as he watched the last spark die, a bellowing voice summoned him to circle in the light of his Queen, and he hurried to obey.

That was all they were, moths to a beautiful flame, a tool to spread the light. They were fuel for others' fire, pulled in and infected by a vision they might be lucky enough to spread. It gave them purpose. It brought them out of the darkness and assured them that they existed. It would kill them, in the end, but that was a small price to pay for following greatness. For really existing.

The moth had blazed such with glorious radiance.

.

.

You don't expect him to have reasons behind his behavior. A berserker, maybe, but one with a cause.

Optimus Primal died for his cause, but you don't see anyone calling him a fanatic, do you? Or Dinobot. Why is it that Dinobot's obsession with his honor is admired, but Inferno's dedication to Megatron is discarded so callously? His loyalty is an amazing thing, programming or not, no matter if you think Megatron is nuts.