Dark Side of the Sun

AN: 100 Chapters! WOO HOO! and... 1300+ reviews! WOO HOO again!

Did anyone ever think it would go this long? Has it maintained its appeal, or am I slipping? I have about 50 ideas, and only the rough outline/spine of about 20 that's scribbled out, but I intend on devoting some time to them so I can start uploading every other week.

Thank you all for your support and devotion. It warms my heart to see the reviews and know that these little drivels are enjoyed. Honestly, I thought they were merely a vague notion. And to my surprise, they just took off with a life of their own.

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They say all of us have a mean streak. A part of themselves that gets out of control and causes pain and chaos to all those who are stuck in its gravity. I guess their right. I feel it.

All the time.

There's this nagging feeling in the back of my processor, sending random flashes of images into my mind. Mechs I've known for so long, it's hard to imagine a life without their presence. These are the ones I have fought beside, sworn to protect, and have even laid down my own life to preserve theirs. And yet, there's this little niggling feeling, just whispering…. 'What if?'…'What could it hurt?'…. 'Doesn't it feel good when you let me go?'… 'Doesn't the rage make you feel superior?'…. 'How can you deny me'?

Perhaps it isn't just wanting to be mean, per say. Perhaps there's this darkness. An all consuming monster that lurks in the sparks and processors of everyone.

Humans have tons of lore on the subject, even giving it names like "Demon" and "Devil" and claiming their bodies were possessed to perform such heinous acts.

But sometimes I wonder.

One of the basic instincts of life, be it Cybertronian or Earthling, is the will to protect ones own, especially those who are unable to protect themselves. The smaller the victim, the more righteous the aggression.

My brother doesn't seem to make such discriminations. If you have angered him, he will take his aggression out on you. If you're unobtainable, someone close by, who may not have had anything to do with the situation.

They were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.

So many 'accidents' had been labeled with this fate.

Another basic of sentient life is compassion. That's something else that tends to elude my brother from time to time. Others have chastised him for it, or have tried to give him downloads and patches, thinking it's a malfunction. And since we were younglings, he has habitually tried to understand his apathy, trying to figure out what was wrong. After vorns of study and fruitless endeavors he came to the realization that he was fine. It was others who had the problem. They had too much compassion, though it did not stop them from judging and rejecting him, suggesting he should be erased and reprogrammed.

And so the demons began to come to life.

I use the term demons loosely, knowing it would take a rather substantial presence to make one loose control over themselves. Human or Cybertronian, we all possess a strong will power.

But sometimes, when my brother's darkness is so vast I have to vent in fear of self destructing, I can feel that sense of freedom that comes from letting go. Not caring what the world thinks of you and allowing everyone to see such raw power.

The fear, the panic, the helplessness of your chosen victim... it's the most addictive sensation.

And then I'm overcome by the sense of guilt and frustration, magnified by two. My brother knows I have enacted on his behalf, expelling the demons to maintain both of our sanities. His guilt becomes my own, and I feel ashamed for allowing others to see me so out of control and being the epicenter of our wrath.

I may feel powerful at the peak of my rage, but it's when I'm my most vulnerable. It feels so wonderful, handling situations with my hands. It's artist, the way I can calculate frame types to inflict the most damage, and yes, even termination. I know how to make you suffer through your last moments, or to end your misery quickly. During the rare quiet moments, I feel ashamed of this knowledge, but during battle, I find it invigorating and fueling my movements.

It makes the darkness happy.

But the battles don't come as frequently as they used to. Here, on Earth, we wait for squirmishes, and are ordered not to fatally wound. We must preserve life all around us, for now we're an endangered species. My brother's brutality can't be channeled like it used to.

We must lie in wait, participate in patrols, and cater to tiny biological organisms far below us in many aspects. Now his darkness grows as frustration starts to consume him. The organics with their annoying presence, making us wary in our own home, to even walk down the corridor in fear of stepping on one. It would teach them to stay out of our way. But then again, they aren't the most intelligent of creatures we've befriended.

Tracks makes a grating noise as he checks his shoulder joints, earning a stab of ire from my brother. Certain pitches irritate him, sending him into a fury faster than an actual battle. Mirage makes another comment about being superior to the lower classes and wishes things would return to normal on Cybertron. Bumblebee sits and laughs with his human friends, who splash liquids all over their shared table. Smokescreen taunts my brother about his bet, the diversionary tactician intent on winning a few cubes of infamous twin high grade. Hound shakes his body, dislodging several pieces of organic foliage from his frame before heading toward the energon dispenser. Wheeljack sits at a nearby table, scuffing his feet back and forth under the table as he studies the latest schematics for another invention.

This is a typical day for us now. No fighting in constant battles where death awaits like a friendly reminder of your purpose. No training to hone skills, at least not to the expectations my brother and I have become accustomed. We must pull our punches, limit our exertions, and never, by Prime's own command, are we to shed the life blood of our comrades.

But no one understands. They don't comprehend the need to keep the monsters at bay. The abject joy of tearing your enemy apart and watching in satisfaction as the light flickers from this world as they pass into the next. It's a sad, disgusting moment when life fades. But it's also quite beautiful. Something the shadows call for, demand of us. And my brother, being the more emotional one, can't help but to answer their summons like a dumbstruck lover answering the call of the siren.

Wheeljack's feet scuff faster as he happily makes a notation. Smokescreen offers a superior sneer, knowing he has my brother cornered with his bet.

The rage builds. I can feel it as a palpable wave, coming from my twin.

Our unsuspecting teammates continue on, oblivious to the volcano seated among them. Their noises, their manners, even their voices are becoming too much for him to bear. He wants to beat Mirage, rip off Wheeljack's legs, and slam Smokescreen's looming face into the table.

I open my side of the bond, trying to pull his darkness into myself, but he's reluctant to let go. Only a few impulses trickle through. They're not the abyss I'm used to absorbing, but there is definitely a shadow of anger possessing my processor and taking its rightful place in its cage. The fury subsides, knowing it will have its chance soon enough.

He relaxes, returning his attention to the game. Smokescreen gives me a half a glance before returning his attention back to his cards. Sometimes I think he suspects our true nature, but it's hard to tell. His training never included spark twins or the strange bond we possess. In the past he has offered to listen, allow us to unburden ourselves, and every time we reject his help. Some times more violently than others. There are just some cases that can't be helped, no matter how extensive the training or length of practice. Maybe that's why he stopped offering, though I still see the hint of concern in his optics from time to time.

Gears and Windcharger, enter the rec room, and by dumb luck, the two minibots seat themselves at the table behind my brother. They start their usual rounds of complaint, and before I can mentally nudge my twin's mind, I feel a flood of anger and loathing assault me. A small hiss escapes my compressed lips, but it's drown out by the usual noise.

With the fury still streaming into my consciousness, I begin to see mental images of the damage my brother wants to inflict on those around him. Now, instead of merely beating on his comrades, he's seeing fully detailed images of their disfigurement and termination.

The brutality of the images make me want to purge, and suddenly, I sense guilt coming from my twin. He's ashamed of his thoughts, but still, there's a feeling of unbidden destructive passion that boils below the surface. The shame doesn't outweigh the need.

I reach for the sensation with greedy fingers, drawing into myself, hoping to give my twin some respite, and with it, some peace.

Perhaps they're right and we all have a mean streak.

Some can just control it better than others. Which is why I allow my twin to channel his aggression. Send it to me. Let me bear the burden of its weight. I can tolerate the pain and the isolation.

To glance at my brother's friends makes me want to hurt them, but then guilt rises up and squashes the feeling, sending it hissing back into its cage. Back into the safety I have created after vorns of practice. It's channeled into me, blocked off and secreted away where it can do no harm.

At least until the cage is full and the animal has to be temporarily released. It's a curse I'm happy to bear, knowing my brother will never have to face this torment alone. His pain becomes mine.

We are one.

Always.

I feel that dark thrum again and know he's reaching his tipping point. Glancing across the room, I see him collected around his friends, his optics darkening.

I open our bond to the fullest, siphoning his wrath into me and allowing it to consume my thoughts and emotions. I draw this sickness, this hatred, this twisted vile creature away from my twin, allowing it to reign inside me.

I feel the guilty caress of my brother's spark and know he hates himself for the torment he causes. He knows I'm willing to bear the burden of his hatred, and he feels gratitude for being blessed with our connection. His outlet has become my own, allowing me to take the responsibility that weighs so heavily on his spark and threatens to consume him. And though he loathes it, I readily submit to the anguish stealing over my frame and taking over my processor. Not only will my brother find relief, but I can exorcise my demons as well as his own.

We are twins after all.

One spark residing in two bodies.

His red armor flashes in the light, a perfect omen to the rage that's steadily building within him and pouring into me via our bond.

But it's okay.

I can take his demons.

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Yup, you guessed it, Sideswipe is the real loose screw and Sunstreaker channels his rage. It was fun to write this, peeking at their dark side.

Reviews would be LOVED. Makes the muse work double time. ;)