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002. A Futility of Hatred
He was not a creature of hatred. He had no passion, no great emotion to drive him (just hunger, just habit, just the normal accidental searching for vulnerable lines), no fevor or vehemance or venom nor poison. Just cold metal and simple logic and action-reaction. The world was new (in it's way, being seen, no more pitch blackness of The Room), and he observed it and measured each step carefully. (Hours, hours only out of the darkness and into the light and born and new and he was so bored and restless already.)
So there was little surprise that his final thought on Starscream was that he wasted more energy on hatred (ardor passion zeal) than Descendant thought was strictly worth it.
Well, he hadn't always been of such an opinion. When he was a meat-thing, he had hated so long as so hard that he'd made himself sick (how pathetic, he thought -- snikt-snakt: his claws as he watched the gunmetal gray sharp edges slide against each other like scissor blades). Now it just seemed like such a waste of time. What good was hatred except to burn precious fuel and consume processors and make him unreasonable (and if he was unreasonable, sometimes he got more injured than strictly necessary to feed and it was such a waste)?
Perhaps being second in command gave him access to enough fuel to waste carelessly like that. He certainly hated Descendant, which in and of itself was a waste of time (a waste of feeling, a waste of effort and obsession) since Descendant wasn't made like him (a freak once meat now metal and uncustomary wrong untouchable). It had been blatantly clear from the first time he'd laid visuals on Starscream. It had been clear before then -- when he was still meat, and clearly being metal alloy made no difference in Starscream's oh-so-esteemed opinion.
(Waste waste waste. Descendant could use that fuel better than that mech could, that was certain. He wouldn't need nearly as much, and that was simple scientific fact.)
Trailing after the (much larger) jet (was he still a jet?), sensor panels twitching and quivering as a dozen programs devoured his lower processors to watch for hostility, Descendant used some memory space to try to decide how he felt about this unwarranted hatred. Oh, yes, back when he was meat, he had seen that Starscream hated ... everything, without reserve, especially Megatron (except when he didn't), it was nothing personal (until it was), and nothing would come of it (unless something did). But how did becoming a bot vulnerable to Starscream's hatred affect Descendant? He'd been sheltered enough during that time, having been a squishy under Megatron's watchful optics.
"... look after the recruit," Starscream grumbled, apparently unaware that Descendant hadn't been made blind and could understand Cybertronian languages. Starscream targeted a door and turned back to him, jerking his helmet toward it. "Get in," he snarled, human language (English) like Descendant was ignorant or unworthy.
Though officially declared a Decepticon, he couldn't help but think that it probably didn't make that much difference to his 'comrades'. That and after being alone but for his food, being in the open and around ... others was a little nerve wracking. It was probably the only reason that the blow didn't catch him completely off guard when he was sidling by Starscream. Still, the wrenching pain of having a sensor panel grasped roughly and tightly was blinding.
They would not have built him swift, with weapons capable of downing larger opponents, if they did not design him flawed, with weak points for them alone to exploit.
He'd only said five words since he'd been made of flesh, and survived too much to scream now. Even when Starscream twisted his sensor panel so that it crackled metallically and popped!, he didn't utter a noise. But he fought them with every claw and tooth he had. Metal teeth. He bit and tore, going for vital lines like he always did, but he was smaller and they out numbered him. He was wrestled onto a table and they produced something that looked perversely like a welder or glue gun of some sort.
When they began to brand the Decepticon symbol onto him, he quieted down and stopped struggling. That was all? It was acid burning into his alloy, and painful, yes. But he had honestly suffered much worse as fragile meat. The fact that he knew this wouldn't kill him made it more than bearable.
He cocked his head around to flicker his optics at Starscream. Two could play that game, and now Descendant had all the time in the world. Snikt-snakt, his claws grated against each other and he promised himself: soon.
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