Diomedes was too concerned with his current task to pay attention to what transpired above. Scoop was closer, and so he dove for him first. He wasn't the fastest of the Wingblades, but he was the strongest, and that made him perfect for the double-rescue. It might have been wiser to assign the duty to Carrion, as the albatross was also the battle leader, and the condor would have been strong enough, but Diomedes hadn't thought clearly...for once in his life, his leadership had been hampered by his personal feelings. He had never seen it, but after the war, he had softened up. He appreciated his Wingblades, because these were the ones that had made it through with him, these were the soldiers that had been strong enough to serve under him and come out alive. He had come to care for them deeply. Seeing them die had driven him further off the end than he could account for; but now he'd be damned before he'd let Scoop or Jetstream take a crash to the beak. Catching up with Scoop's dazed form, the heavy flier secured his gun to his side and took the falling bird into his arms. From there, he turned his head to see Jetstream's spiraling, one-winged body plummeting some distance away. Another minute, and he'd have them both down safe. Then he could gain altitude again and help with the cleanup.
He'd seen it. He'd seen his shots connect with the traitor Streak. He'd seen them do damage to his altered hide. He'd seen Pepper's guns turn Streak's wings into glorified tissue paper. He'd seen them heal; regenerate at a pace that far outstripped anything the sky warrior had ever seen.
The missiles had done their work, done it excellently. Streak had seen them destroy enemies before, and knew that they were particularly devastating against fliers who were more lightly built and who could be killed even by simply disrupting their flight hardware. The thing inside, though, did not take the moment to feel his discomfort at having killed the Maximals. It was worth risking death to keep this power...and it was worth killing to keep it, as well. His Predacon side could not be denied when the promise of such strength was within his grasp, but he was at war within himself. He could not have kept his focus, save for the force inside now driving him forward. We must finish,it urged. He knew it was right.
The fire of the Wingblades seared the air around him, but with such speed and agility, it appeared as if he'd never be hit. Still, they were as experienced in the air as the dragonfly; even with his improved abilities, they had too much practice in air engagements to be outclassed. Blue lightning arced downward, lancing into the ex-Maximal's chassis, burning a wide swathe over his chest plate. All four wings labored momentarily, and the flier's trajectory veered left. Bright flares of light met his change in direction, and his systems informed him that his pair of left wings had been injured, four holes having been left by the rounds from Pepper's guns. He was losing altitude. The sky began to spin as the mech nosedived. Control not yet lost, he twisted out of the path of several energon darts. The whine of his wings grew, and his injuries began to close.
Streak flew down, and then looped back up at speeds unbelievable even by the standards of those accustomed to flight. His closest adversary was Pepper. The presence inside assured him that this was life and death. It didn't need to, he already knew. They had come to steal his most prized possession, or his life. He had killed some of them already. There was no stopping now. The dragonfly's wings healed, and his top speed increased dramatically. He changed course, coming in parallel to the scissortail the same way a jeep might sideswipe a deer. The dragonfly was moving at hundreds of miles per hour at impact, and his momentum launched both of them into a dramatic spin through the air away from her wingman Fever; Streak's grip on the nape of her neck was far too strong even for the vicious centripetal forces to tear them apart.
Fast as lighting, the thing inside of the dragonfly compensated for the chaos around the mech, and gave him clarity through the tumble. He quickly righted himself, stopping the spin and interposing Pepper between himself and the hawk. Over her shoulder, he fired several shots in the hawk's direction, before placing a foot on his captive's pelvis, and leveling the barrel of his automatic point-blank in the center of her back. The gun went off. And again. And again. To the dramatically hastened Streak, the shots seemed far too slow...he was able to see the flash and impact of every round into her back, drilling into her core while she was held by the neck, helpless in his vice-grip, and held beyond the point of his rifle by his upraised foot. For him, it took ages, but for the others, it transpired with brutal alacrity. Streak emptied twelve shots from his weapon into Pepper's exposed back. Slivers of metal and globs of molten alloy flew from the growing wound until he was sure that her spark was extinguished.
Flesh and feathers parted easily under the metal the gun fired into her body, and the metal armor underneath didn't hold up much longer. By the time the seventh shot had been fired, Pepper was dead. By the twelfth, her chest armor was starting to distend from the inside.
Streak released her in death, and the beautiful black bird fell down from the heavens, to the earth below. Fear still etched into the plates of her face, Pepper's shattered body plummeted to the uncaring earth of the planet below. Her last thoughts would never be heard, and her last wishes unknown by those she regarded as friends and comrades.
Carrion cursed and fired another stream of electricity, missing Streak by mere centimeter's and blowing a smoking hole in the ground bellow. Then, at blinding speed, far greater then he'd ever known Streak capable of, the rouge had entangled himself with Pepper and ended her life in a manner of great savagry. In some instance's, seeing such a creative kill might have excited Carrion, earned his enemy his respect. However, two circumstances interfered with that. The first was that it was his teammate that had been killed. Secondly and most importantly, she had owed him money from a bet some weeks past. "You slagger! I'll kill you for that!" His voice like static feedback on a microphone, Carrion roared and unleashed electric blue hell upon Streak, blanketing the area Streak flew in with thick streams of deadly cobalt lightning.
Fever dodged to the left, but still got hit in his right leg and one scratched the side of his face. Amazing! Impossible! The perpetrator had managed to regain altitude, grab Pepper, and fire shots over his shoulder in the time that most mechs would find it hard to even comprehend. And then Streak killed Pepper. And then he released her to fall from the sky. Red rage was channeled into reaction time as Fever loaded his kestros and fired several darts as he zipped past Streak. His tail feathers were just barely scorched by Carrion's blue energy weapon, and if the hawk had been paying more attention, he wouldn't have gotten hit at all. Fever glanced over his shoulder, fired a few darts just in case, and began climbing. He needed speed, and the surest way to get speed was to get altitude first.
While Gleamwing was momentarily frozen by the sight of his ally being slaughtered by a dead mech, Spitetalon was riled into action as soon as Pepper's corpse was released to fall away like so much trash. From out of the corner of his optic, Gleamwing saw his own wingman rush into Streak, swinging his melee weapon. "Spitetalon no!" he yelled, but it was too late to stop him. Streak couldn't regenerate indefinitely, the laws of physics prevented that… they needed to wear him down, preferably from safe ranges. Perhaps a close combat attack could inflict damage more quickly and efficiently but at this point Gleamwing did not want to risk losing any more Wingblades. There were too few of them now.
Streak looked to the next opponent, only to see bright streaks of energy hurtling toward him, and striking explosively into his shoulder pad, leaving it a twisted and ruined mass of metal and chitin. A lancing beam of bright blue arced into his chest. The next beam hit his hip and the third severed his bottom left wing. The scorching pain was horrifying, and he screamed accordingly as he began plummeting to downward.
His remaining wings worked to right him through his pain... the hidden being wasn't perturbed by the throbbing pain in his shoulder or the burning tracks along his armor. It managed to right him, but he couldn't collect himself in time to answer the vulture that charged him. Energon bolts flew down on him, pouring into his damaged chest plate and shredding it. He had not forgotten the nastiness of the vulture's weapons... he had always felt like Spitetalon was the reason no one would ever want to be taken prisoner by the Wingblades. He managed to level his own weapon and return fire. Even with three wings, he could keep up with these fighters now. The two of them circled and strafed, energon bolts and yellow laser-charged projectiles flying past each as they orchestrated their dance of the death by the iridescent blue strobe of the condor's fire. The vulture was either surprisingly agile, or the damage had rung his bell: Streak was having trouble landing hits. His chassis was so damaged already, and there was fire raining in from the others too.
It took some time of regaining his wings and working through the pain of his damage, but eventually the dragonfly was moving quickly enough that they were having trouble hitting him again. Nonetheless, his systems were telling him to stop fighting...he was in critical condition. The one inside had an answer for that. He closed with Spitetalon, sinking into the mech's flesh with his terrible grip, and hooked his gun to his him. Spitetalon did the same, but then lashed out with the other. Vicious claws dug into Streak's face, and he gritted his teeth in exquisite agony as the acid began to leak into his faceplate. He brought his hand up from his holstered gun, and drove it through Spitetalons torso. He brought it back as the vulture raked his face with both claws, and plunged it back in with such force that he knew the spark had been destroyed. The ravenous mech went limp in his arms, and the dragonfly stopped his wings, allowing them both to fall.
With the vulture on top of him, sheltering him from fire, he would have time to do what he needed to. The one inside knew that their regenerative abilities had reached their limit... they needed more mass to work with. Spitetalon would be very useful to that end, as the two Predacons had been, earlier. As the two of them plummeted to earth, Streak's body melded with the vulture's, and he began to absorb him.
As soon as Gleamwing realized Streak was absorbing the massof Spitetalon, he muttered a denial replete with expletives. But that motivated him into further action, firing his ammunition directly into the former vulture's body to destroy as much of Streak's "meal" as possible. Transformers did not hold a body in as much reverence as humans did. To beings with tangible souls that could be swapped from body to body, a body was merely a vessel. And once the vessel was emptied it was little more than spare parts or even scrap metal. Gleamwing had no remorse for destroying the last mortal reminder of his fellow Wingblade. Spitetalon would not have wanted his body to be used to power an enemy and continue his rampage anyway.
"Carrion, Fever, Diomedes, where are you?" he sung out. There was desperation in his voice. Gone was the arrogance, the surety of Wingblade victory. He would be happy if they just came out of this with no more causalities. Gleamwing was realizing that he had been treating this whole thing, his membership, his celebrity, even this fight, as if it were a game. But no more. "We need to end this son of a glitch NOW."
Diomedes had changed course to intercept Jetstream, and now he was taking the two downed Maximals to the ground as quickly as possible. He knew that the battle wasn't going well. It was quite a feat shaking off the shock of so many deaths so quickly. They needed to finish this job, then they could respectfully dispose of the dead. He finally reached the ground, where he found Moonhunter waiting.
"Take care of them, I'm going back up!" With that, he pushed off from the ground with astounding ferocity, and shot upward into the air. He only hoped that he could get there in time to make a difference. He saw Pepper hurtling toward the ground...but she was already gone. He looked up and saw Streak falling with Spitetalon. It would be quite a while before he got up there, his other Wingblades were still much closer to the action than he was...but Streak was falling! He just hoped that Spitetalon would survive to boast about his heroism.
Carrion ceased his barrage, feeling the temperature of the gun reaching a painful high. If he kept it up any longer, he risked the thing shutting down or just simply exploding. A five second cooling period was necessary at the moment, much to his great annoyance. Amidst the hailstorm of weapons fire directed at Streak from his remaining teammates he had seen Spitetalon engage the target in close combat - a stupid move that cost the faux-vulture his life. Now, as the two plummeted to the ground below, Carrion wondered if the engagement had finally ended Streak's life? That train of thought was derailed as he saw the horrifying process by which Streak absorbed the remains of fallen foes. Spitetalon's body melted and oozed into Streak's like so much slime into a sponge.
Curling his upper lip, Carrion balked. "Seems like I finally found someone that's a bigger freak than me!" That would not do. He did not know what was happening but Carrion had a feeling that whatever it was, it would not be behoove him to allow it to happen any further. His Volt Cannon sufficiently cooled, Carrion took aim once more and unleashed cobalt hell.
The enemy was starting to weaken. And he was still taking down Wingblades left and right. At this rate, the fight would simply be won by the target because there would be no one left to fight him. They didn't have the right tactic; they had tried sending in all the bishops and castles when what they really needed was pawns. It was too late for that now and they were running out of pieces. Fever had to do something. All their attacks were good in theory, and against a lesser creature they would have worked. But not Streak; what they needed was less penetration, less or the mass amount of tiny shots and more instant destruction. In that case, energy weapons just couldn't stack up to simple, brute force.
Fever saw Carrion fire at Streak and prepared his attack. He launched all his remaining darts before transforming back to beast mode. Fever had never trusted melee weapons, and there wasn't much beating several thousand years of evolutionary design for what he wanted anyway. The hawk took aim at the falling Streak and went into a dive. His wings strained under the pressure of the air around him, but his body was designed for this. Closer, closer. "TSEEEERR!" The hawk raked forward his talons and aimed for Streak's head.
Pain. Chaos. Noise. It was enough to overload one's processors, but each time Streak feared he would lose himself to the maelstrom, the thing inside asserted order again, and he could think clearly. Again, he felt that it was close to him... it had the wisdom of many battles, many more than himself... not only was it terrifyingly powerful, it was ancient beyond comprehension. The corpse above him received round after round of enemy fire, and was mostly gone before the thing inside could finish devouring it. What had been Spitetalon's back was charred scrap after Carrion's blue onslaught, his legs were missing after Gleamwing's barrage of bombs...even Streak, sheltered beneath him, had cut up by all the flak. It was with some shock that he realized Fever's final darts had made it past Spitetalon's corpse and detonated, taking his left arm with them.
He had absorbed enough to bring his wings back into top condition, however, and that was plenty for right now. With a sickening sound, Spitetalon's conjoined body donated its arm to Streak, the left, taloned limb sliding grotesquely from one shoulder to the other. With that, Streak broke off the attachment, his wings roared into life. Fever was there, already at top diving speed, and before the dragonfly knew it, half of his face had been swept away with the passing of the hawk's wicked claws.
"AHH!"The scream was involuntary, but the thing inside forced his calm. The condor's light show and Gleamwing's barrage were already beginning again now that Fever was passed. Streak took off like blue lightning, his course so fast and so erratic that Carrion - despite the instantaneous transfer of damage that his weapon was known for - couldn't draw a bead. That burst of speed couldn't be kept up interminably, but it didn't need to be. Fever had been closest to start, but with low ammunition and lacking the altitude to dive, he was the least threat. Carrion was further off than the eagle. Streak twisted quickly so that he flew upside-down, and impacted Gleamwing feet-first. The impact was made at three points, however, because the barrel of Streak's gun slammed into his faceplate at the same instant as his feet dented the metal of the eagle's chest.
Gleamwing was an ace flier, and managed to twist away from the first shot, but the bigger, more powerful dragonfly hooked his feet together behind the Maximal's knee, making escape a complicated endeavor...more complicated than he had time for. With no escape, the dragonfly adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger, sending a stream of ammunition into Gleamwing's face. His head was gone by the time his killer released the trigger. Deep inside of his own head, Streak was feeling sick. I joined the Maximals because I hated killing people this much weaker than me. If I'm this powerful... there's no one in the universe, not even a Prime, who can give me a real fight, who I can fight without feeling like a murderer. Every battle will be the same as the first time I killed a human... what's was the point of my entire conversion if killing is always going to be this sickeningly one-sided?
Diomedes was still on his way, desperately clawing for altitude. He saw Gleamwing fall...he had seen all of them fall. Only five left...he had to make sure all five of them made it.
Anger was Carrion's fuel. That and a healthy dose of psychosis. But primarily anger. With Streak's newfound speed increase and deft dodging of his Volt Cannon, Carrion's tank was full. Through crimson-painted vision, he watched Streak dart about, unpredictably and without reason, making it impossible for any of his shots to strike the infernal dragonfly. Scorched earth and shattered stone were all that his weapon was capable of producing at this point. Holding off on further fire, he waited for a better opening, a pause in the slagger's movement just brief enough to end it all. He got it when Gleamwing struck out in a doomed attack with only one possible ending in this reality: his death.
Still entangled with his comrade's carcass, Streak proved all too easy the target. "HA! This is it! DIE AND BE MY FOOD!" A demonic light in his optics, Carrion pulled the Volt Cannon's trigger once more. The barrel vomited forth its deadly light.
The blue laser light flashed more quickly than the dragonfly could escape the corpse, and the searing pain tore through his frame like liquid fire. He fell once again, his right-side wings totally gone this time. The thin, gossamer membranes had burned away in moments, before the dragonfly turned and interposed the dead eagle between himself and the condor. Damage was critical... the blue blaze destroyed eagle too fast for absorption to take place.
Spying the hawk as he gained altitude, Streak looked back at the eagle and braced his feet against its falling form, springing away from it toward the flying hawk. The transfer of force wasn't perfect, he could have jumped much faster spring-boarding from the ground, but it was enough. The hawk swerved at the last second, but the bot's stolen arm...he had lengthenedit in preparation for the catch, and caught Fever's wing as he dodged. The two tumbled downward as the condor readjusted aim, and the dragonfly smoothly killed the mech as they tumbled to the jungle canopy below. Suddenly, just after Streak had twisted Fever's head off, the albatross was there, adding his weight to the spin and scrabbling desperately to grab the hawk's body away from the insectoid demon. One powerful leg kicked him away, and the absorption began.
The lancing blue light and rapid-fire red projectiles rained down, and Streak was soon forced to abandon the body, but not before stealing the hawk's wings for himself. The things slid from one body to another just as Spitetalon's arm had done, and soon Streak's fall became a glide, and then quickly he roared back up into the air. He wasn't as nimble with these, but he could still compete with the other two. His remaining wings detached from his body and became a bladed staff... his old weapon, which quickly crackled to life with glowing energy. He flew upward toward the two bots raining fire down on him. The end of the battle would be decided in close combat... they would be too slow to keep it at range.
Diomedes flew up beside Carrion, his side-guns blazing away while he took slower, more precise shots with his electron beam cannon. The two of them were laying down the hurt, and he could tell that for all of his body's regeneration, Streak was reaching his limits. His wounds were closing, but his frame was shrinking...the dragonfly was close to his original size again, and Diomedes had to assume that he got incrementally smaller each time he had to heal himself. Given the size he was already when he arrived, the great albatross had to assume his Wingblades had been dishing out the punishment ever since the missiles were gone. The condor's weapon was especially potent; if they could stay in the battle a little longer, he believed they could finish this in the sky.
"Gleam's wings aren't carrying him as fast as the others, Carrion. Fire until my order, then switch out to melee mode. See how fast he grows back his arms when he doesn't have any more to steal."The seconds passed, and their weapons-fire struck the dragonfly directly. Strips of metal pealed away, chitin and feathers exploded. Still Streak came, but he was getting slower...he was almost at their level now, only marginally faster than they were. Hopefully his strength had suffered, as well. "Switch!" he commanded. Gun to his side, he had correctly gauged the distance, and his two glowing scimitars had been drawn before Streak made first contact. Being the more accomplished swords-men, Diomedes took the brunt of the first attack. Streak still had more raw speed than he had, evidenced by the flurry of attacks he had to parry, but he could be managed. He was still very strong, but the superior fighter diverted that strength through skill and leverage. In a moment, Carrion would jump in with his chainsword and he wouldn't have to handle the dragonfly alone.
The command from his superior (a term Carrion found rather odd - after all, who was superior to him?) was carried out immediately. Ending his barrage of fire upon Streak, he released the grip upon his Volt Cannon. The threads of azure energy fizzled out and the weapon unraveled before some unseen force pulled the dozens of biomechanical feathers behind him to form a plum of black at the base of his spine. His left wing, which in robot mode looked like a shriveled limb, exploded off his back before twisting and contorting into a new form. What it became was nothing short of sinister. A serrated blade no shorter than five feet, a handle of ivory metal and a large block made of what could only be described as a mish-mash of machinery for a hand-guard. With lightning reflexes, Carrion snatched the weapon by its handle, flicking a switch just below the machine block. With a horrible whine, the serrated edge of the sword began to rapidly traverse the edge of the blade, spinning faster and faster until each tooth became a solid blur.
Gripping the chainsword in both hands, Carrion launched himself at Streak with psychotic glee. Diomedes and Streak where engaged in a dual of such intensity and passionate violence Carrion felt his desire for blood explode to new heights he had not experienced since the Great War so long ago. Laughing insanely, he lined himself up with Streak's side and raised the screaming sword above his head. With great swiftness, he brought the chainsword down with a vertical slash, intent on splitting the flyer in half with one stroke.
Streak's processors were going at full-tilt, but his power was diminishing as the battle wore on. All the projectile fire he had taken had been healed partially by his stolen mass, but now the program within was doing something else with what he'd stolen, sparing only enough of his excess metal to keep him functioning, not to keep him fresh. Why was it behaving differently now? He couldn't keep fighting if he stayed torn up... but as he demanded it regenerate his hurts, he learned something frightening: he had no power over it. Thus far he had enjoyed a form of mutual command: sometimes it prompted action so strongly he had trouble controlling himself, but acted in his best interest, and would respond to his desires.
He hadn't realized it at first, but all of the program's actions had been dictated first by his own consciousness... he had desired more speed after he had been hurt by the miner's prank, and more strength when he was overpowered by Taurius. He had wanted to be repaired when he was damaged in all of his battles... and the one inside had obliged as soon as it knew what he wanted. Their connection had grown stronger over time, to the point that it knew to heal him as soon as he got hurt, and had a strong link to his consciousness and could follow his train of thought even for desires as complex as wanting new wings or a new arm. It had never dulled his pain before, though, as it did now...and had never scaled back its healing process. These two things had Streak worried, but he didn't have time to contemplate the import of these shifts in behavior while he was battling both remaining Wingblades at once. He should have been able to easily handle them... why was the one inside holding back? It had enough extra material to fix him right now, and if it did, he could dispatch these two and be on his way. The thought made him sick... before now, these hadn't been fights at all... he didn't like this power, but he liked death even less. Maybe it was responding to his distaste for killing such comparatively weak opponents? Well, if that was the case, he wanted it to stop paying attention to that and repair him again!
His frenzied attacks against the damnable albatross failed to get through before Carrion brought serious power into the equation. Unaccustomed to his near-normal speed again, he didn't react in time to dodge the attack. His reaction to seeing the oncoming attack was to swing for the fences with one bladed end of his staff, plowing through the metal of Carrion's midsection while the condor's blade ate through his own hardened alloy interior, cutting him down to the pelvis with its spinning teeth. Sparks, alloy, and chitin flew out of the wound liberally, while the biting chain teeth screamed against their food. Streak's super strength was fading... everything was leaving him! Nonetheless, he'd had enough strength to almost bisect the Maximal...though the injury had not been to the spark, and so the condor, while grievously injured, would live. The sheer force of the blow that had nearly cut him in half though had sent the dragonfly spiraling down, and Diomedes would not relent now that they had Streak in good position.
Pain burned through Carrion's gut. The condor hacked and gurgled out a pitiful scream. Mechfluid spewed from the horrifing gash, mingling with the spray from Streak's wound. Alerts flashed before Carrion's optics, blocking his vision before fading to transparency. The slash had torn through several vital components and opened his body up to be ravaged by the planet's radiation, those natural forces that required Cybertronians to take beast forms on this world. And now his internals were laid open for those unmerciful energies. He felt his flight systems slowly ebb away.
Cursing, Carrion gathered enough strength about him to descend to the ground before he died. Touching down, his life-fluid splattered the grass. Clutching his stomach, he lurched forward and vomited thick globs of mech-fluid that had built up in his throat. There was no way about it. He would have to enter Stasis Lock if he were to live. Of course doing so would open himself to attack from Streak. If the little slagger had lived through the attack. Giving up, Carrion spitefully allowed his vision to fade, slipping into Stasis Lock and into the hands of chance.
As the dragonfly reeled from the blow, his systems trying to register the extent of the damage and just how he had taken such horrifying damage, the albatross plummeted down with all the speed he could muster, and collided with the falling mech, driving a curved sword down into each part of his divided torso. Streak screamed. He screamed as badly as he had when he'd first been burned by Carrion's cobalt flames. Now, the pain from the condor's other attack was beginning to awaken, and the two scimitars through the chest simply added fuel to the flame. And the program inside was silent. He dropped his staff - Diomedes was too close to hit with it, anyway-and grabbed the scimitars, to pull them out with sheer strength alone. The one inside had cut back on his newfound powers... was it tapping into some part of him that regretted his actions? Maybe he needed a more conscious connection with it? Or maybe it was just betraying him? He felt it still lurking within his system, storing its energy, accessing his files, manipulating the mass it had stolen. It... it wasn't going to help him? He beat his wing...one had come off when Carrion had cut him...and it gave him just enough push to reach up and grab Diomedes' wrists.
"Enough!" he screamed, and lashed out with his legs, catching the bird in the chest. The guns on the Maximal's flanks activated and punctuated their split with rapid laser fire. The scimitars had been yanked out of his chest...but he still had only one wing. The program inside wasn't responding...but he willed the changes himself, and as he plunged, bathed in red laser light, he felt the eagle wing at his back begin shivering into two. He felt a store of mass somewhere inside, a hidden density, begin draining into his back. He felt something from the program...shock? Maybe shock. Then anger. Oh yes. It was then that the program came to confront his consciousness directly. If he hadn't been preoccupied he might have paid more attention.
You're letting me die!His growing wings were being eaten away by the laser fire...he turned to take the damage to his split and sparking chest.
You are interfering. Do not interfere.
The pain was terrible...he felt the program dull his senses further.
There. Cease interference. Cease existence and be out of the way.
What was being said and what was being communicated were very different things. As Streak's wings beat into life, he was made aware of many, many things, both concerning the nature and the limitations of the thing inside him. The implications were...horrifying.
That was what was inside of him? That was what had accidentally found its way into his body, after millions of years of entrapment, and that was the source of his new-found powers? As he finally stopped his fall, he prepared to draw more mass from that last reserve, enough to launch himself upward and finish off Diomedes and Carrion. They were both strong, but now that he had found a way to override the thing that betrayed him, they would be no where near his match. He didn't even look at how close he was to the ground. He didn't even notice that he was within range of a certain sniper's sights.
A crawling, wriggling chaos ate its way through Crosshare's central processor. Dark memories long buried, memories that he sought to hide from bit and gnawed their way to the light of day, blocking out rational thought. Memories of that twisted malformation, a composite being of rot and decay wrapped in a mechanical body. Memories of how it had torn through every defense, slaughtered and devoured his comrades, his friends and loved ones with malicious glee. Memories of his own cowardice, paralyzed with fear as the evil thing brought down death and sorrow upon the land.
He had failed. Because of his cowardice, he never pulled the trigger. Because of his cowardice, Monstructor had slaughtered almost everyone. Logically, Crosshare should have known his weapon, as strong as it was, posed no threat to the twisted Gestalt. Logic was not part of his life. Only guilt and fear ruled in that part of his mind.
As he watched in silent horror as Streak, his friend, confidante, and ally tore the Wingblades apart, devoured them, consumed them with a mere touch, memories and reality blended together. The evidence was brought to bare. Streak had become Monstructor. Monstructor had become Streak. Evil lived. Was this how it was going to all end? Would Streak kill the rest of the Wingblades then he and Moonhunter? What of those back at Colony Zeta? Would they fall prey to Streak? What of the Predacons? Their numbers had already been thinned by Streak, what would stop him from killing the rest? What of the stars that lay beyond? Would he travel the cosmos, seeking death and destruction? Crosshare's cowardice, would it once more bring nothing but death and misery?
Centuries of his buried pain, anger, and all of his sorrow broke forth like a rushing river from a dam. He would not allow it to go on any further! "CROSSHARE MAXIMIZE!" With a roaring command, internal gears and pistons sprung to life, changing and shifting his body into a new form. Humanoid limbs replaced his paws, his face flattened and the fur pulled away to reveal glinting metal. Panels in his back slid open and ejected two parts of his signature weapon, a deadly Electron Sniper Rifle. Merging into one, Crosshare took them in hand and gazed through the scope, magnifying its effect with his own powerful optics.
Despite the tales of a Cybertronian's endurance spread far and wide across the known universe, in truth they had just as many weak points as any other species. The foremost was their joints. To enable any type of movement, armor had to be sacrificed in those areas. For a skilled sniper, those areas were protoform's play to hit. A single pull of the trigger, a bolt of energy, and Streak's left arm exploded in a shower of mech-fluid and flame at the elbow. A second pull, his right arm joined in gory revelry. A third and fourth shot crippled Streak, blowing off his knee caps and severing the lower portions of his legs. Crosshare brought his aim to Streak's torso. A bolt ripped through the flyers abdomen. A second, through his left breast. A third and final shot pierced through the most heavily armored portion of Streak's, and every Cybertronian's, body. His spark chamber.
The first shot was so unexpected, and Streak's senses so dulled, that he almost didn't notice it. The shots that followed happened in quick succession, and before he knew it, he was soaring upward as just a torso. It wasn't until the first two shots through his chest that he spasmed painfully, and then the final one sent him down. His consciousness flickered on the way down...it was still several hundred yards to the ground. His thoughts were muddled as he tried to bring sense to the world spinning around him, and then his vision stopped altogether when he slammed into the ground.
Crosshare dropped his rifle.