Chapter Nineteen
21st December
2010hrs
The voices niggled at him.
They were his constant companion in the cold dark cell he resided within.
They were cruel and merciless and afforded him not a moment of respite.
He hated them.
But with that said, or rather unsaid, he didn't know who they were.
How can you hate us if you don't know us?
I hate the Decepticons, and half of them I don't know.
You hate the Decepticons you don't know not based on your knowledge of them, but rather that purple face they pass off as an insignia.
And why should you care if I hate the 'cons or not?
You bought it up. You cannot expect a logical response from us if you yourself will not endevour to construct one.
How about I construct my foot up your aft?
You're welcome to try.
Who are you?
Will it make it easier for you to hate us if you know who we are?
Shut up.
Good comeback. I can see how you made it into the Autobot ranks. Why haven't you been recommended for officer training yet?
Shut the hell up.
Oh, you are such a classy individual. Does it win you attention with the femmes? Does it make the Brass respect you and the value the role you play? Does it make your brother proud of you? Truth is, you're nothing, are you? Well, I suppose cannon fodder is something. That's what you are, isn't it? Cannon fodder. You're just another target for those Decepticons, and you can guarantee that Megatron wouldn't lock up his troops like they locked up you.
Megatron is dead.
He is, isn't he? But that doesn't change the fact that he'd never lock his mechs up, he'd turn them loose on the Autobots… on you and your brother and your idiot little friends.
And what if he does?
What I'm trying to get you to lay optics upon, solider, is that it was only ever Prowl who locked you up, and Optimus only let him do that if you weren't needed.
Prowl is dead. Optimus is dead.
That's right, they are, and they're not even cold in their tombs, not even a spec of rust on their chassis and already look where you and your brother are. Locked up in this cell while their scientists try and figure out what's wrong with you.
Shut up.
Perceptor. That bastard. He was always jealous of you, you know. His intelligence doesn't win femmes, well, not Autobot ones at least. They're interested in might, in power, in warriors, not cowards who hide behind petri dishes and data pads.
So what? Percey can't get 'faced. BFD.
Haha. You see, that's my point. He can't get faced, but when was the last time you got some?
A few weeks back.
With that cheap whore bot from the TillianQn's system? I'm sure you've had more and more recently, you just can't recall… can you?
I don't care.
Yes you do. It's the highest complement in your twisted vain opinion. When some cheap piece of tin wants to grind your gears. And look where you are now, locked in the brig, people thinking you're insane, you think that's going to win you some ports when you get of out here? You think those harlot bots are going to want to berth you when you get back out there?
Shut up.
Is that the most you can reply with? Shut up? When are you going to realise it? You're worthless! You're just cannon fodder! Optimus didn't care for you, he used you as a grunt, you got the job done, but now in comes Rodimus and Magnus and Kup and Springer with all their ideas and war experience and they have other grunts and they're better at their job then you and they will be utilised more, and you, you and your equally worthless brother will have your CPUs strip mined and you'll be left to rust alive in these places.
Oh, why won't you shut the hell up?
Don't you want to hear the truth? To know the reality of it all? The reality that the guard has changed and you don't have a place any more? Rodimus and Magnus and Kup and Springer and Blurr and all of those happy new face plates, they all had four million years more experience then you! You slept through the most turbulent part of the war and now you're paying for it!
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!"
Can't handle the truth. Fine. I was just trying to help you see the reality of it all, but if you want to wallow here in ignorance, fine, so be it.
Silence.
The voice was gone for a moment.
WORTHLESS PIECE OF SCRAP!
It suddenly screamed at him from within his very audios. Sunstreaker jumped up with a rage he seldom felt when not on the battlefield and tore through the straps that held him, he couldn't' even remember when such bonds had been applied to him, probably during his last tantrum. He rushed at the door and began pounding and tearing and screaming, a lubricant similar to spit flicked out in small blobs as he continued at the door, roaring with a rage so primordial it would send shudders down the linkage column of any harden Decepticon. His metallic fingers managed to make contact with a small imperfection in the wall and he was able to dig into it, tearing, pulling, yanking, part of the panelling came away. His hands balled into fists and he started to hammer at the internal mechanisms that controlled the release for the ball.
He struck something he shouldn't have and that something exploded.