A cold, biting wind howls through the empty structures of Cybertronian hab suites. Dust, colored red with flakes of rust, swirls around in meandering circles. It dances over melted metal walls and shattered glass as the wind continues to blow it along. The smog-choked skies blearily watch from above, not a ray of light reaching the warped city below. Hints of paint, faded and peeled from deca-cycles of neglect, peek through layers of grime. If you look hard enough, glimmers of what once was still cling to this desolate reality. Pieces of an EMT's datapad, an energon cube inscribed with a designation, a dried out tin of racer's polish…
Glimmers that grow increasingly dull as time drags on. Increasingly dull, and increasingly hard to find in an endless sea of grey. The ruins of the large city lie off in the distance, far too damaged to identify. Buried underneath debris and detritus lie twisted frames. Scattered haphazardly, they too are hard to recognize. Faceplates marred by scars, frozen in their last moments of function. Some look peaceful, as if they were simply recharging in the refuse. Others are far less serene. Intakes parted in a grotesque scream, optics opened in an endless stare, grimaces of pain deeply etched into optical ridges…every direction is littered with horror. The howl of the wind kicks up into a haunting wail. The scent of stagnant energon mixes with an acrid tang, choking in its intensity. It is cold here, unnaturally cold.
Yet even these things pale in comparison to the crushing silence. It is so undeniably wrong, so incredibly jarring that it immediately seizes any living being with a sense of dread. Such profound mourning and keen sense of grief quickly consume the minds of those unfortunate enough to witness this tragedy. There is so much loss…so much that will never be seen nor heard nor said. The wind screams through fissures and cracks as a storm roils overhead.
As acid rain patterns onto this long abandoned battlefield, those lost glimmers become buoys in a sea of despair. In the quiet, if one stands still and listens, strange things begin to happen. Echoes of conversations drift from seemingly nowhere. Flickers of biolights wink in and out of existence. Scents waft up from empty polish tins and cubes. Disembodied EMF fields buzz with excitement, anticipation, and a range of pedestrian emotions. Those echoes of a living Cybertron cling to these artifacts like forgotten memories, calling out into the silence.
These are the ghosts of Cybertron.