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Alexithymia	By : RedIckarys Category: Transformers > Beast Machines Views: 2639 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Beast Wars/Machines and all the characters included in the series do not belong to me, and I am not making any profit off this work of fiction.

Chapter List
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I can recall a time when driving through Cybertropolis at any speed above a crawl would have been impossible. Now, the streets are empty and I'm going at speeds that should have sent me careening into other mechs. I never do. There isn't anyone on the streets but me. I don't even see drones or the other generals, and for that I am grateful. On a planet devoid of life, I am alone and free.

I have no destination in mind as I fly down the streets. There is no one to meet. No point in hitting all the old hot spots, or looking up forgotten friends. I know what happened to them anyway. They're all lying around, shells empty and discarded. Dead. I know this to be Megatron's work, but I can't find it within me to care. All I feel is cold indifference and the rush of moving mechanical parts.

I asked for this. I made a deal with the devil and was rewarded with heaven. I know what the other Maximals think of my choice. They do not understand. They are blinded by Optimus, caught in the memory of when he was an effective leader, unclouded by the taint of the Oracle. They do not see that he has been compromised. They have all been compromised. I want to help them, to show them the perfection I have attained, but if they chose to spurn me, so be it. I owe them nothing.

As Cybertron's sun rises up over the horizon, filling the streets with light, a fleeting shadow catches my optics. Moments later, an energy signature flares up. A Maximal has returned to their root mode, though I cannot guess why; they know they will attract Vehicons if they transform... Ah, they must be trying to get my attention. Though they have not yet seen my new shell, they must have realized who I am; I do not look like the other Generals.

I come to a halt at the mouth of an alleyway, the signal flashing on my view-screen. The Maximal stands, but I do not recognize his profile. It is too broad, too tall to be any of my former crewmates. Golden optics stare at me, then the figure turns and runs away. He leans forward as he runs, I notice as I rev my engine and give chase. He is not agile at all; rather, he thunders along the streets, his taloned feet clicking against the pavement with each heavy footfall. Still, there is a fleetness to his steps, and I have to try to keep up with him.

In the neon lights and reaching fingertips of sunbeams, his hide sparkles, like a million tiny pebbles glinting beneath running water. Feathers dance at his elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles, fluttering in the wind as if they could lift him off the ground if only they flapped hard enough. They are dusty brown and flecked with spots of deep blue. No, cobalt. Strange that I feel the need to make such a distinction.

The chase goes on for some time. I could easily overcome him, but I chose not to. Instead, I follow behind at a lazy pace, studying his form as the world around me brightens. I do not care where we are going, only that I am moving, following, analyzing, and that is fulfilling. I do not feel joy, but still I delight in the pursuit. I feel as though I belong here, downwind of this new, hauntingly familiar creature.

Though he does not acknowledge my presence, he knows I am here. He sticks to the pavement, even when he squeezes down corridors that can barely accommodate his width. These become less frequent as the chase continues, and soon the buildings that surround us begin to fall away. He is leading me out of the city and away from the streets that I once called home. There are ruins here, and I am forced to transform as the terrain becomes ragged. Razed buildings spot the landscape, reaching towards the sky like the raised hand of a corpse. Megatron's influence does not extend here. The incessant hum of his network fades to a whisper, then disappears entirely.

He stands atop twisted structure like a god, the blazing sun casting him in silhouette. I tolerate the illusion for a moment before I adjust my optics accordingly, and see that nothing changes. His powerful figure stirs something in me, a word, a name, a feeling, a memory.

I am kneeling on the ground. He lies upon the earth before me, cast in brown, bronze, and cobalt. Crimson optics never leave mine even though he addresses those around us. I know he is not speaking to me, because he can't be. He cannot be saying those words to me. My vision blurs, and I press his clawed servo to my lips. I love him. He is dying. I want to die. He graces me with one last smile, then his optics go offline and his servo is limp in my grasp. I watch his spark fade to nothing.

My display refracts as I stop at the base of the structure, craning my neck to look at him. Lubricant is obstructing my view, but I feel nothing.

“You are dead,” I inform the memory, and he smiles at me. It is a bitter smile, full of jagged teeth and times long passed. He looks tired, defeated, and there is something fundamentally wrong with that.

Something inside of me breaks when he inclines his head just so, acknowledging my words but still looking down on me, just as he always has. “Yes, I was.”

There is a blaze of feeling inside my chassis and I fall to the ground, my knees clattering painfully against the cement. Concern flashes across his chiseled features and I feel anger irrationally well up in my processor. It comes to a head as powerful arms wrap around my frame, enveloping me in smooth scales and warm muscle.

I cringe as I am set on my feet and push away from him – I don't want his fragging pity.

And when he looks down on me with those golden eyes, confusion, sorrow, and acceptance swirling within their depths, I lift my arm and swing it forward as hard as I can, backhanding him right across the face.

And he lets me. He just fragging lets me.

“Frag you!” I shriek, clenching my fists at my sides, lubricant spraying from my mouth. “Yanno what, Dinobot? Frag you up da tailpipe, cuz I ain't puttin' up wit' dis slag no more! You prolly ain't even da real ting, are ya? Huh? Yer just dat fraggin' clone wit' a conscious cuz I went t'rough HELL fer you. 'N you just t'rew it all away!”

I stand there quivering with rage as he looks away from me, eyes sweeping over the landscape uncertainly. He makes no attempt to defend himself and you know what? It makes my fuel tank lurch to see him acting like that. That is not my Dinobot. That is not even close to my Dinobot.

My Dinobot would've leapt to his feet and tackled me to the ground, viciously snarling at me and telling me I don't know slag and how DARE I insult his honor by insinuating he was anything less than perfect. The thing lying on the ground in front me is nothing more than a cheap knock-off – Megatron's whipping-bot infused with the REAL Dinobot's precious memories. He didn't love me; he only thought he loved me because his harddrive was telling him he did. But he didn't love me. He didn't know jackshit about me.

I kick him in the stomach a few times, my face contorted with disgust, and he just looked up at me, his brow furrowed with pain and betrayal. My fuel tank churns with disgust and I punch him in face, feeling his nose crumple beneath my fist. Primus, but I bet Megatron got his rocks off to that face, the sick, twisted fuck that he is. Probably liked it more than anything the Real Deal ever did for him.

“Yer pathetic,” I spit at him, the whole situation leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “Go back ta da Oracle-whipped Maxis 'n get outta my sight. You make me sick.”

I turn to go, but his claws wrap around my wrist, holding me back.

“Rattrap,” he says, his voice so rough and vulnerable. Like I'm breaking his freakish, immortal spark.

Well, fuck that shit. He broke my spark a long, long time ago.

“Rattrap's dead!” I hiss at him, jerking my servo out of his unresisting grip and swiping at him. He flinches and I spin around, throwing myself at him. With both hands braced on either side of his helm, I push my head into his face and snarl. “My name's Ransack, you sonuva bitch! I'm da broken, shattered remains of a mech who got fucked ova' long before you even took yer damned first step!”

I look into those stupid, kicked-puppy eyes of his, and for the first time, I see myself. I see the mech whose purple optics look far too crazed, too animalistic, too emotional to be pure machine. The way I'm snarling makes me look like a beast that's got rabies, and fucking Megatron left in Rattrap's buck dentals. Primus, I hate him.

“I am a monster,” I seethe, slamming my fist on the ground, making the clone jump in surprise, and push myself away.

With a hiss of “Incinerate,” I fold into my bike-mode and gun my engine, blasting out of there as fast as I can.

I dunno who disgusts me more; Megatron, that clone, or myself.
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Alexithymia