At the base of Jhiaxus’ MountainCutthroat stood among the other Terrorcons, reflecting on what had happened and whether he should be furious with Hun-Grrr or not.
The chaosteros they had intended to attack as a group was down, defeated and as little more than ruined organics and cybernetics.
They were responsible for this. He knew it. Somewhere deep inside, he knew it to be true.
If only he could remember.
He should, but he didn’t. Just as his energon lust should have been sated following his kill as one with the other Terrorcons. Yet it wasn’t. If anything, it had grown with his rage as the knowledge he had been used to do battle, and he hadn’t been allowed to enjoy it.
Feeling the rush of the hunt, the thrill of the kill were taken from them.
Taken from him.
His rage grew as a growl reverberated from his vocalizer and through his chest cavity. Stepping forward, he glared at
Hun-Grrr. He knew their leader had been as powerless as he’d been to prevent what had happened, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “What now, Leader? What of our hunt, of our feast?”
~~~
~~~
Wildfly wrote: >>”Aye, Slog.”<<
Slog nodded his appreciation to
Wildfly, then turned his attention to the rest of his team, his brothers.
Yes, they were brothers now.
As if we weren’t before this?He nearly chuckled, but he forced it down as this wasn’t the time. This was when the process of picking up the pieces took on a whole new meaning. Throughout his existence, he had dealt far more damage than he’d sustained. This time… this time he felt like he’d lost. Not just his own self once again, but the individuality of each of his Monstercons. His doubts over being able to hold them together through their future missions had compounded. If Scorponok had the ability to force them to merge, how often would he use that to save his other troops. Weren’t the Monstercons considered expendable by Scorponok and his officers? Weapons to be unleashed when the time was right; cannon fodder to be used until they were drained of every bit of their mental acuities?
That brought another thought to the surface of his processor, and he silently cursed his logic circuits for not giving him time to finish what he wished before pulling out another problem.
His brothers’ mental acuities weren’t important, it was their sanity he had to find a way to repair, to hold together. The rest was taken care of during their merging.
Oh yes, he’d felt each of his brothers briefly when they had joined, but it hadn’t lasted long before the command came from Scorponok.
It had to be him, Slog decided.
He wouldn’t allow another his moment of glory. He didn’t want to accept their fate as it appeared in his processor, but he saw little point in ignoring it. If they worked as a brace for one another, would that provide the balance they needed? Or was it solely up to him?
Those were questions that only heightened his growing frustration as shuttles began arriving all around them. Soon, they would be repaired, refueled, and sent on another mission with Scorponok’s claw over their destinies.
The fates are not kind to those unable to carve their own path.Shaking the thought away, Slog returned his attention to his brothers. Icepick’s cries had continued, and though he felt like doing the same, he couldn’t give into the desire.
Slowly, with halted steps as his servos and gears ground together and whined in protest, Slog made his way to each of his brothers. They were arrayed in a pattern that he hadn’t fully taken in before, and in many ways, they resembled an artistic design — something a beginner may do, but inventive, given their angles.
This marks the beginning of new works of art, I take it. A pity I’m wasn’t so hands-on this time. That time he chuckled, and his optics buzzed and static flashed across them as readouts appeared, informing him of energon being rerouted to bypass damaged conduits.
Art comes at a price. It pained him that
Wildfly had been the only one able to stand, but it was something he understood more than he cared to. He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Umbra. He was surprised at how much her welfare concerned him, and he hoped she had survived the battle.
Without much to do but wait, he checked what vitals he could of those still down, and sent to the team’s communication, >>
You have all done well. Soon, we shall recharge and oil our wounds.<<
He didn’t see a reason to say more, especially since he didn’t know what else he could say. It would have to be enough.