Chapter Text
It had been five vorns since the world ended. The Prime had proved himself to be utterly useless in times of crisis, and it hadn’t taken long for Cybertron to collapse completely under the weight of the disaster.
What was a Prime again? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember his own designation.. But he could remember the fact that the Prime was an useless aft. He must’ve really hated him in life, if he can remember him in death.
He walked the roads he used to patroll, his steps dragging as he stumbled over debris and trash. Broken pieces of buildings have spilled out into the streets, making them that much harder for him to traverse with his rusted joints. Not that it stopped him. He spends his days walking, stumbling over melting corpses slowly being dissolved by the rain. Calling them corpses would probably be to generous, most of what’s left is nothing more than wiring and sensors.
He dosen’t recognise where he is, the once pristine crystal city looked like scrap. It was no wonder the infection had spread so fast. The abandoned buildings and shops were broken down and covered in graffiti, warnings or messages from dying mechs. He understood the words, but his processor wouldn’t hang onto them. They ran through his tacnet and disappeared, what was a tacnet? He didn’t know, but he knew he had one. For all it was worth. The only thing on his mind was the constant hunger plaguing his systems.
A piercing scream ripped through the silence of the dead city as he stumbled over a peice of a building. His helm turned towards the sound slowly. The movement caused him to stumble again, his damaged doorwings unable to stabilise his frames movements. Rusted joints to slow to move.
He dragged his pedes towards the sound, someone was screaming for help, some deep part of his coding tried to get him to do something at that. But he didn’t know what. The noise grew louder and louder as he approached the mostly intact building. He’d walked by it dozens of times but never had any reason to pay it any mind. But it had his full attention now, sound meant living mecha. Living mecha meant a means to satisfy the aching hunger.
He wasn’t the only one heading towards the sound, other infected were also make their way towards the commotion. A hoard attracted by the loud sounds. A death sentance to any living mech.
He stumbled down the windling halls of the commercial building, broken glass cracking under his pedes as he followed the noise like a metalmoth to a flame. Digits digging groves into the walls as he dragged himself along.
The old motelroom was alive with mecha trying to fight off the infected, a whole squad of them. Bullets were ripping through the air along with their screams now, cutting down the infected with a bullet to the helm, or slowing them down with bullets to the chest or legs. He didn’t care for those still alive.
He dropped to his knees by the door and crawled towards a rapidly greying frame, stale servos clumsily tearing open the minibots chest plating and smashing open the sparkchamber. The ruckus around him fall into the background as he bites down on the shattered spark crystals. The feeling of being alive floods his systems. The pure amount of energy in the sparkchambers crystals is enough to jumpstart his own systems, atleast for a short time. It’s ecstasy.
But it isn’t enough. This new hunger is impossible to ignore, spark crystals satisfy it somewhat. But it’s the processor matter that make them feel alive again. Energon drips down from his intake as he chews on the hard sparkcrystals, bulletes whipping past him and striking down the infected behind him.
If he eats parts of the processor, he gets to feel alive again. He gets to experience their memories, their emotions, the things they felt in their last moments. It’s pain, but it’s pain he can feel.
But he doesn’t do that, there’s nothing left of the minibots processor to eat. He pushed himself up on his pedes instead, using the overturned table to stabilise himself before turning and stumbling out towards the entrance once more. Ignoring the shouts and pleas for mercy being drowned out by the guttural moans of the undead.
The sky rumbles overhead as he left the building, acid rain began to pour down from the sky. He stopped for a moment, tilting his helm towards the sky and letting the acidic rain wash over his frame. It eats at his paint, as well as the rust coating his joints. If he could still feel, he would probably feel relief. But he can’t, so he feels nothing.
He started walking again when the sound of dozens of footsteps became audible, other infected making their way outside to make use of the rain. He may not recognise where he was, but his long dead spark knew these streets, and his pedes took him somewhere that should’ve been familiar but wasn’t anymore.