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fandomweekly2019-10-28 04:32 pm
autobotscoutriella) wrote in fandomweekly2019-10-28 04:32 pm
Entry tags:
[#029] Connection (Transformers)
Theme Prompt: 029 - Ghosts
Title: Connection
Fandom: Transformers (Bayverse)
Rating/Warnings: G / None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 578
Summary: Cybertron remembers what it has lost, as much as a planet can remember.
A faint breeze hums through the tunnels, the echoes reverberating down to the deepest levels of the slumbering planet. It's little more than a fluttering breath, but in the silence, it might as well be a hurricane; the movement, slight as it is, startles a colony of hibernating shriekbats, and for a moment the screeching calls of one of the last living species on the planet ring through the empty tunnels like an ancient alarm system.
Deep beneath the surface, in the massive chamber that once housed the heart of Cybertron itself, a single blue biolight flickers.
It's not truly aware of its surroundings. To be aware would require it to be awake, and it isn't, not truly. With the AllSpark gone, there's nothing to keep Cybertron's spark online, and it has been long centuries since any energon made its way down to the planet's core.
But the tiny flicker of life from the shriekbat colony is enough to draw it out of its million-year coma, just for a moment. Its sentient inhabitants may be long gone, never to return, but the planet is not quite dead yet.
There are a million voices in that breeze and the shriekbats' calls. The planet's surface is littered with bodies, dead from a million different causes, their sparks drawn back into the AllSpark or dissipated out into the galaxy, their frames scavenged for spare parts. Cybertron's children were never meant to die so young and in such great numbers.
It's not aware enough to restore them to what they were, or to realize that without the AllSpark there is no hope of bringing them back. But the planet knows that something should be done. Not what, not when, not how. Time does not matter to Cybertron anymore, and it has not been aware enough of itself to act independently for a long time. But something should be done.
A single pulse of blue and gold energy snaps out from the planet's core like a single heartbeat, rushing through a hundred thousand energon veins, startling the shriekbats into a flurry of flapping and screaming, faint colors rippling across the gunmetal gray surface for a single second.
Then Cybertron falls quiet again. The light at the planet's core fades, settling back into an eternal slumber, satisfied that it has done something even though it does not know what. The shriekbats return to their colony, piling up in a heap of tiny bodies and folded wings and sliding back into a hibernation that will last until something they can feed on returns to the planet. The breeze dies, leaving the tunnels empty and silent and lifeless.
A hundred galaxies away, on a tiny, distant, unknown planet unmarked on any one of Cybertron's maps, the AllSpark flares into activity for five seconds of local time. Two telephones and a typewriter come to life, scrabbling across the concrete floor on newly discovered legs, blue and red optics wildly searching the unfamiliar environment for the Thing that made them, chattering in their own hybrid dialect at each other and at everything around them. The bipedal organics native to this planet shout and run to investigate, yelling to each other in a language the AllSpark does not understand.
Cybertron does not know it, but the lives it remembers still linger on. They are far away now, and in a form that the planet has never seen, but they live, and some part of them still remembers their home.
Title: Connection
Fandom: Transformers (Bayverse)
Rating/Warnings: G / None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 578
Summary: Cybertron remembers what it has lost, as much as a planet can remember.
A faint breeze hums through the tunnels, the echoes reverberating down to the deepest levels of the slumbering planet. It's little more than a fluttering breath, but in the silence, it might as well be a hurricane; the movement, slight as it is, startles a colony of hibernating shriekbats, and for a moment the screeching calls of one of the last living species on the planet ring through the empty tunnels like an ancient alarm system.
Deep beneath the surface, in the massive chamber that once housed the heart of Cybertron itself, a single blue biolight flickers.
It's not truly aware of its surroundings. To be aware would require it to be awake, and it isn't, not truly. With the AllSpark gone, there's nothing to keep Cybertron's spark online, and it has been long centuries since any energon made its way down to the planet's core.
But the tiny flicker of life from the shriekbat colony is enough to draw it out of its million-year coma, just for a moment. Its sentient inhabitants may be long gone, never to return, but the planet is not quite dead yet.
There are a million voices in that breeze and the shriekbats' calls. The planet's surface is littered with bodies, dead from a million different causes, their sparks drawn back into the AllSpark or dissipated out into the galaxy, their frames scavenged for spare parts. Cybertron's children were never meant to die so young and in such great numbers.
It's not aware enough to restore them to what they were, or to realize that without the AllSpark there is no hope of bringing them back. But the planet knows that something should be done. Not what, not when, not how. Time does not matter to Cybertron anymore, and it has not been aware enough of itself to act independently for a long time. But something should be done.
A single pulse of blue and gold energy snaps out from the planet's core like a single heartbeat, rushing through a hundred thousand energon veins, startling the shriekbats into a flurry of flapping and screaming, faint colors rippling across the gunmetal gray surface for a single second.
Then Cybertron falls quiet again. The light at the planet's core fades, settling back into an eternal slumber, satisfied that it has done something even though it does not know what. The shriekbats return to their colony, piling up in a heap of tiny bodies and folded wings and sliding back into a hibernation that will last until something they can feed on returns to the planet. The breeze dies, leaving the tunnels empty and silent and lifeless.
A hundred galaxies away, on a tiny, distant, unknown planet unmarked on any one of Cybertron's maps, the AllSpark flares into activity for five seconds of local time. Two telephones and a typewriter come to life, scrabbling across the concrete floor on newly discovered legs, blue and red optics wildly searching the unfamiliar environment for the Thing that made them, chattering in their own hybrid dialect at each other and at everything around them. The bipedal organics native to this planet shout and run to investigate, yelling to each other in a language the AllSpark does not understand.
Cybertron does not know it, but the lives it remembers still linger on. They are far away now, and in a form that the planet has never seen, but they live, and some part of them still remembers their home.