Transformers Origins XXXII

As they neared Primus, both Prima and Ursa heard the most ghastly sound that either of them would ever experience in their lives. Soon after the screech of agony faded, sickening laughter rang through the very core of Cybertron. With a snarl, Ursa ran even faster to the sources of the sound, ignoring the pain shooting through his broken knuckles.

 “… me now, brother?” the demented voice of Centurion greeted the two as they neared their father’s helm.

 “Yes, yes, I believe you now!” screamed Sigma in great pain.

 The scene that Prima and Ursa ran into was nothing short of horrifying.

 “Hello!” a cheery Centurion smiled as his brothers came in running.

 “By the stars,” a stunned Ursa murmured as he froze.

 Not wasting any time, Prima dismounted the beastformer and ran to where Sigma was hunched over on the ground and clutching his faceplates. “Sigma, what—?” He recoiled in shock as Sigma looked back at him.

 Energon was dripping freely from the minicon’s gaping optical socket. However, as disgusting as that was, it wasn’t even the most disturbing part. Sigma still had two optics, and one of them dangled from wires connected to his processor, much too big to even fit in the— wait, why was the optic too big to…?

 Prima fell to his knees. “Oh stars,” he whispered as the answer dawned on him.

 “I can see it all with Centurion’s optic,” the minicon whispered in awe, his gaze looking right through the bearer of the Matrix. “I can see it all and what he said is true.”

 All Prima could do was hold his smallest brother to his chassis.

 “Oh, Centurion,” Ursa bemoaned several meters away. “What has become of you?”

 “What are you talking about?” the centaurian mech asked in genuine confusion as energon gushed from both his remaining optic and the empty socket. “Nothing has changed.”

 The wielder of the Aegis Fang merely looked in broken dismay at his clearly deranged brother.

 “Oh wait, I forgot!” the mono-opticked one remembered with a grin. “Something has changed! I found Quintessa!”

 “You what?” the bestial mech’s incredulous tone responded.

 “Yes,” a beaming Centurion nodded. He then reached into his other socket and ripped out his remaining optic. “Would you like to see?”

 Ursa’s jaw fell to the ground. “Brother…”

 “It’s all so hilarious!” the centaurian laughed as energon gushed through both empty sockets. “We’re slaves, all of us! Father, Uncle, everyone! We’re machines built for war! That’s why we are so talented in combat! Father and Uncle were meant to create us, us Primes were meant to be generals, and the rest of our brothers, sisters, and cousins were to be our troops to send off to die! It’s all so perfect!”

 Ursa walked up to his brother, held him, and wept silently. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he shuddered in grief.

 Centurion continued to rant, gently squeezing his optic in enthusiasm. “And you know what? They were fighting because Uncle wanted to commit genocide and Father did not. I personally would have sided with Uncle had I known this before but…”

 “I’m sorry for failing you,” Ursa whispered into the top of his brother’s helm. “I’m sorry for getting so angry over nothing, I’m sorry for not protecting you, I’m sorry that you’re broken because of my weakness.”

 The beastformer pulled away from Centurion’s helm. “But above all, I’m sorry that you’re suffering so much,” he went on as his little brother continued to babble incoherently. “Centurion?” he finally cut into the insane nonsense.

 “Yes, brother?” the archer looked up at his sibling with yawning sockets.

 “How much pain are you in?”

 “It all hurts terribly.”

 “Do you want it all to end?”

 “Yes.”

 “Would you give anything to end it all?”

 “Yes.”

 “Then will you let me end it?”

“Yes.”

“I love you, Centurion.”

“I love you, too.”

 Prima continued where his half of the plot left off a couple dozen lines ago. “We need to get Vector and have him heal you.” ‘If he can,’ he thought in worry.

 “Brother,” Sigma whispered, painfully clutching ‘his’ optics, “what Centurion said is true: the only reason why we exist is because we’re machines of war.”

 The bearer of the Matrix looked down at the now-disfigured minicon in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

 “We…” the champion of courage shuddered as he bore witness to events galaxies away. “We’re slaves, brother. Machines of death meant to terminate the lives of those our masters feared.”

 “Vector!” he called. “Vector, I need you!”

 “By the stars,” Sigma murmured as he watched the Vokite-Quintesso War from an immense distance. “Is that our true destiny?”

 The wielder of the Star Saber stood while still cradling the minicon. “Vector!” he called again, impatient for the Prime of time to appear and remedy their brothers. “Ursa!” he shouted over to the beastformer. “I care not what you do, just keep Centurion from hurting himself until Vector arrives.”

 Ursa paid him no heed however, instead focusing all of his attention on the mech he held.

 “I love you, Centurion,” he told the champion of honesty.

 “I love you, too,” the blind Prime responded.

 “Ursa!” Prima snarled, none too keen on being ignored in such a heavy situation.

 The wielder of the Aegis Fang pulled away from the embrace but still maintained all of his focus on Centurion.

 Vector finally appeared in a swirling vortex of green. He took one look at the mad scene and immediately gave his older sibling an angered glare.

 “What. Happened?” the wielder of the Kronostaff growled through clenched denta.

 “Not now!” Prima snapped back as he showed the trembling form of Sigma to him.

 Vector instantly dropped his anger and stooped down to the minicon’s level to examine the injury.

“Ursa!” the champion of leadership shouted, optics burning with both panic and rage.

But once again Prima’s command was ignored. Instead, a loud, sickening wrenching sound answered him.

Vector jerked at the disturbance.