Killshot

For Blaster the war had finally cried itself to sleep.

He gripped the weapon tightly in his steel hands. He couldn’t see it, but he thumbed around its alien surface and found the trigger. It wasn’t important to him now where it came from or who made it. What was important was its ability to out-right kill a Transformer. He didn’t know the science, just that it worked at a positronic level and there was no turning back. No resurrection, no rebuilding and no reformatting.

Blaster was drowning in hatred and the harsh Cybertronian grit-winds screamed the names of those he’d considered murdering in the name of revenge; the journey that had led him here to his final target.

He pulled the trigger.

Blot. Or Bugly, it didn’t really matter. All Decepticons were the same in Blaster’s optics. Merciless killers who had spread terror throughout the known galaxy for millions of years. There was no way to discriminate between them. Maybe except their leader, Galvatron. But Blaster knew once he was out of the way, another would take his place. Probably Soundwave. If ever Blaster had an archenemy, it was him.

Blaster could only use his weapon once. He didn’t know why. He found it odd that someone would build such a powerful weapon that could only be used once. Still, he was grateful for the “gift”. Life, such as it was, on Cybertron was the worst it had ever been. The Autobots had become as bad as the Decepticons. Far gone were the days of the romantic notion of Blaster being a part of a gung-ho team of freedom fighters. He missed that.

Blaster decided a more personal target was needed. Someone who had crossed him in the past and never been made to pay. The ruling Autobot Council didn’t seem to care about their own troops anymore and this weapon had given him a chance to take the law into his own hands. His attention turned to his fellow Autobots.

Grimlock. His feud with Blaster should have been legend, but it was brushed under the Ark’s flooring as soon as Optimus Prime returned as a Powermaster. Blaster had been shackled to a VVH and demoted to menial assignments. He was sure that Optimus secretly admired Blaster’s mutiny, but it was never shown publicly. Autobots were supposed to behave themselves.

Grimlock on the other hand went on to greater things -- practically becoming Optimus’ right-hand man and given command of the Earthforce. But it was the humility of being thrown in the Ark’s brig by Grimlock that angered Blaster the most. He lost a lot of respect that day -- including that of his best friend.

Bumblebee. During his time as Goldbug, he and Blaster were the closest of friends. But after Optimus Prime’s return they drifted apart. Blaster had always suspected himself as a temporary replacement after Prime’s first death. Bumblebee was always so insecure that he had to idolise the more respected Autobots. Either that or he had a thing for larger robots with red shoulders!

In an everlasting war, it seemed normal to Blaster that friends would come and go. If they didn’t die on the field they were either transferred to another sub-group or planet. But it was different with Bumblebee; he’d never been re-assigned or killed. He’d just let himself drift away. And these days they didn’t even talk to each other.

Blaster was most upset by that. Bumblebee reminded Blaster so much of Scrounge. But Scrounge had died in the Smelting Pool; their friendship died like a bulb not a candle. Scrounge. Even hundreds of years later, Blaster had never forgiven his one-time commander for his death.

Perceptor. Blaster had endured nearly fifty painful miles of the Rad Zone before finally finding him. Blaster didn’t question why he was here. Probably monitoring fall-out levels or other such scientific nonsense.

“Blaster! What are you doing here?” Perceptor cried through the howling grit-winds. “You walked here? Didn’t you think of using your Flight-Pack?”

Blaster ran at Perceptor and hugged his thighs, bringing them both to the ground with a clang. “No more talking you smug son-of-a-glitch!”

“Blaster, what’s going on?”

Blaster replied with two quickly successive right hooks to Perceptor’s jaw. He was drowning in hatred and he spat Scrounge’s name into the wind.

Perceptor, on his back, inched away from his berserk comrade. “This is about him? After nearly four centuries?”

“Yes, him!” screamed Blaster as he leant back onto his knees. “It’s your fault he’s gone. Your fault he felt he had to prove something and push himself farther than his capabilities.”

“I don’t understand, Blaster. Why this? Why now?”

Blaster opened his chest compartment and pulled out a small gunmetal grey device. “I have been given the gift of revenge, Perceptor.”

“And you think murdering me in cold oil is going to bring Scrounge back?” Perceptor said defiantly while nursing his cracked jaw.

“No, but it’ll make me feel a whole lot better,” Blaster replied with an ament smile. His thumb slid into the trigger mechanism.

“Wait!” cried Perceptor, starting to show signs of panic. “You’re blaming the wrong person! I’m not responsible for what happened to Scrounge. We’re each responsible for our own actions, no matter who is in command.”

“But Scrounge was young and inexperienced. He needed guidance, someone to look over him.”

Perceptor rose to his feet. “Exactly.”

Blaster felt a sudden sinking feeling, as if Cybertron had dropped out of its orbit. He remained on his knees as the dreadful realisation flowed through his circuits. For Blaster the war had finally cried itself to sleep.

The single positronic frequency Soundwave had been monitoring for the last three months suddenly stopped pulsing. It was a small and petty victory, but satisfying nonetheless. If only Onslaught had stolen more of those devices.

Soundwave relaxed at his comms console and knitted his fingers behind his head. It was a joy to have slowly broken Blaster’s spirit and his archenemy’s suicide would keep him smiling for centuries to come.