FicWad

He remembers a time before the war, before the destruction of all that he loved. A time that was painted in colours of peace and silence, not of battle and death. A time that held no secrets from its youth, that allowed all questions to be asked and let all those interested in the matter see for themselves what they wanted to see. A time that cherished its past with mighty temples of wisdom, eternal palaces of art and science that had only one reason to be as protected as they were: the simple need to protect what one holds dear to the heart.

It was a time of happiness for him, but as happiness is wont to do, it broke like a mirror. Glass finely powdered and beyond recognition, its shards cutting and slicing and ripping and bleeding and killing what was supposed to be immortal.

What once was can never be again.

If he were still able to feel the emotion it would have made him sad. Sad like the young boy – and isn't it interesting for a species that reproduces asexually, and whose members have generally no gender specifics, to have words like daughter and son, brother and sister, mother and father, girl and boy in their vocabulary? - who, barely through his second transformation and not fully grown yet, was confronted with the total annihilation of his father's 'house', the once proud and deemed indestructible Museum of Prehistoric Life. Sad like the now orphaned son who swore upon his father's dead body to avenge what happened this day, to right the unrightable wrong and build up again what was broken. Sad like the young warrior following a just cause, to find the one who planted the bomb that changed his life, to punish and enslave, and isn't revenge sweet when it's served cold and slow?

Somehow, he is sure, he must have changed in the years of fighting this war he never truly believed in. Sadness and mourning changed into anger, and anger became hate, the kind of valiant hate that makes one forget the reasons for the things one does in the name of the cause, the kind of hate that once upon a time he would have called blood-lust and insane megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur.

Somehow the son of a gentle museum guard became a killer. He cannot describe how much he regrets that fact.

Which is probably why he, now that his 'lord and master' is dead and finally beyond any rescue and recognition, takes up a function he has not even thought about in far too many years. Patrolling the streets, keeping those with ill intent away from his chosen protectorate. 'Protecting the castle', he saw it called in human terms.

Let Cybertron stay buried and forgotten, the old times are long gone and cannot be brought back to life. All the secrets and stories of his planet's past can stay where they are for the moment, safely hidden under a thousand millennia worth of sand. Time protects its children, and he knows that all that is lost now will find its glory again.

That is, after all, why museums were invented.

And every museum is a castle worthy of protection. web statistics