The one he was given, the one he gave himself, and the one that had stricken fear into all that heard it.
He was Tarn. He was justice, he was death, he was hell.
Tarn, esteemed leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. The Division which paralyzed Autobots and fellow Decepticons alike in terror. The Division which has recited countless crimes, delivered unyielding pain, and dealt the torturous climax of death. The deaths of those they eliminated serve as a reminder, to all, of what would happen if they found themself on the list.
Tarn, who had driven himself and his team to perfection to please the one of whose attention and praise he was eager for. Who glorified the words of Lord Megatron, recounting the great speeches and lengthy monologues of the Lord to his victims, drowning out their sobbing, their begs for mercy.
He was Tarn, who granted mercy for none. Who understood his duty, following it to the letter; tracking down those who posed a threat to the mighty Decepticons, whether as Autobots, or traitors to the cause.
He is Glitch. He is broken, he is dead, he is in hell.
Glitch, who had been subjected to empurata. Born a Point One Percenter, but regarded as an outcast, shunned by his fellow Cybertronians. He who was cursed (or was it blessed?) with a power to render non sentient machinery inoperative by touch alone.
Glitch, who struggled to form friendships. Glitch, who couldn’t even attain the individual of his desire, even when he reclaimed his old name of Damus. Even when he became Tarn.
Glitch, who stared at the emptiness of the After-Spark, questioning if this was his punishment for all the lives he had taken in the name of a cause whose own leader had abandoned it. It was that leader who defected to the Autobots, announcing that the Decepticons were no more. It was that leader that had denounced Tarn and his work, and snuffed out his spark via antimatter obliteration.
It was his punishment, for all his sins. For the lives he had taken, for the lies he had told…He had told to…to…
Charismatic, unyielding, faithful - all words that defined Skids.
That trust he had broken when he lied to him about the fate of the Autobots in Grindcore prison. The faith he had shattered upon forcing Skids to watch the sowing of his work on a machine he had not known the true intentions of.
His true punishment, he reasoned, was not being able to see Skids, to talk to him, one last time.
Skids who was ever adaptive to situations, who wore a fiendish grin in the face of a challenge. Skids, who had a habit of stopping the pulse of the spark in Glitch’s chest, who tossed that Primus damned playful smile over his shoulder, who stole his spark with a wink.
Skids, who started making a point of treating him as an equal where others, even in the Academy, hurled him scornful scowls and vulgar words. Skids, who clapped his shoulder with a gleeful “Great job!” or “How’s it going?” Pleasantries, maybe.
But there were nights where Skids murmured his designation softly when Glitch was distant; who ran his fingers over Glitch’s claws and across his helm, telling him he was perfect, regardless of how he looked on the outside. When those servos brushed across his claws, when they were wiping away the despair of the loss of his hands and face that was threatening to drown him, an electrified feeling would go through him that had nothing to do with his powers.
Skids, who was convinced Glitch had a spark of gold, who held no ill will against others. Skids who held onto that hope until…
He was Damus, he was the Empyrean Suite, he was cold-hearted, he was a monster.
And it was Skids, Skids, who looked at Damus with agony in his golden optics when he was forced to watch his compatriots, his cellmate, be melted down for parts. His optics that screamed How could you, his once gentle servos curling and shaking in rage. That twisted expression of wrath, that promise that anything between them had now splintered apart.
Grindcore had not only broken Autobots, but fractured something more precious than parts, more precious than, dare he say, a cause.
Never again would he see that twitch of amusement in those mouthplates, those optics alight in a fiery blaze at the prospect of adventure. Never again would he hear that voice, listen to that slurred speech as Skids powered up, or that sleepy murmur as he slipped into recharge, or hear that throaty laugh that bubbled up at a lame joke or two.
He missed it all, he supposed. His duty to the Division had always seemed enough, always felt enough, that hole inside him shoved so full of something else that it seemed like it was no longer aching. But it still cried out for something he could not attain; it gnawed and chewed through everything he shoved in it, its appetite unlike any other.
He was Damus, he was Glitch, he was Tarn.
He has worn three faces, and he now wears the only face that was loved by Skids, but is forever burdened with the knowledge that Skids will never love it again.
He is Glitch. He is broken, he is dead, he is in hell.
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