Life. It was a matter of opinion, really.
Civilizations born and extinguished within their own planets, entire races watching stars blaze their courses and constellations shift from year to year. Their worlds forever moving on from one age to another, and each with a name; each with a heart of its own, beating at a different pace.
But time was relative, and to one who has watched too much pass before his optics, things became stagnant and fleeting, just like the millions of sparks he’d seen go out.
Cybertronians could travel galaxies and swim in endless seas, yet those didn’t appeal to one who was losing hope.
One who’d realised what it was like to be stranded amidst the universes, reaching out for the truth while a blaze of colour danced across the night sky, filling every crevice with lilac and violet, stretching shadows and fear over all lifeforms and machinery alike.
He’d watched stars erupt into blazing streaks, exploding into a shower of light—then into dull, fading embers. One day, one hour, a moment’s difference—they’d all disappear into nothingness; they would wink out like blown-out flames, or fade away like dust on the wind.
After eons, he’d begun to learn. And all that he knew was this: no amount of studying would grant him access to the workings and beauty of life, and no amount of listening could tell him of how long the universe itself would continue to live. He did not wish for things to be over so soon; not that he hadn’t already experienced much; it was simply… to have life constantly following one pattern was enough to render someone mad.
Prismshard knew all about life. Knew how fleeting everything was, how fragile.
But… he never thought that his ship would fall to a collision.
Stingray was gone. Destroyed and utterly annihilated, in fact; having crashed on a planetoid. The engine was disabled, her thrusters had malfunctioned. In the end, the spacecraft’s own speed, paired with the unexpected turbulence of the asteroid field, had served as the primary reason behind Stingray’s ultimate downfall.
Now, there was only debris left; metal remnants of what had once been his personal ride through the cosmos, the very representation of his freedom. It was scattered on a foreign world.
Prismshard stirred after exventing lowly. He’d taken refuge underneath the charred surface of Stingray’s remains; the jagged remains were giving him ample room to lean on, and to rest, or rather—to give up on trying to escape, once and for all. He couldn’t access any channels on his commsuite, and though he’d sent his distress signal, he was almost sure that there wouldn’t be anyone to come looking for him.
“I’ve sent you on your way, old girl… don’t blame yourself,” he cooed to the half-burnt husk of his former vessel, stroking one of the sharp edges on Stingray’s final state. “You gave me your best, and for that, I must thank you. I am deeply grateful.”
His golden-tipped digits gingerly brushed the torn material beneath him. The alloy’s finish had been scorched, marred, scratched… it had certainly gone through a lot since being mangled by the sheer strength of the asteroids. Now, it laid there—in all its glory, ruined beyond repair.
The cold wind whipped his white body, rattled the prongs on his helm. Prismshard’s gaze dropped once again. His energy levels were low, but he wouldn’t succumb just yet. His vessel’s remains had shielded his more sensitive wiring from the outside elements, he still had some time left… at the most, a couple of orbital cycles.
Maybe… that would be enough. Perhaps, it was about time.
