Rating is just to be sure. This is what happens when I overdose on Greek mythology and Anne Rice. Unicron slash. I think that's all you need to know. Oh, and most of the time Unicron talks like this. With regards to the spelling of a certain character's name at the end of this... yes, I know that's not how it's spelt in the cartoon. Work with me. ((turns around and runs like hell)) It's not my fault!!! It was my brain!!!

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. If I did, there would be vampires.

Stained Glass

The neutral lay dying.

Mech fluid, his own, grew thick and sticky as it dried upon his arms. Energon, not as quick to congeal, formed a glassy puddle of frost-grey around him, running into cracks and imperfections on the ground beneath his decimated body. Twisted pieces of debris had lodged themselves into his scorched armour, making even the thought of movement into an unkind joke. One red optic flickered, a fragment of life not yet willing to let go, as the neutral observed the smoke rising from the ruins of a distant city.

His name was Wayside and he was confused.

The world had taken on a distinctly violet hue, which confused him even more, until he realized that his visual processors were malfunctioning. Soon enough he would be effectively blind. Ah, well.

Ah, well, ah well.

Strange. It was almost peaceful, really, splayed out on the ground like this, splendidly damaged, speedily bleeding his way into deactivation. Painful, yes, but at least it was quiet. The roar of lasers and the screams of the dying had long since faded away, and all that remained now was himself, spread-eagled in this island of dull agony, the last survivor. For all he knew, he could have been the last transformer in the universe. Maybe he was. The thought, perhaps, did not disturb him as much as it should have.

One thing did, though. One thing needled its way into his enjoyment of the solitude, disrupting his delirious contemplation. It was quiet. But all of a sudden it was too quiet. And instantly, Wayside understood what was wrong.

The Other-he- was not there.

As fear began to creep in at the edge of the haze, another, sharper question pierced the black. For some reason, he felt that it demanded an answer, and tried to oblige.

What was he doing here?

For an instant, he couldn't remember. This brought on a sudden stab of icicle terror, before the emergency reserves connected to his memory banks activated. Recollection washed over him, warm and comforting. Not because his recollections were particularly warm and comforting in and of themselves. But fading and alone as he was, memory provided brief shelter and distraction from inevitable deactivation. Eagerly, he pawed through a few of the more recent images. These all proved to be immensely horrible and spectacularly painful, so he reached further back.

Yes, these looked interesting…

The stars glittered above in arresting shades of indigo/blue, and Wayside smiled as he remembered for the last time.


He was not alone.

An unthinkable distance away, something hovered in space, silent and unmoving as a star. Quietly, it watched the small neutral die. Watched, and considered. And waited.


Memory faded and he was alone.

But he was not alone.

Where was he?

Where was the Other?

With preternatural certainty, he knew that the Other had deserted him. No longer was there the warm, secure internal glow that spoke of his presence, nor was there the prickly, icy sensation upon his pressure sensors that always heralded another of his visitations. There was only the steady drip of his own life's fluid and sweeping, thunderbolt pain.

Wayside shut off his one good optic and gave a small, plaintive cry that echoed morbidly throughout the dead station. It was a heart-breaking sound, the sound made by every lost and lonely creature in the universe at the moment of surrender but the universe paid it no heed. Above, cold stars glittered brilliantly and smoke continued to waft ever upward.

Where was he?, wondered Wayside.

Where was he, the one whose voice and commands had rung so strong within his audio sensors these last few weeks?


Yet again, his fractured mind began to drift. Distantly now, he remembered the looks on the faces of friends (acquaintances?) over the course of time, as the Other had begun to make himself known to him. Had they known, he wondered? The looks of worry (concern?) had become more pronounced as time went on and Wayside had drawn further and further into himself, becoming oddly cold and quiet. Some had even enquired after the young neutral's health, only to be brushed off with little hesitation at all.

This had worried them even more, these friends who he could not quite remember the names of. Wayside had been an unremarkable creature, likeable enough as neutrals went. He'd spent his time and earned his living on the collecting, polishing and sale of delicate, shining pieces of rare and colourful rock specimens from distant worlds. Even on a planet torn to shreds by war between the two super-factions, there was still a demand for such beautiful things, useless though they ultimately were.

Ah, but it had changed.

Ah, well, ah, well.

It had all changed.

And how swiftly, too! His small business, his casual friends, his entire life swept away from the minute the voice of the Other had entered his mainframe. Everything had ceased to matter from the second that holy, all-consuming voice had whispered to him.

The first time Wayside had heard it (him), the piece of nitrophite he'd been polishing had been dropped, shattering by his feet into a million fragments as he stared straight ahead, optics blank. Dead to the world and everything in it as he listened to the voice that would become his master.

Where was he now?

And he'd talked of such things, such marvellous things! Miracles, simple and grand, achievements divine and power unlimited. Sometimes Wayside had voiced his doubts, upon which the unseen deity had laughed, delighted at him. Hearing that laughter, Wayside always found his fears assuaged, allowing himself to be swept along unresisting in the Other's lengthy oration.

And who was he, this creature who came to Wayside in his mind and told him stories of chaos and glory and killing unchallenged? That Wayside did not know, nor did he truly care. He'd long ago formed the opinion that the Other was the voice of a god, although he suspected that it was not Primus who spoke to him in such a manner. No; the voice was not Primus.

Not once did it occur to him to doubt the existence of his invisible companion. He didn't need to. Wayside knew he was real, as simply and surely as he knew the layout of the stars.

Where was he now?

Metal creaked beneath him and a black drop of energon ran from one red optic as he gazed at the stars, unseeing. Time and space and pain ceased to matter. Where was the Other, where was his whispering love? Had he deserted him?

The raid had been totally unforeseen.

A tide of Decepticons had swarmed out of nowhere, attacking the neutral station of Errimot and plundering it freely, snatching energon supplies and tools. Murdering all they came across. Wayside would have wailed over the destruction of his home, his workshop, his friends, had he been able to. Had he still cared. But they were unimportant. Their loss did not cut half so deep as the realization that his beautiful, anonymous god had disappeared, leaving him to burn and suffer. Alone.

As his motor relays surrendered entirely, paralyzing him, he focused his optics on the most distant star he could see. Once, it would have bothered him that he could not remember its name. Once, he would have carefully categorized the name of most every star within visual range of Errimot, wondering what geological treasures it may contain. Now…


His every sensory perception ceased, before all bursting back at twice their normal strength. The world was instantly brighter, sound becoming music, stars becoming super novas. Life crackled through his broken body at the sound of the word. One active red optic flared like the sun in the gloom as the voice, the voice of Him, returned. Bleeding and agonized and terrified, the neutral rejoiced.


The word was a soft purr, a strangely emotionless yet eternally loving breeze that stroked the edges of his hungry soul. Happiness coursed through him, forcing his mind to keep functioning, even as deactivation clawed at him, threatening all the time to drag him down. Also, dismay; his lover had come too late, there was no time to even say goodbye. He was dying and his only fear was of losing the voice again.


Weak, battered though his mainframe was, he summoned up enough strength to send back a telepathic response to the godly command: I cannot. Love, I am dead. Forgive me.

The voice rumbled again, sharper this time, no longer a caress but a cold statement.

Die, then. I care not. But awaken.


Stay with me.

And he wanted to, more than anything he wanted to. Stay near the Other forever, listen to his stories and his songs forever. Still, he tried, resisting stasis with all the will that remained in his soul.

The voice continued.

Die, and stay with me. Live in me eternal. Come to me and die in me. My love. My creature. Surrender, and die. Die, and be mine.

And perhaps, had he fought longer, struggled on for a few more minutes, the salvage crew which would arrive soon would have found him alive. He was badly damaged but not beyond the realm of repair. Perhaps, had he held on just a little bit longer, the voice would have lost interest and moved away. But Wayside no longer wanted to hold on. The world have offered him little in the way of reward. The Other was offering him forever. Love forever, and who was he to resist?

Others in times to come, if indeed any were ever to hear of his ultimate decision, would scorn him and sneer at him, but what cared he for their opinions? What were they? Nothing. What did they matter? Nothing. All the opinion, all the approval, all he would ever want or wish for existed here and now, in the sight and the power of his almighty lover.

The response that the neutral sent was weak and wavering, but the neutral himself was suddenly filled with an immense sensation of power. Yes, this was what he wanted, was it not?

I am scared.

Be not afraid. I am your master. You are mine. I am eternal. Come to me.

He obeyed.

As his spark released its tenacious hold on his shattered shell, the world of smoking destruction around him bent and twisted, reshaping itself into a vista of flame. Flame gave itself up to light, light became a wall of pure white as his spark rose up, screaming in triumph to join his master.

He could not see, but he could see everything.

He was inside a pillar of ice, looking out over a thousand thousand worlds, every one set aflame. Beside him was the Other, around him, everywhere.

He wanted to remain, looking out over the decimation of eternity, but the voice called him on. Stunned, he turned to find himself gazing into the optics of the Other, the dark voice, his salvation and damnation incarnate in steel. The light of suns was reflected off his horns, ageless, unbreakable glory worn into every nuance of his flawless face. This was not his true form, he knew, not by any means. His true form would not have permitted them both to gaze upon one another like this, of equal height and stature. This was an illusion, the mental projection of his lover, but it was enough. The strength of his power and the force of his will supported the hologram as a solid wall of heat, reassuring him of the Other's existence yet again.

Cybertron, has there ever been anything more beautiful?, he thought in rapture, feeling suddenly filthy and unworthy before the perfection of this thing, this glorious incarnation of power.

His optics stared down into his own and he was lost.

Wayside fell to his knees in obeisance and the world went up in flame.

You are mine, breathed the voice throughthe haze, the Other, his immortal beloved. You are mine. I shall make you into mine own, my weak little thing. I shall give you power. I shall give you adoration. I shall teach you rapture and slaughter and hate. You are my blank slab, and upon you I shall inscribe the teachings of the cosmos. And I will make you forever, my creature. You shall be my embodiment, my acolyte. I shall show you how to kill and how not to regret. I shall show you how to lay low a galaxy at my command. I shall teach you how to betray and how to lie and how to be loyal to none but me. And you shall be mine forever, my little creature, my perfect killer. My killer of worlds.

The words meant nothing to him but he took them in as though they were life itself. Forever, he promised, unaware that he was murmuring the word again and again, swearing himself in a million times over. Images came to him unbidden, glimpses of strange worlds, distant wars and battles, the faces and emotions of people he had never met flashing past him faster and faster until almost all sense of identity deserted him.

Who was he?

Red. White. A flyer, winged warrior, pushed beyond the limit for love. He was fiery desperation that made the agile creature go back a thousand times and a thousand times again for dents and cuts and pain, icy determination that made hitting the floor always worthwhile as long as the taller, darker figure was there to see it-what was living forever? Not worth it.

Who was he?

Gold. Youth and vibrancy, speed incarnate racing over the metallic terrain as he headed back to his comrades, to his base. He was manic devotion, charging into battle with a proud cry on his lips, always willing to fight and be fought, always willing to die, not considering consequences as long as there was always the speed and the friendship and the fighting to return to. Freedom was everything.

Who was he?

Sky-light blue. Agony, lost in madness, sanity adrift in a wave of chaos, the great pretender. A mind so simple, jarred and complex as shattered crystal, grown adapted to insanity, grown to thrive on insanity for how else was survival possible in a mad world? Impossible, of course. Giggle, gasp, weep, hungry for the salvation of destruction, hungry for conflict. Paradox personified.

Who was he?

Navy. Scarlet. Healer, of course, miracle worker, silent angel, toiling in the shadows. Desperate to help, desperate to understand, analogy and science torn apart in the daily storms as they brought the dead and the dying before him and demanded resurrection. Could he save? Sometimes, sometimes.

Who was he?

Blue and red, purple and green, red and silver, silver and purple. He was conflict and disturbance. He was the Little Demon, invisible poison, treacherous goblin and ultimate slave. He was HIS.

HIS, born of the god of chaos, begotten of flame and ash and desire. HIS, emissary of ultimatum, prince of genocide, hated by all and loved by the all that mattered. HIS, lover and soldier and slave. HIS, Unicron's whore and protégé.

His. Mine. Master.

Unicron roared out in triumph as he wrapped his incorporeal form around the slight being, engulfing them both in darkness and peace. Both their blistering sparks drowned in a cacophony of green fire and sound. The last thing Wayside-no-more, the neutral, the transformer was aware of was of his optics opening one last time before sweet oblivion and his vocal processor rising in volume to match his master's as their voices locked and laced around each other, calling out his


name for all the universe and all the worlds to hear.



Unicron looked down and smiled at the transformed creature curled in his arms. Both newly-pink optics were shut off as the purple mech recovered from the near-total redesign. The scars and lacerations had all vanished, leaving his reformatted body clean and functional. To the god's optics, he was as near to perfect as was possible. His face, where some of the more serious damage had been sustained, had been replaced with a mask, a design feature that Unicron approved of. Faces were boring, he had often thought. The grey, striated cover-plate was far more intriguing.

His black-gold optics swept upwards to where his creations horns now jetted from either side of his unremarkable helmet. He approved of those, too, sleek and sharp. Instruments for killing. Decorative, perhaps, but also lovely in their potential to wound.

The god of destruction tightened his grip somewhat upon his acolyte, pleased with his choice. To most, this one was and always had been an entirely unspectacular being, living alone and existing in silence. Unicron had detected more. Unicron had seen below, into the mind of a natural thinker, a mind that could see the universe as a set of parts and instructions that could, with a little bit of guidance, be persuaded to cut itself into little bits. A mind that could plan, a mind that could see the probable outcome of every situation, not blinded by bias because it had no bias. A mind that could be honed. A mind that could kill.

Unicron liked these sort of qualities in a person.

But even more he liked the quasi-scientist's sheer, beautiful simplicity. He saw a task and went to it, his vision unclouded by any large overflow of emotion or empathy. And Unicron knew exactly what could be done with that sort of delightful, viciously innocent mentality.

He laughed again and his laughter seemed to bounce off the stars themselves. Once more he looked approving to the galaxy, with a gaze that promised ,many things yet to come. His optics glowed as they had done for the last ten billion years with the same age-old wrath and hunger.

Then he turned and slowly disappeared, his arms crushing his new lover to his chest as he grinned a terrifying, rapturous grin to the cosmos in general. It was time to leave this place. They had much to plan.

In space, there was a brief flash of static before both the mighty and the damned disappeared.