Juana la Cliker-Rooster


Diclaimer: I do not own any faction of Transformers.

"Are you sure you don't have some Decepticon oil in your tubes?"

The question was high-pitched, mocking, devastating and truthful all at the same time. Prowl's spark had stopped pulsing in his chassis for a split klik, and he found himself unable to move for that small shred of time. He could feel his teammates' optics on him, angry, glaring and so disappointed in him.

Face fallen, his own optics were fixed on the nest that had crashed into the pavement, the life it had held tenderly now splattered, like the oil of a fallen mech. He was responsible for their deaths. Their small, important lives now gone, their natural potential evaporated into utter nothingness, and it was his entire fault. He had never felt so disgusting in his function.

He had spent a good chunk of his life trying to hide from what he was, and he had spent even more time on convincing those around him he could be trusted. Many had seen him without his visor, and when they did, they ran from him. His life had been filled with loneliness, bullying and even the Cybertronian version of racism. All because of those damned red optics.

He was sparked as a Decepticon, but that did not mean he believed in their ideals. He believed in freedom, the right to life, the right to live however one wanted to live, and he had been shunned by his own people for it. The Autobots were no better. They saw only the superficial optics, but refused to even attempt listening to his thoughts and beliefs. They saw only one thing, and that was enough to drive them away. It hadn't been until he fashioned his opaque visor to match the color of Autobot optics that Cybertronians began to pay attention to him.

Below him, the new StarScream lay on the ground, smirking at the stunned mech because he knew he'd hit a nerve. Deceptions could sense each other up close, and Prowl was afraid this StarScream could feel the infused oil of countless generations of Decepticons pumping through his small body. The idea frightened him. He didn't want this StarScream, or any other Decepticons, to know the truth.

And then, like a grumpy, annoyed angel, Ratchet's voice had cut in, asking,

"Think it's time to ditch those mods?" He sounded angry but concerned. Prowl nodded, and said he would after he retrieved the other StarScream. He had no idea what was going on with that, and he wasn't even sure he was capable of thinking for himself. The mods had such an amazing affect on his body, but not on his CPU. They had made him into the Decepticon he'd been created as, and it was the last thing he'd ever wanted.

He was thankful that, as he peeled the mods off his body later that day, he began to feel their emotional weight leave him, giving him peace of CPU. It reassured him that he wasn't the Decepticon he'd been sparked as, and that was worth more than scrambling for the next, temporary fix.

COMPLETED. R and R like grown-ups, please.

And thanks so much to the supportive people here! You guys keep me going. I love to write, and I want to have a reason to keep writing. Plus, my skillz have been getting better.

Hehehe...I'm such a dork. Also, it smells like someone hit a skunk outside my window. Mmmmm. Delicious.