Guns For Hands <> Optimus Prime X Vehicon! Reader <> Discontinued

1 <> Ocean Eyes

C h a p t e r  O n e
2 n d  P O V
9 - 9 - 1 8
<> <> <>
   " I've been walking through a world gone blind, " – Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish
<> <> <>

A G E N D A

< long and tedious, symbolic of your life >

   Beep beep bitch!

   You didn't even groan as you slowly sat up on your bunk in the very early hours of the morning. You turned off your agitating internal alarm. The troopers around you did the same, their tired movements accompanied by little whining and complaining. You'd all been doing this since you were built, the routines ingrained (or beaten) into you.

   • wake up

   Check. It's not like you got much recharge anyways. Your schedule in a nutshell was "make it 'till you break it". 'It' being you.

   • get out of berth

   You were doing that at that very moment. Snapping your masks onto your emotionless faceplates, you did a quick systems check-up. Everything seemed to be in good enough order.

   • line up

   • go to assigned tasks

   Your wings twitched, but remained stoic as the rest of you. You made a single-file line and left the cramped quarters you and other fliers shared.

  Right left right left. Your pedes quietly clicked and scuffed against the floor. Your actions were mirrored by those in front of and behind you.

   Do try to remember: you was a word that didn't simply refer to one drone; you could also refer to all drones as well. You were Decepticon soldiers. Copies of one another. You were indifferent yet autonomous. You had no gender, no personality, no name. You barely and/or rarely felt emotions, had your own thoughts, made your own decisions.

   You were somewhat like the humans' iPhones. Expendable products that were valued and replaced as soon as they stopped working. You were surprised you'd even made it this far, though it wasn't exactly something to be excited about.

   It wasn't, however, something that sent you into an incurable depression. This was all you'd ever known. This was how, to you, the world operated. Your optics hadn't been opened to any kinder option. You didn't even have options. You just kind of . . . existed. Your purpose for existing was about as fulfilling as it got, considering most of you ended up having the life span of a fruit fly.

   Now, focusing back on you, as in, an independent-person-reader you: You made your way towards the flight deck, where you'd continue your daily routine until you died (which would probably be in the next week).

   • arrive at flight deck

   Check. You and your fellow expendables walked through the automatic doors right on schedule. The sun hadn't risen just yet, and wouldn't for the next few hours.

   The stars twinkled above you. You preferred flying when dawn began covering the sky.

   You mentally sighed. Every day you worked painfully late and woke up painfully early (painful to anyone who hadn't lived like that their entire onlining, ex. you). It made you wonder why the lot of you didn't just work until you collapsed. It's what happened most of the time anyways.