The stars had disappeared in the sky, but it grew no brighter. In the few joors between the beginning of dawn and the end of the night, the stars would leave the world above, but no light from the rising sun would come for a while longer. It left the desolate and damaged plains of Cybertron even grimmer. The old wounds of war would scream at the onlookers, and the darkness would drag them down inside. Flying above it was a depressing thing, if you had the spark to feel that sort of thing in a time like this.

This was Strike's least favorite time of the Orn. The darkness that could not be helped was useful; it made for silent kills, which were always much easier and cleaner. The light of the stars was no longer above him as well, and it brought less of a sense of smallness without them watching him. Yet the ghastly air surrounding the planet and the skies he flew in were like several added weights to his spark. Not only was the toxic atmosphere eventually going to poison his vents, but it left a heavy feeling inside him.

Long ago, he would have relished this time of Orn. The night was when he worked best, where he could exact his will upon those who were deemed murderers. The darkness would take him and drive him to his goal, brought out through Megatron's orders and the Decepticon cause. For so long, the darkness was his home and he did not wish to leave.

Why was it, after so long, after so many thousands of years of the same thing, he was growing restless and uncomfortable in that home? That darkness he had cherished was still there, but now it a curse he could not get rid of, something that had changed over time. It had morphed into his own kind of darkness, something he held, instead of it holding him. He did not like overseeing it or controlling it. Once a deed was done, using that darkness he contained, it left him feeling doubt. Was this darkness the cure to his pain? Was the cause he followed the cause of that darkness?

The bulky winged vehicle soared through that empty sky, the sound of his engine the only thing that kept Strike from believing he would be swallowed up by the sky. He only flew through that sky for near twenty breems, but it felt like an eternity alone to him. He almost felt relieved when he saw the refuge up ahead, a short, rusted tower that remained intact, for the most part. He transformed in midair, spinning a little before locking his optics on his target. He landed on the open landing deck that stuck out on the west side of the building. It wobbled a little from his weight, which was no surprise, given the state of his surroundings. He stood straight slowly, taking an inward vent before parting his derma and exhaling. His optics scanned everything around him, but the area was empty. No one had come to see him return, which was not surprising. Instinctively, he reached for the blaster at his hip to check if it was still there. His servo rested over it's hilt as he left the landing deck and walked into the dimly lit building on the fourth floor. There, he was no longer alone.

Starscream, the Decepticon leader's scrawny second in command, stood leaning against the door across the large room. He turned his helm, his wings perking slightly, when Strike entered from the deck outside. The seeker frowned heavily and pushed himself off the wall, uncrossing his arms and approaching the mercenary with an air of smug authority. Strike had to refrain from rolling his optics. He did not have the time to play silly games with an attention-seeking suck up.

"Is there something the master requires, Starscream?" he asked calmly, his deep voice smoothly rolling off his glossa. This question was only moot; he knew that the thin mech was only lurking around in wait for him. If there was anything Megatron needed of him, Strike already knew what it was. He stopped just in front of him, standing a few helms taller than the other Con.

Starscream narrowed his optics, his overly large optic ridges furrowing deeply. "You are over a Joor late," he seethed, taking one of his long, sharp digits and jabbing it at Strike's chest. "Megatron expected your report a long time ago, and you have yet to deliver it!"

Strike glared at the SIC coldly, his digit twitching in annoyance ever so slightly. "All the more reason for you not to waste my time with your whines of complaint," he spat, his tone changing from mellow to icy in klicks. He did not wait for Starscream to move out of the way, sidestepping him and allowing his arm to shove the mech aside harshly.

Starscream grunted as he was moved, his wings flaring in anger. "How dare you!" he shrilled, storming over and blocking his path yet again. "I am your superior officer, Strike." Seething, he jabbed a digit at him again, this time poking his upper shoulder, though he had to reach up to do so. "Do not undermine me!"

At first, Strike acted as if the smaller bot was not there, though he was growing more annoyed that he was unable to keep moving. However, when the thin, sharp digit tapped against his armor, he stiffened, taking a sharp intake of air. Starscream seemed to sense this, flinching a little and drawing his servo back again. Strike was not normally one to lose his cool, but when he did, it was dangerous to whoever happened to be in his way. Ever so slowly, the red optics of the larger Con went down to the seeker, one optic ridge raising dangerously. The atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken, making the smaller bot gulp nervously.

"It seems I have to repeat myself," Strike said, his voice low and quiet. Narrowing his optics, he leaned over his current annoyance, towering over him and keeping optic contact. His faceplate was mere inches away from Starscream's, who tried to lean farther and farther back, only for the dangerous Con to follow him down. "Do not waste my time with your petty whines," Strike seethed through gritted denta, his optics narrowed into slits. "I will report to Lord Megatron when needed."

For a moment afterwards, there was a gap of choking silence. Starscream shivered as he felt a chill go through his entire frame, from the bottom of his pedes to the tips of his digits. The thickness of danger in the air could have made him sweat, if Cybertronians were capable of it. Chuckling nervously, the seeker surrendered, stepping to the side and gesturing for Strike to move on. "Of course, of course. You always have been one of our most diligent and loyal subjects," he added in praise, his voice shaking.

Strike stood up straight once more, following Starscream with his optics for a moment, rather than leaving. "I belong to Megatron. Not to you," he said, the same chill in his voice that made the other shake fearfully again. Before any other words could be said, the larger Con turned and exited the room. Starscream watched as he left, noticing uncomfortably as his servo left the hilt of his blaster that was connected to his hip, something he had not taken notice of before.

Strike walked through the dark halls in silence, his anger sizzling down as he moved. Starscream was one of the few bots that could get on his nerves and alter his mood rather suddenly. The seeker was too shifty, too grey. His morals were so blurry it was as if the SIC himself could not find them or stick to them. It made him an untrustworthy and loathsome ally, one that Strike did his best to avoid all contact with. Unfortunately, due to Megatron's close fascination with Strike and his work, the two of them were often placed in the same general vicinity. Strike had even been so unfortunate enough to have fought in several battles with him throughout the course of the war. None of the memories of those battles were good ones.

Although, lately, no memories of Strike's had given him any sense of pleasure of self-fulfillment. They were either hard and hollow, or like a long-suffering weight.

There were only a few other Cons wandering in the halls, most of them Vehicons, while a few special soldiers were around. Not many Decepticons remained on Cybertron anymore, only those Megatron deemed necessary to stay. The others had all left this planet a while ago, the warlord sending them to posts around the galaxy until he had further use of them. The few that wandered the halls most likely had their own parts to play. A few Vehicons were talking around in patrols, while others bustled about, likely heading to further targets that were assigned to them. The walls around them and the floors below them creaked and strained nearly constantly, but after several Mega-orns in this structure, many had become used to it.

Strike turned one last corner, his optics sliding over to the closed door of the control room. He stopped just in front of it, standing as straight and poised as he could. Taking a small intake of breath, although he did not necessarily need it, he lifted his servo and rapped on the door heavily, to alert Megatron of his presence.

"Enter," came the warlord's gravelly voice from inside.

Strike did as he was told, pressing his servo against the scanner by the entrance. It blipped for a few klicks before it turned green and shrilled once. The door creaked, rust falling from the edges, before it opened with a squeaky whoosh. The room was the largest in the building, with several old consoles and cracked screens along the walls. This had once been a take off control room, one of the smaller and less populated ones that was mostly used for smaller transports, in the long-ago years before the war. Now, the wall facing where the sun normally rose was a blown to pieces, the large gaping whole seeming to take half the space of the area. Pipes and metal structures bent at awkward angles hung over the edge. Looking over it, you could see the drop below.

Many Decepticons questioned why Megatron had decided to use this room out of all them for his personal quarters and war room. Because of the open wall, they feared that their leader could be shot down or have an Autobot bring a surprise attack upon him. Many had thought he had only picked it because it faced almost all the landing areas across the plains. They assumed that he chose it because he wanted to keep a watchful optic over the course of the attempted escapes. While this was a tactical move, and most likely one of the reasons Megatron resided there, Strike knew it was not the real motive. The titan had chosen the control room as a power move, an intimidation and taunting move. Megatron trusted that no one would be able to strike him at a time like this, even out in the open, and was almost daring someone to go ahead and try. This was a display of confidence and power, and it was a good one. So far, despite how close many Autobots had come to their refuge, none had taken that chance.

The former gladiator turned as Strike entered, his servos folded behind his back. "Ah, Strike," he said smoothly, a small grin, though not a comforting one, sliding over his features as he faced him.

The subordinate slowly went down on one knee, bowing his helm while resting his servos on the ground in a submissive manner. "I have come to give my report for my latest assignment," he said dutifully. He then said nothing else, waiting for Megatron to give him permission to speak. His optics remained glued to the floor, his expression neutral and hard.

"Rise, Strike," Megatron said in an assuring tone, gesturing with his servo for him to stand. Strike did as he was told, slowly getting to his feet. The dark blue and purple Decepticon was not that much smaller than the titan, in both height and build. It was what made him such a fearsome Con, well known throughout the ranks, even though he himself did not hold one, and only took orders from Megatron.

The warlord said nothing for a moment, looking him over, his optics stopping at the Energon stains that discolored the other's servos. "It seems that you performed your duty well," he praised, turning and walking over to an old counter, recently cleaned.

"There was no bot left behind," Strike replied simply.

Megatron raised an optic ridge as he smirked. "Of course not," he chuckled darkly. He took a cloth, damp with cleaning liquids, in his servos and approached his subordinate again. "You are never one to leave a job unfinished."

The other merely nodded. "A job unfinished is not your verdict, nor is justified," he growled, clicking his glossa in disdain slightly.

This time, the former gladiator let out a short burst of raspy laughter. "Well said, Strike," he said, his voice sliding over his words like hot butter. He calmly held out the cleaning cloth, gesturing for him to take it. "Clean your servos. We don't want the Energon clogging your hinges, now do we?"

Strike's optics flickered to Megatron, to the cloth, to Megatron again. Without breaking optic contact with the warlord, he took it out of his servos slowly, nodding once. "Thank you, Lord Megatron," he said, his voice a little lower. He began scrubbing the drying Energon off his digits, finally breaking optic contact as he focused on what he was doing.

For whatever reason, cleaning away the Energon brought a huge wave of relief over him. As he watched the bright blue smear and disappear from his talons, he felt his shoulder plates relax and his brow unfurrow slightly. He had not realized that the weight of the kill had been so heavy. Where they getting heavier each time he offlined a bot?

"Report?" Megatron said simply, raising an optic ridge.

"I encountered several teams of Autobots in landing areas twelve, twenty-seven, and thirty," he said immediately, his voice level and dull as he finished one servo and moved on to the other. "Each of your informants proved sound, except for one group in landing pad thirty. They were heading for the right ship, but there were fewer Autobots than I was told. There were only eleven."

Megatron let out a snort of disapproval. "I do believe Starscream reported that to me," he said darkly, nearly spitting out the SIC's designation.

At this, Strike looked up, frowning deeply. "Then I am not surprised the information was inaccurate," he growled, shaking his helm. Once again, he turned his attention back to cleaning his servo. "Pardon me if that was too bold."

Megatron laughed again, a dark and brutal one despite the fact that it was humorous. "Never to bold to be pardoned, Strike," he said as he turned, placing his servos behind his back again as he looked out of the gaping whole. "So, all went well, then? No pods took off?"

"None, my lord," the other Con replied, shaking his helm. He finished cleaning his servo, holding it out and extending his talons a little to get a better look at them. No Energon remained behind, and he sighed softly in content. He felt better now that he was clean of the dead's life source. For him, especially for the past several cycles, it felt disrespectful to those who had moved on to joint he Allspark, even if they had been monsters while they were online.

A silence stretched between the two Decepticons for several klicks. In the last of those moments, Strike wondered if the warlord was signifying that he was finished with him. Perhaps he was going to get his next assignment later. He turned to leave the war room, but it was just then that Megatron finally spoke.

"And there was no sign of the Ark?"

Strike froze mid-turn. Ah, the Ark. The Autobots' last hope of escape. The giant ship, from what they had been told, was meant to carry a mass of Autobots off their doomed planet. An Autobot prisoner, long since disposed of, had handed them the blueprints, and the Decepticons were all fairly surprised at its size and firepower. However, they learned only after the prisoner was offlined that the ship had already been built and planned on leaving Cybertron and Orn now. Decepticons had been in a mass hysteria over the past few mega-orns searching for the Ark. Megatron had overthrown and destroyed every one of the airports on the planet over the course of that time, yet the ship they hoped to destroy had been at none of them.

The current landing port they were residing in was the last on the planet. The Ark had to take off here, which meant it had to be here. How the Autobots were managing to hide a giant ship like that was a mystery. Some Decepticons, namely the ever seemingly ignorant Starscream, had asked if the Ark even planned on leaving from a port. The idea had been considered for a brief time, but after another look at the blueprints of the ship, it was deemed impossible for the Ark to take off without the proper materials and tools only found in airports.

The Ark had to be here. Decepticons sent out to take out little squads of Autobots that hoped to take a smaller ship off-word were also assigned to keep an optic out for the ship at all times. Some parties were assigned just to search for the Ark alone, yet none of them had returned yet. Megatron was beginning to grow into a frenzy and panic, and that was dangerous.

"No, Lord Megatron," Strike replied after a moment, turning back. "I did not find any sign of the Ark."

A curse left the warlord as he shook his helm in frustration. Strike was lucky this was the only reaction he was getting out of him. "Very well. You will be given your next assignment in a few joors." Megatron did not turn around, instead continuing to gaze out the wall.

"Yes, my lord," he replied simply, once more turning to leave the room. He was nearly out the door when something stopped him. Several things had been running around in his processor for so many cycles, but today, one thing was bothering him terribly. Since the kill, he could not shake it. He was almost always breaking inside, yet this was tearing him up more than he thought it would. It felt like his morals were dying the more it bugged him. His servo gripped the rim of the doorframe tightly, denting the metal and cracking it because of its old structure. "Lord Megatron."

Megatron was slightly surprised that the Con had spoken to him directly. Strike always waited for him to speak first, and it was rare for him to say anything for himself. He turned with his optic ridges raised, wondering what his loyal follower had to say. When he saw him, something made his spark skip a beat out of fear. The Decepticon looked.. troubled. Strike was always known to be fully determined to his ideals, never wavering, never questioning. Yet this looked like something was fighting within him. This was a danger to Megatron. "Yes, Strike?" he asked calmly, his voice low.

Strike did not turn around, staring at the floor with tortured optics. "The last squadron I offlined," he started, his deep voice betraying him a bit. "There was someone with them. Someone I did not expect." His servo was beginning to shake as he gripped onto the doorframe harder. Why was this hurting him so much?
Megatron lifted a ridge, waiting for Strike to continue. "And who are you speaking of?" he asked slowly, a bit of a dangerous feel returning to his gravely tone.
Strike sensed it and tried to seem more indifferent on the matter. Portraying his doubts to the warlord was a dangerous move; and yet he felt as if he had to voice the matter. "No one significant, finally," he said finally. He eventually turned his helm to Megatron, his derma set in a frown. "There was a Decepticon fleeing with them. A young one, but one of our faction nonetheless."

Megatron did not seem very surprised about this fact. He shook his helm and made a noise of disapproval, turning towards him again. "Yes, over the past few mega-orns we have had a few deserters," he explained. "Cowards who think that this war is over."

This left Strike surprised. "Is not this the final battle?" he asked, genuinely confused. "Once the Ark is found and destroyed, have we not won? The Autobots will be defeated, and our revenge will be taken."

Megatron paused for a moment. "The war is not won until it is ended, Strike," he said darkly. "Those who have joined the Autobots in hopes of escape have left before it is ended. The Ark is not yet found, not yet destroyed," he explained, narrowing his optics.

The answer left him unfulfilled, an empty and pressing feeling still in his chest chassis. "Lord Megatron," he said, his voice raising a bit as he turned around. "You know I am loyal to you. Never once have I faltered our cause. I have always done as you ask. I have exacted my revenge upon my people many times over," he said, so many words spilling from his intake it surprised him. He began making gestures, and it was then that he even realized how anguished he sounded. "Yet why must we offline our own?"

Again, the warlord paused. His expression was uncertain for a moment, and he was obviously thinking of how to handle this. Strike let his optics slowly fall to his sides as he watched him, waiting anxiously for an answer. He realized what kind of answer it would be as Megatron carefully crafted it in his helm. The kind that would lead him astray from the actual picture.

"Strike," he finally said, his voice smooth and assuring once more. He approached the Con, placing a servo on his shoulder plate firmly. "You are indeed one of my most loyal Decepticons. You have stuck by my side and followed my orders to the dot since the very beginning of the war." He patted him, leaning in closer to his helm, his expression turning more serious and dire. "I trust you. And because I trust you, I need you to trust me." He slid his arm over the other's shoulders, giving a false sense of comradery.

Strike nodded, bottling his words and emotions up the best he could. He knew he was in a dangerous spot, with the warlord this close. He could not afford to upset him. He should never have spoken his doubts in the first place. For now, he would listen, but he doubted it would ease him.

"Many die in sacrifice," he continued, "but this is not for sacrifice. This is for the greater outcome of the war. Those who we must kill are those who have betrayed us, do you understand?" he hissed, his tone getting darker. "Those who have betrayed us are our enemy! They will trade information, side with those who murdered your loved ones. They are a danger to us." He pulled away from the Decepticon, still keeping one servo on his shoulder. "It is not murder for the sake of murder. It is for the sake of justice!"

Justice. The word that Strike had lived by ever since his own had been torn from him. Justice for those he had lost. Justice for the life he had lived. Justice for the cause. Yet the more he heard that word, the more it sounded like an excuse or a lie. A word to keep him compliant, to keep him under the ropes. Inwardly, he frowned angrily as soon as he heard the word leave Megatron's intake, but he acted as if it left him unbothered.

Knowing he could not disagree, he nodded to the warlord. "I understand, Lord Megatron," he told him with a bow of his head. "Thank you for consoling me. I will await your next orders ever fervently."

Megatron grinned, which seemed more like a smirk to the inwardly torn Con. "Good. Now, get your recharge. You work better when you are well rested." He patted the shoulder pad once before taking his servo away and turning again, letting Strike know it was now time to leave.

"Of course," he answered, dipping forward a little in a bow. "Thank you for your condolences." With this, he left the room, knowing full well that his recharge would be plagued with the same doubts that were slowly killing him inside.

~

Okay, so these are all of the pre-made chapters I had, so the rest will be updated accordingly. Expect more for this one to come though, considering I have to finish it by the 20th of this month!