The sky above was dark in the late joors of the Orn, the stars flickering tiny like tiny little lamps, thousands and thousands of miles away. The lights did not seem to reach the ground of the planet below, nor did the dim and flickering natural glow seem to make it any brighter. The landing site that lay under that sky barely looked like a landing site anymore. The once magnificent control towers, once a pride of this world, were now a sign of war, just like everything else. The metals that once shone now was dull and rusted, and the towers no longer stood high in the sky. In a battle, the name hidden in the thousands of names for famous or not so famous battles, the towers had been shot down, offlining hundreds in its wake. Now, ancient rubble of what was once a sign of their significance laid like an ugly, broken doll across the ground, taking its place in the graveyard that was Cybertron. Some of the structures had melted from the heat when they had been struck down, and were molded into the ground or bent terribly, sticking up like spears in the air. Several rusted and broken frames, pierced by those broken pieces, could be seen from miles around. One could not miss them, nor could one miss seeing the destruction that had laid here for eons.

A lone Decepticon stood in the mess of a site, helm tilted up. He was not looking at the old horrors below, but rather gazing up at the barely lit sky above him. His large frame stood alert and erect, but his fire colored optics were half-closed as he looked up at the stars blinking light years away. One arm hung loosely at his side, the other bent at the elbow as his servo rested over the blaster hooked to his hip. His thick talon like digits occasionally curled upwards and then back down upon the handle of his gun, the tips of his claws tapping against the handle, a tiny ticking noise lifting softly into the toxic and clouded atmosphere around him. His dark blue and purple color scheme seemed to meld into the late Orn sky, masking him to the lazy naked optic.

He stared up at those stars, a frown upon his derma. His expression was neutral, and he said not a word, but his quiet thoughts droned in his processor, like a dull noise he could not escape. Looking up at those little lights, he remembered hearing from several hopeful bots that they were like little flickers of hope. He knew he had seen a few young Cybertronians, on both sides, stargazing when they had the time. Personally, he never saw the hope in it, nor the point. What hope could they find in those balls of fire, so far away from anything. In all honesty, all it did was remind him of how small they really were, how insignificant. Looking up at those stars now, all he could see was a cold light, a high and mighty light that thought little of them. That laughed down at them and their foolishness.

And what foolish beings they were.

The Decepticon let out a small sigh, closing his optics so he would no longer look at them. Though around him there was silence, there sounds in his helm that he could hear. Sounds he had to hear, no matter how much he hated it, if only to keep him devoted to his cause. The sound of death falling, and the sounds of those meeting it. With his optics closed, he could red. He allowed those things to surround him, although in reality, he really did not have that choice. He hoped they did not take him for too long. He had a job to do, and he would need to begin any breem now.

The whistle of red and the wails of the innocent made him grow even more still. Inside, however, everything was stirring as he listened and watched. He had lost track of how many times he had been subject to this eons ago. His past, revisited over and over again, was part of him now. Something he could not escape. Something he did not want to escape. He could never forget.

There was a sound. A different kind, one that snapped him back into real time. His optics flew open suddenly and his body moved in a blur. His plating spiked as he thrust himself into a battle ready position, both servos flying to his blaster, though he did not unhook it just yet. He scanned the area in a matter of klicks. His optics locked onto a small movement he caught in the distance. He narrowed them, the red pupil contracting in and out to give it more focus on the target. Up ahead, many yards away, he caught the frame of an average sized Cybertronian moving about, slinking around the malformed remains of the fallen towers. As it continued to lurk around slowly, he realized that it had not seen him yet.

Relaxing a bit, the Con carefully slipped into the shadows, pulling out his blaster and holding it readily at his side. He crept along the walls of the old debri as well, all the while doing his best to keep an optic on the Cybertronian he grew closer to. As he closed a few yards between them, he confirmed that there were actually two of them, both mechs. Both of them were scouting, if he had to guess, the way they moved carefully and quietly while all the while keeping a look out. There were a few times as he drew near that he had to duck or go completely still, so that they would not spot him.

They must have gone ahead to check for any sign of ambush, he thought to himself. He had to give them credit for their tactic. The last few groups he had encountered along this site had been running out in the open, their desperate attempts not thought out at all. Something inside his spark hurt a bit, but he only pushed it away, not wishing to find out why it was there.

The two scouts moved ahead towards the smaller ships and escape pods; the ones that remained intact. He moved along with them, close enough to keep attack but far enough so that they would not hear him. Eventually, they found a pod, hidden more towards the east of the stump of the third tower. One scout turned to the other, his words inaudible, but the message was clear. His friend nodded and quickly but carefully went back, most likely to tell the others to pull ahead. Meanwhile, the first scout began to move towards the pod again.

When he knew the second scout was far enough away, the Decepticon began to move. He was a little less careful now, his goal no longer requiring him to be hidden and silent. He picked up his pace as he drew in on the Cybertronian that had remained behind. He charged his blaster as high as it could go. He would not need this much power for this close of a shot, but he knew that he would later. He was now only several feet from the scout, and he knew as the frame jumped and began to turn that he had heard him approaching.

With one swift movement, while picking up his pace and moving into a run, he threw up his blaster and pulled the trigger. The sharp cry of agony wretched itself from the mech as the blast hit his shoulder plate, the full power having knocked it clean off, leaving one arm useless. Fresh Energon splattered everywhere, staining the ground and the falling scout. Before he hit the ground, the Decepticon had slung his blaster back over his hip and snatched the other's throat in his talons. The scout choked, his life source already flooding from his intake, and pulled at the sharp digits currently squeezing the life out of him.

The Con stared at him, and the face made the dying mech freeze. It was cold, cold and sparkless. He held no feelings of murderous glee or of regretful sadness. It was only a blank, determined glare that seemed to dig deep into the spark. The talons squeezed hard, and his other servo reached for his blaster again, but his expression remained the same.

The frightened victim, still choking and clawing at his death, could only ask one question in his hysteria. "Wh-Who are you?" he gargled, his voice failing him due to the pressure and the Energon that flooded from his intake and slid down his chin.

The Decepticon only glared for a few moments, and there seemed to be no answer coming. Finally, his derma opened and his voice, sullen and low, appeared. "I am Strike," he greeted like he always did to his victims. His words were cold and held no remorse, nor enjoyment. Before the mech could make any sort of reply, Strike crushed his neck cords, breaking through the endo-frame and the proto-form. His claws tore through the fuel lines, and Energon flew from them, splattering over his servo and wrist, a few droplets reaching his face as it continued to spill. The Cybertronian went offline nearly instantly, his optics, dying of color, were wide and his mouth hung open in an eternal soundless scream of agony. His frame went limp, his arm that had been struggling to loosen the grasp falling at his side.

Strike stared at the offline bot for a few moments more, something small stirring within him. This bot had merely been trying to safely leave their doomed home world. He had not known the bot, nor did he really care to have known him. He did not know if this bot was innocent or not, or if any of the other bots were clean off murder and death. Even the Autobot insignia that glinted on the dead one's chest chassis, the one thing that normally made the decision of innocence for him, seemed to sour past his morals this time. Doubts that had begun to plague him returned once more, and his expression finally did falter for a moment.

Sighing, he dropped the bot on the ground, as if it were a useless toy. He turned his helm away from the gore before him, though he was not able to escape the stains of Energon he held. The stains of death and murder, something he had only convicted against his enemies once. He once again looked up to the stars, his optic ridges furrowing a bit. Was this sorrow? Sorrow for the enemy, or for himself? The twinkling lights only looked back down at him, silent and uncaring. Maybe they did not laugh at them. Maybe they had no care for them.

Which made the world seem even more cruel.

'Pull yourself together', Strike scolded, shaking his helm in frustration and clenching his fists. 'You have a job to do. You are doing it for them. Do not falter now.'

Narrowing his optics, he allowed himself to get angry. To let the emotions of the past return, to give him back his morals. To give him back his determination, his drive, his will. He grit his denta and grabbed his blaster again, setting his digit on the trigger. This was war. Death was inevitable to those who fought it, and he would bring it to those who asked for it. Turning sharply, he rushed towards the direction he had seen the other scout go. The rest of the Autobots would be there, he knew.

The group had been smaller than he had been informed. He had expected nearly thirty to fifty Cybertronians, but when he came to face them, the numbers were much smaller than that. He only counted eleven of them, which made twelve in total if he included the one he had offlined. The Decepticon knew just from once glance that not many of them were skilled fighters. It was a wonder they had lasted this long in the war. They all gasped and stopped short when they some him coming at them, horror dawning on their faceplates.

He did not stop.

Leaping into the air, he jumped onto the chest chassis of the first victim, sending them to the ground. They cried out in pain, but it was cut short as Strike placed the blaster right on the bot's helm and pulled the trigger. Energon and pieces of endo-frame going everywhere. The loud explosion, and the shock seeing their friend's processor blown open, caused enough distress and distraction for Strike to make a clean kill without much of a fight. He pounced off the offlined bot and pointed the blaster towards the next bot, a more sturdy and larger built mech. The shot took out his spark chamber, sending shrapnel and sparks into the air. A piece of shrapnel plunged into a femme's optic as Strike moved past the now dead mech. She screamed in pain, trying to claw out the metal, and did not even see as her death reigned down on her.
Another mech, so large that he was nearly the size of him, roared in rage and charged him. Strike was busy bringing down another young femme, tearing out her throat while blasting down a target that was trying to flee, but underestimated his timing. Before he could turn around to face him, the enemy had reached him, ramming his elbow into Strike's back. The Con grunted, surprised by the force of the blow. Growling, he reached up behind his helm, grabbing his attacker's helm and digging his talons through the endo-frame. The mech growled angrily, Energon spilling over his optics and audios, while trying to escape. Strike pulled one servo out, reaching for his blaster again, while at the same time, twisting his arm in order to spin around. He barely felt the pain ringing up his strangely twisted arm as he pulled his claws down, scraping down his helm. This time, a wail of agony left him. Strike suddenly turned as another femme charged him, the tip of his blaster against her helm and blasting her to oblivion. At the same time, he pulled his digits out of the burly mech helm, plunging them into the spark chamber and extinguishing him immediately.

As Strike pulled out his Energon stained servo, he used the falling mech's helm as a stepping stool, pushing off of it and launching himself into the air again. While he flew upwards, he raised his blaster, taking only a few klicks to aim before taking his shots. The bright blue blasts brought down nearly the rest of the enemy, all of them screaming as the shots reigned down on them. Only one managed to evade the blaster, screaming in terror and trying to flee. This one was not a fighter. That, or he was smart enough to realize battle would do him nothing.

Strike landed on his pedes, standing up slowly. He watched the bot, a mechling, run for a little while, trying to find cover behind the debris. He raised his blaster to end his terror, but a flash of purple stopped him from pulling the trigger. He contracted his optics, focusing on the bot before he ducked behind cover. He gasped a little when he confirmed what had caught his attention. The insignia was Decepticon.

He faltered now, lowering his blaster. This was not the enemy. Yet the rest of them were Autobots. They were the ones he had been assigned to take down. This mechling had decided to join them in hopes of escaping. He had turned to the other side.

According to the code, that made him the enemy.

To Strike, he did not know.

Sighing in frustration, he aimed the blaster again and pulled the trigger, just before the mechling was able to find cover. The only sound was the blast ripping through metal, and a few klicks later, the young one clattered against the ground.

~

ALRIGHT, so here is the Decepticon Redemption story I was telling you guys about. I hope you like it! Fair warning, it's going to be DARK.