II. [Voice/Video] Contemplation
[the voice doesn't start immediately. for a few seconds, there's the sound of systems cycling, vents intaking. then, finally, the voice of Nemesis Prime...in a thoughtful tone.]
I spoke with a mech who had been here for fifty Vorns.
He said he hadn't been to the upper levels for forty.
Not for lack of wanting, but...
[Nemesis pauses here, letting his words trail off in to silence. finally, he speaks again, slowly.]
I have no doubts there are those who have been here yet longer. Indeed, those whose makers were here, or perhaps their maker's maker. All orphans, in a way, if one considers one's home their source. And now, they - we - are cut off from it.
Oh, I have heard of the way to return. A mass of bureaucracy and red tape, and after one finishes with that, all those involved must wade through it as well. It seems more efficient to simply...hope for a miracle, or to simply give up. Surrender to the inevitable, as my 'friend' did.
How many others have lost hope? How many others have tried, and failed? This is life here so depressed as to rival death, life torn asunder from its home and expected to conform. Those who cannot are shoved below, trod upon. Worse.
Are the 'natives' of this Cybertron even aware of such happening to their 'cousins'?
[the video flips on at this point. Zone 8, by the looks of things - a mass of wretchedness for all species, though there's mostly Transformers in the view, huddled together with optics off, simply...enduring. similar groups as the camera looks around, with similar 'expressions'...not a single bit of optimism among them]
Because from my vantage point...it looks like they have enough broken hopes and shattered dreams to rival the dead universes they insist everyone so fear.
I spoke with a mech who had been here for fifty Vorns.
He said he hadn't been to the upper levels for forty.
Not for lack of wanting, but...
[Nemesis pauses here, letting his words trail off in to silence. finally, he speaks again, slowly.]
I have no doubts there are those who have been here yet longer. Indeed, those whose makers were here, or perhaps their maker's maker. All orphans, in a way, if one considers one's home their source. And now, they - we - are cut off from it.
Oh, I have heard of the way to return. A mass of bureaucracy and red tape, and after one finishes with that, all those involved must wade through it as well. It seems more efficient to simply...hope for a miracle, or to simply give up. Surrender to the inevitable, as my 'friend' did.
How many others have lost hope? How many others have tried, and failed? This is life here so depressed as to rival death, life torn asunder from its home and expected to conform. Those who cannot are shoved below, trod upon. Worse.
Are the 'natives' of this Cybertron even aware of such happening to their 'cousins'?
[the video flips on at this point. Zone 8, by the looks of things - a mass of wretchedness for all species, though there's mostly Transformers in the view, huddled together with optics off, simply...enduring. similar groups as the camera looks around, with similar 'expressions'...not a single bit of optimism among them]
Because from my vantage point...it looks like they have enough broken hopes and shattered dreams to rival the dead universes they insist everyone so fear.