Monkey, Two of Five
Still don't have a Lambo icon. ;)
Title: Monkey
Status: Part 2 of probably 4, assuming that I hack the monster 3rd part in two...
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: Darkness. A bit of psychological horror of a sort. Decidedly NON-FANON Lambo twins. These are my "twins," and if you are in love with the stupid, pranking, fanon Twins, you will likely hate what I've done with them. Just sayin'.
Main Characters: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker
Genre: Darkness. Angstness.
Summary: Without him, I am nothing. Without me, he is a monster.
Chapter Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
His eyes glittered at me from out of the dimness of the cell they'd put him in. Bright, innocent-looking blue eyes. They didn't suit him. They should have been red, eternally enraged red. Like theirs. He belonged with them, really, if he could ever actually belong anywhere. But I didn't belong with them, and we can't be apart. He is my burden to bear, and mine alone, and where I go, he goes. He and the tormenting memories that I carry are my eternal, never-ending penance for my crimes.
He stared at me now, his end of the connection quiet and almost contemplative. Reflective. He was sated for the moment, but only for the moment. It would rise in him again, the dark tide of need, the irresistible compulsion that pulsed hotly through him as human lifeblood flowed through human veins. But for now he lounged, casually, dreadfully casually, on the hard, narrow bunk that folded down from the wall of the cell. One long, golden leg dangled off of the edge of the bunk. His powerful arms were folded behind his flared head, pillowing it on his hands, hands and arms that he would have methodically and fastidiously cleaned until not a single physical trace of his night's handiwork remained.
We had always done that, when he and I had been one. He still did it.
But his head was turned slightly toward me, and there was a wary alertness in him, in his eyes. He'd been watching for me long before I'd arrived, knew of course that I was coming, and now his eyes were fixed on me. Staring eyes. Calm eyes. For now.
I stared back at him for a long moment. And then I asked, voice hushed and careful, "Why?"
We didn't really need to speak verbally, the two of us, two inseparable faces of the same coin. He didn't often speak to me vocally at all, not when were alone, at any rate. He only did so in public, to keep up appearances, and sometimes the words that he said to me and the words that he projected to me were two entirely different things. But I always spoke to him verbally. It was a way to distance myself from him, flimsy though it was, a way to try to forget that we were inseparably linked. The charade offered some comfort where otherwise I had little to none.
He smirked at me, amused as always at my attempt to pretend that we weren't a single person, that our thoughts weren't intertwined and intimately intermingled in such a way that, sometimes, I could not tell if a thought was his or my own. It amused him that I tried to deny that I was as responsible for the things that he did as he was.
Because I wanted to do it? came the glib, flippant, lazy, eventual answer to my question of why he had done what he had done. Because I was bored? Because it was fun? You remember the fun, don't you? You remember how it feels when they scream? You remember the betrayal they feel, the look on their face because they thought you were their friend? You remember what it's like when they beg you to stop but you don't stop, and you just keep going and going until they stop begging because they can't beg anymore? You remember, brother. You remember all of it, as I do. Lambs to the slaughter. And you miss it, too, as I do. I know you do.
It was the same old taunting, and he was smug, proud of himself for what he'd done this night. I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to tear open his chest and crush his spark with my own bare hands. He was the only person in the universe that I had any desire to kill now, and the desire amused him deeply. I felt his amusement radiating through him and then through me. He didn't need to mock me for my desire to tear him apart. The amusement was mocking enough, because I was forced to feel it in myself, about myself.
"I don't miss it," I growled at him around a clenched jaw. "And you know it, and it eats at you, eats you alive. You hate it that you need me. That you can't do what you want to do without me when you know that I will never help you. Never again."
He snorted at that, aloud, before delving back into the link between us.
I don't need you, he spat contemptuously. Why would I need a pathetic weakling like you? You are nothing. That's what you think all the time, isn't it, dear "brother?" And you're right. You're absolutely right. You're nothing. You've been stripped of everything that was ever important. I have all of that, now. And now you disgust me. He paused, and then finished pointedly, brutally, Just as you disgust yourself.
I flinched, involuntarily. Because he was right. Of course he was right. I could keep nothing from him because it's impossible to keep things from yourself. He was right, and I could offer no defense. So I didn't even try. Instead, I changed the subject. It was the only thing I could think to do.
"Why him?" I asked, genuinely, sickly curious. "Did he call you 'Buttercup' again?"
He laughed at that, amused at the question and amused at my feeble attempt to redirect the conversation. His was a warm, rich, mellow laugh, pitched at a perfect, beautiful tenor that was just deep enough to carry easily across a crowded, noisy room. It was a laugh that made people look at him in admiration, in desire. It was part of his whole perfectly attractive package, part of the carefully-designed web in which he - we - ensnared our victims. But it was the worst sound in the universe now, as far as I was concerned. And then he sneered at me, deeply contemptuous as always, as he felt my disgust, felt my deep and utter disapproval of him. He felt that I had no right to judge him. And really, I didn't. He was what he was, and he was me. Sitting in judgment of him was sitting in judgment of myself.
He rolled fluidly, gracefully to a sitting position then, turning as he did so, so that he could lean back against the wall that was then behind him, but his eyes never left mine as he moved. His gaze knifed through me like a sword.
If you weren't so afraid of me, he said simply, you'd know why. You'd know exactly why.
And he was right again. I was afraid of him, in a sense, afraid to delve too deeply into him, for fear of what I would see, what I would come to know. What I might become under his influence.
And then you would acknowledge my brilliance. Just as he will, in time.
I narrowed my eyes at him, suspiciously.
"Just as who will?" I asked.
He smiled at me, at the question. His smile might have been beatific, if not for the malice dripping from him. He rose from the bunk, graceful as a cat, and slowly approached the bars that separated us, stopping only when he was so close to them that their energy crackled against him threateningly. He paid it no mind, the entirety of his attention focused solely on me.
"Prowl," he said simply. Quietly. He said it aloud, but he whispered the name reverently, like some sort of macabre prayer.
I jerked away from him and then stumbled backward, farther away from him, my mind reeling. How had I missed this? He didn't want to kill Prowl, didn't want to make of him that sort of victim but rather a victim of an entirely different - and worse - kind. He wanted Prowl as some sort of sick ally or at least as a stripped-down toy whose abilities he could use as we had once used the abilities that I now possess. All this time I'd thought…and I'd been wrong. I backed myself against the wall across from his cell, and I leaned against it as I fought to digest his intentions, as my mind spun crazily, trying to comprehend how I hadn't known of this plan of his long ago.
He laughed again, snickering at my confusion.
Because although you can't hide your pathetic self and your pathetic thoughts from me, he snidely informed me, I've learned how to hide from you perfectly well. Because I don't need you, "brother." I need him. Only him. I know this now, and I only had to wait for you to drug yourself into oblivion again so that I could start down the road. And now I just have to make him see reason and he will because that's what he does. He's logical and he sees reason and he'll see that he needs me. Certain influences need to be removed first, but -
"So that's it, then," I interrupted weakly, my mind still flailing around trying to find some sense of balance. "Bluestreak was an 'influence.'"
Oh yes, he answered casually, nodding his head enthusiastically, proudly. He was careless as always, heedless of what he did. There was no guilt in him, for he did not possess the ability to feel such a thing. There was no remorse, either, because that was an utterly foreign concept to him as well. For him, the end justified any means whatsoever, no matter how gruesome.
I had to nip that one in the bud first thing, he was happily, cheerfully telling me. Fragger's practically like a son to him. Blue idolizes him, and I know he'd listen to his whiny babbling instead of listening to me. You understand. I know you do.
And I did, in a sick, twisted way that I remembered all too well and greatly abhorred.
Stupid stubborn fragger wouldn't die, though, he continued with rather revolting airiness. Like he didn't die when a whole fragging city fell on him. You know the type, I know, because those were always our favorite kind, the ones who lasted for a long, long time. He gave me a most enjoyable fight, too. I know you felt that, and I know you enjoyed it, too, don't try to deny it. And he might as well be dead now, so that will have to be good enough. For now, at least. And then there are just a few others that I will have to deal with, and then…oh, then… It will be glorious, you'll see. Far better than we ever were. He's the best, you know, and I won't settle for less than the best.
I was just staring at him as he babbled blithely away. A jumble of emotions flowed through me as the words, the terrible words, fell from him. His emotions. Mine. Ours. All intermingled. Mostly, though, there was horror. My horror. There was horror at the thought of him slowly and patiently working at Prowl like a cat toying with a mouse, separating him from everything familiar, everything sane, and then eating away at him for as long as it took, until there was nothing left but a twisted psyche helpless in the face of a manipulative master like him. And it wouldn't take long; Prowl's defenses were fragile, indeed. And there was horror at the thought that, because I had in a moment of weakness needed a respite from his draining and ever-looming presence, all of this was going to happen. It had already happened to poor Bluestreak, probably the most innocent and undeserving Autobot of them all, and that was my fault. It would happen to whatever others he had plans for, and that would be my fault, too. And it would happen to Prowl, despite my efforts over the years, and the guilt for that would be mine to bear as well.
But then, incongruously and very unexpectedly, the horror gave birth to sudden determination, to strength that I didn't possess, so it must have come from Primus Himself.
"No," I murmured, pushing away from the wall. "No, you're insane."
He laughed again at that. Uproariously. Delightedly.
That's a fine accusation, coming from you, he burbled. Pot, meet kettle.
"I won't let you do this," I informed him.
Thick waves of deep amusement assaulted me once the words had slipped from my mouth, more cutting than any sword could be.
And how will you stop me? he asked, smirking at me, eyes glittering anew. I can be out of this cell in less than a minute, if I want to be. You know that. And then I will disappear. And then I will return. And what can you do about any of that?
"I can tell them," I said firmly, chin rising defiantly, arms crossing over chest.
Tell them whatever you like, pathetic scrap, he growled, equally defiantly. They won't believe you. And even if they do believe you, what will they do? Hmm? Tell me, what will they do? Before I could answer, he babbled on, loving as always the sound of his own "voice." Optimus Prime is far nobler than you will ever be, but he is every bit as weak as you are. No wonder he likes you so much. But he won't like you at all once you tell him what you really are, will he, once you tell him what you've done and that you've been lying to him all this time? No one will like you anymore. They'll all be afraid of you, even Prowl, who you've tried so very hard to protect from me that one might think that you were in love with him or something. But he'll be afraid of you now, if you say anything. They'll all be afraid of you. And you can't even enjoy that anymore. You can't even feed on fear the way you used to be able to. You have fallen so very, very far, dear "brother" of mine. And I'm rising. Infuriating, isn't it?
"Shut up," I said, trying to keep desperation from my voice.
Why should I? he taunted relentlessly back. I can do this all day, every day, for the rest of your pathetic little life. Won't that be fun?
"No," I protested, and the desperation was obvious now. I couldn't stop it, couldn't hold it back, certainly couldn't hide it from him. "No no no no no. You won't do this. I will stop you."
I began to sidle away from the cell, away from him. Optimus Prime was likely still in the medbay, still keeping vigil with the others. It was his way. Or he might be in his office. Or in the Control Room. Wherever he was, I would find him. I would find him and tell him. Tell Prowl, too. Apologize to Prowl for what I had allowed him to do to Bluestreak. I would tell them everything, every sordid detail, if that was what it took. I would tell them whatever I had to tell them to make them listen to me, believe me, do something. It was all that was left to me, and if it would damn me as he thought it would, as it probably would, at least it might save Prowl and whomever else he had plans for.
My life in exchange for theirs. It was fitting. Very fitting. It was perhaps the only penance of which I was capable now, since I had ultimately and utterly failed in containing him. It was all that I could offer, now, the only thing I had left to give.
How very noble of you, he snidely called after me as I began to stagger down the corridor, away from him although I could never escape him. Self sacrifice from the likes of you. What a concept!
And he laughed, laughed and laughed, aloud as well as in my head. His mocking laughter rang and rang in my head, long after I couldn't hear his out-loud laughing. It chased me as I stumbled blindly down corridor after corridor toward I knew not what. But whatever it was, I could only fervently pray that it would succeed.