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| - Dreadtread meets Dreadwind in the Cybercreature graveyard on Cybertron. The two construct a wall of corpses, and what follows is the dreadiest conversation to ever dare to dread... The piles of lifeless corposes of what used to be Cybertronian wildlife shudder and shake as the grinding tank treads of the AS90 Braveheart literally jar the earth under-tread. A turbo-rat is smashed into the ground, grinding hopelessly into something far from resembling its former self. A turbohawk is next, and finally a loud screech sounds and Dreadtread comes to an abrupt halt--finally catching a turbo-fox within its treads which is dragged for several meters creating a lengthy smear along the surface. <> he wonders to himself out loud, scanning. Dreadwind is in the one place on Cybertron that comes close to mirroring the dark emptiness that lies within him. Alone, as usual he trudges steadily from one small pile of dead cybercreatures towards another slightly larger one, a corpse held in each hand. His head is slumped forwards, his shoulders rounded and hunched forwards, perhaps the weight of leadership is weighing heavily on him, not that anyone cares. It isn't long before Fate sends a gift in the guise of a Decepticon, that Decepticon being Dreadwind. He had heard of this one in one of the faction-wide addresses from the tyrant Galvatron. At first, Dreadtread's metallic chasses in AS90 form sputters and spits, the vehicle-mode version of a scoff at observing the other, but then... Corpses? Why was he carrying corpses? Perhaps this was the reason that he was delivered here by the almighty Fate... <> The question asked, Dreadtread transforms. The main howitzer cannon of the AS90 Braveheart Self-Propelled Howitzer slides back into its secured forward placement, and the tank chassis beneath the main howitzer artillery cannon splits in half--opening up to swallow the main weapon and 'cockpit' before closing again over the cannon forming a solid tower shield which masks the majority of the rest of the transformation. CLICK. SNAP. HISS. The tower shield is pulled away from the main body by the left hand to reveal the Decepticon Dreadtread. Dreadwind stops his slow trudge, his head rises achingly slowly to look in the direction of the voice, his cold, dull yellow optics show no surprise what so ever even though he was caught off guard, "Filth? This isn't filth; this is what will become of everything, no matter what we try to do about it. This is what we shall all become sooner or later or at least the lucky ones will." Dreadwind is the most depressed and unlikely air commander that will ever be. Dreadtread's optics flash briefly. Was this Decepticon mocking him? Perhaps Dreadwind was aware of him somehow... He was of higher station, and might have a far-reaching access to personnel information. A large step is taken forward, and almost threatening is the tankbot's poise as he thrusts his tower shield forward to point the lower tip at the Air Commander. "What do you know of the Apocalypse, Worm? You speak as if Fate speaks to you... As if you have been enlightened by the Great Conductor.." A light grinding of gears sounds, something of a growl within Dreadtread's chassis. If this Decepticon is making fun of him--Fate help him! It might be hard to tell if Dreadwind is mocking or not as he never seems to ever modulate his voice from anything other than a dull bemoaning drone. He doesn't flinch as Dreadtread attempts to intimidate him after all if he is going to be beaten and suffer there is no way he can avoid it, it's pointless to even try. "The apocalypse? If only... Fate? Great Conductor? If you mean existence itself then i know a lot, i have seen the truth of it all and it is so depressing. It doesn't speak to any of use it merely uses us, creates new ways for us to suffer and feel torment just so it can feed on us. It is all so pointless even this.." Dreadwind drops the two cybercorpses where he stands, his arms hanging limply at his sides, "...and yet no one listens, they always want to go on and try, blinding themselves to the truth." What looks to most like intimidation tactics is generally just how Dreadtread conducts himself, which can be both amusing and particularly unnerving depending on who is on the receiving end. Apparently Dreadwind knows enough about Fate to know that one way or the other intimidation does not matter--everything is destiny, for Fate is the puppeteer constantly pulling strings. "Fate... Yes, the One Truth that none is truly free, and all slaves to the whims of 'what is'... The Great Conductor," the treaded Decepticon states, his tone booming yet robotic, carries only the mildest hint of subtle emotion. So, this is what Fate desired--it truly was a gift. Another 'Believer', one who understood the truth of the universe…"Why do you move the dead, Believer?" Dreadwind moves his head once from left to right in his limited effort of a shake, "I don't believe, I know, fancy names and religious overtones are just another way that others choose to blind themselves to the mind numbing terror of reality, though i'm not going to convince you otherwise, no one ever listens not even Darkwing." Dreadwind sighs and droops again his cold gaze now resting on the corpses at his feet, "I move them because i must, orders... improve my granted domain, something i didn't even ask for, but what is the point it will all fall to ruin soon enough. So i decided i shall pile them all into one massive pile. A single wall to show the truth of our existence, that in the end we will all be the same drained dead husks left to lie still as existence finally expires and suffering ends. Who knows, when others see it perhaps they'll see past their own lies and see with optics unclouded to the truth, but i doubt it." Dreadtread growls lowly, stalking another heavy step closer to Dreadwind as he begins to lift his fist--fully intending on smashing it into the Air Commander's face... But then it lowers, as Fate would have it. "...Well said," the 'Bad Tank' concedes with a curt, jerking nod. Looking from the corpses to Dreadwind and back, Dreadtread snorts with disdain. Ah, this one follows orders... Not entirely his fault, however. "So, you consider yourself a Decepticon?" is asked, tone elevating on the last word. Apparently Dreadtread fancies himself something 'different'. "Fools, most are indeed...Blind to reality, and the inevitability of their struggles for dominance, or co-existance. It is not the will of Fate, for Fate's favor is as unpredictable as the wind…" Marching forward, Dreadtread begins to pile corpses on top of each other one by one. "I will assist... For now." As Dreadtread steps in once more Dreadwind rises his head to stare straight into his optics, he doesn't flinch, in fact he merely awaits the inevitable, though admittedly the beatings have lessened somewhat since his meteoric rise to power, these days it's just the odd cannoning from Galvatron before a fight. Dreadwind shrugs, "They're just words, even though they point towards the truth they are as equally pointless as everything else as no one ever heeds them." Dreadwind picks up the two corpses and continues his agonizingly slow construction, Dreadtread may well find himself doing up to five times the work of Dreadwind through speed alone. "I wear the badge, the Autobots attack me on sight, i am a Decepticon even if i am despised, beaten and left so utterly alone." It sounds more like a statement of facts rather than the chant of a loyalist, grabbing a dead transorganic he drags the mutated misshapen form to the slowly growing wall of truth. "Favour? There is only one type of favor and no one would truly wish to receive it, those whose suffering is sweetest to existence are cursed with long life doomed to continue ever onwards to more suffering and agony till it all comes to an end and existence itself dies." Dreadtread chuckles to himself, a dark sound void of the clear cut amusement that one generally finds within such an expression. Large hand grab hold of the base of the corpses piled at his feet, and with a heavy grunt the tankbot hefts several into the air and slumps them collectively over his shoulders. "Arrrrghhhh...." he growls softly under the weight, tremendous it must be to weigh so heavily upon his rather large, bulky frame. "Better to be alone, outcast, beaten and despised than suffer fools." Dreadtread intones as he takes a hulking step forward, followed by another, and another... "You are a Decepticon only as much as I am, as much as any of us are. We are all truly slaves to the will of Fate. Some less deluded than others, but all no different than the next in the grand scheme." Shaking his head with a brief jerk, the larger Transformer snorts. "Yes... But there are joys in this accursed existance, joys to be savored until the inevitible end. If there was a point to life itself...the point would be to watch it end as many...times..as possible." Dreadwind hears the chuckling coming from Dreadtread and he sighs heavily, the only emotional outburst that he ever uses, "Typical another one, Darkwing is just going to love you..." Dreadwind isn't impressed by the show of strength if anything he's depressed by it, such a show of effort in the construction of this waste of time will undoubtedly mean that it'll be destroyed in seconds as the waves of Autobots sweep across Cybertron to reclaim their home. He'll be buried alive, injured but still functional trapped in a dark coffin, unable to move, lost for ages before Darkwing thinks to even go looking for him. "Typical?" Dreadwind repeats, his optics flashing as Dreadwind's tone seems to suggest something that is an afront to his sense of pride. "What is so 'typical'... Flier?" the tankbot wonders then, grunting as he takes another heavy step before dropping the bodies onto a flattened sheet of metal--something left over from a demolished vehicle, or possibly Transformer from long ago. The weight was a bit much, even for him, and his chassis had suffered from the effort it had taken to carry so many corpses at once... There was perhaps a better way however. "Bond this sheet to my chassis... I will drag these bodies. Stack others on top of me...And use your lasers, if you -have- any," he states, almost as if to insult though given Dreadwind's disposition it is unlikely such a feat were possible. With that command, Dreadtread transforms. Dreadtread's tower shield is brought around in front of him--concealing the bulk of his mass from view as he begins his transformation. SNAP. CLICK. HISS. After laying back, flattening, and compacting what is left is the AS90 Braveheart Self-Propelled Howitzer. Dreadwind stops and looks at Dreadtread again, "It is typical that even those that glimpse at the terribly bleak outlook of continued existence in this almost eternal suffering that they manage to find amusement and a reason to try.. So many just like him." Dreadwind doesn't notice or perhaps more accurately doesn't react to the slight from the treaded one though he does draw his thermal melters and welds the metal almost instantly to the groundpounder. "Lasers would take too much effort..." Dreadtread doesn't react at first, simply waiting with his engine revving impatiently for the moment at which the metallic plate upon which the bodies of the dead are piled is secured to his form. Slowly, steadily the treads begin to wind and propell the large armored vehicle forward, actually having better success but still a somewhat strained time dragging the mass behind it. <> the tankbot grunts from the exertion. <<...Why not derive enjoyment from what little there is to enjoy? The universe will die eventually; all things will fade away into nothing... That means there is no such thing as excess, and no point to altruism, or despair... There is only what is most enjoyable to the self. Fate will have its way no matter what... Selfishness will see the end worth the turmoil experienced before its enD-aarggh!>> Dreadwind does his single move headshake, "You miss the point, there is no enjoyment, no success, no failure there is only suffering and finally death. There will be nothing left behind to show that we suffered for so long, it will all crumble to nothing. It is far better to just sit down and await our inevitable end rather than bothering to try. Despair is the only reasonable reaction left when faced with the crushing enormity of it all and our inability to change even the slightest thing." What Dreadwind doesn't mention is the true terror that he has considered thanks to Windshear's incessant questioning about suicide and death and Dreadwind's eternal return from combat in relatively good repair, that he is somehow a part of existence being and will never find surcease from his suffering. Dreadwind grabs another couple of corpses and follows after the Dreadtrailer, his task now mindlessly being followed to completion. Dreadtread barks a growl as he starts to slide within a hole filled with viscous liquid, likely lubricant of some kind that takes an inordinately long time to break down. With a heavy shudder the 'Dreadtrailer' sputters and spits globs of blackened goo all over itself, and the surrounding area as it fights to speed its way out of the slippery situation. <> Finally, once he's thoroughly covered in slop Dreadtread manages to break free of the hole.
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