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Smoke and thick air and the chirping of bullets and explosions was the symphony greeting him into his new life. Blind and scared and confused, the sound of a nearby scream shortly aborted by its owner falling down to the ground broke his frozen frame, revealing pools of purple and yellow sky.
He ran as fast as he could. He hid among the dead, until the symphony made way for silence so stifling he might've as well been shot through his fresh spark. His body felt cold, and for a split second he was sure it was colder than the frame of his just hours ago onlined brothers, who's optics once more showed nothing but deep, deep nothing.
He needed to kill. But he wanted to live for them.
It was a haunting feeling of constant hollowness. Looking into the empty sockets of a person he barely knew besides the fact that they happen to be pushed off the same ship, came to existence at the same time - there was nothing making him and that body different. He happened to coward out. And to this day he can't remember how long it took for them to find him.
His spark was freezing cold. A hand of an alive frame on his is insultingly warm. A kind look in their optics is a weakness he was yet to gauge out of their face. He didn't mean to think that.
A friend of a friend, his and hers and theirs and ours. The war was over, wasn't it? The skies were no longer yellow. Walls filled with laughter and carelessness, drinks and entertainment and adventure to save their kind, now, wasn't that something?
Make a friend with him. Make a friend with her. Make friends with them. His hands hold out for theirs - for the empty and the hollow, but he gets the warm, he gets the smile.
A waste of time. A shadow of death on the horizon. Their hands were cold again.
He looked at himself in the window. What even is he anymore?
Pools of purple under his feet. Optics hollow and expressions screaming, of his brothers’ dead bodies he didn't intend. He holds a gun in his hand.