The skies above the ruins of Cybertron were an endless gray, dust and ash swirling like phantoms through the broken cities. High above, the low, throaty hum of Dirge's engines cut through the air like a distant wail. It wasn’t loud—barely a whisper on the wind—but it carried something intangible, a crawling sense of dread that slithered through the ruins below. Any Autobot would feel cold unease.

Dirge flew low, his shadow passing over the crumbling towers. He hadn’t even seen a target yet. It didn’t matter.

Dirge himself was silent, his thoughts churning in quiet desperation. The war, the endless cycle of destruction, had worn him down. The conquest, the chaos—it was never what he wanted. He tuned his engines not out of some twisted delight, but because fear was the only way he knew to maintain control. To keep the panic at bay.

'If they fear me, they won’t come too close. If they stay away, I’m safe. I’ll make it through another day.'

But the truth was, Dirge was tired. Tired of the fear that gripped him when things slipped beyond his grasp. He missed the stillness, the order that once defined Cybertron. The quiet life he’d had before.

Below him, a flash of movement—a patrol, maybe a lone Autobot scout—something to break the stillness he’d been flying through. Instinctively, Dirge dipped into a dive, engines whining. But even as he moved, his thoughts raced.

'I don’t want this. Not again...'

He hesitated. His jet wings trembled as his dive faltered mid-air. He could feel the control slipping, his own fear rising within him. That familiar dread he so easily spread to others was now clawing at his own circuits. The paralysis crept in, and for a second, Dirge's world went cold.

He pulled up just in time, retreating to the clouds, engines fading into the distance once more.