The blinding light of the sun pierced darkened curiously forked optics and slowly crimson spilled into the lenses from within. Groggily a satin black hand reached toward those optics. Such a human action from such an nonhuman being. But what made him nonhuman? Was it the pr of fangs peeking out from an odd one piece upper tooth(?) of the slightly open mouth? A pair of fangs hollow and fully functional showing he was actually something humans only think are make believe. But that alone didn't make him nonhuman. No. it was the fact that he was made of metal and circuits and wiring. All of this encased in a black and gray metal shell. He was a robot, a living robot; a Transformer.
Windshear sat up and rubbed his face almost as if trying to rub the light from his optics. The robot looked around, those oddly forked optics slowly narrowing. Where was he? Massive metal plates jutting out on his back behind each shoulder twitched slightly. Lateral flaps on the top of the plates twitched as well and it became evident that those metal plates were massive aircraft wings. But no aircraft of Earth design.
The Seeker got to his feet still looking around. Bits and pieces of the cycle before came back to him in flashes. The Quintesson ship -- Quintessons scream like small female human children -- he running his swords through a free standing control dais on that Quintesson ship -- the sparks -- the energy, his whole body trembling at it. The energy seemed to pull at him. It called to him, he wanted it, his fangs ached, every circuit in his body seemed to scream to embrace the energy escaping to nothing as spark arcs. And he couldn't have it, the voice in his mind would not let him have it yet the voice in his mind antagonized the programming in him now that humans would call the vampire-ism of fiction and horror, to agonize for it. And it infuriated him. It infuriated him in the capture of the torture. Prisoner to it, it seemed to mirror the megavorns of imprisonment the voice in his mind had gone through at the desires of the creatures that built him. The Quintessons.
And as the Hunger fed the fury because of that hunger, the Seeker had singlehandedly destroyed the Space bridge portal for the Quintession ship <Loquella>. Other Decepticons had shown up to try and stop him. Decepticons built by the Quintessons. Decepticons that were the products of the same creatures that had built the Vampire Seeker's makers and the makers of them and so on. Built all the way back to the voice in his head: The Dweller.
Windshear was damaged by the Decepticons but not before he fought one into retreating and the other within an ounce of ripped circuits from going into Stasis Lock. Seawing was that ones name and as his energon spilled onto the floor the hunger within screamed to be sated. The damage he had sustained screamed for the energy. The voice in his head relented, in fact almost seemed to push him now, push that hunger.
Sirens were blasting everywhere and Windshear knew he didnt have much time to get out of that room and off that ship. But he was damaged, some of which was on one of his precious wings. He would be no use to the voice in his head if he wasnt repaired and the voice knew it.
He remembered staring at the Seacon, his hunger now partially fueled by the instinct of survival -- and the Dweller loosinging his control. He was fast but it still took the Seacon by surpsise. Not that the mech could have done anything, he was so damaged he could barely move. The Vampire Seeker could feel the concern in the other mechs mind. He could feel his worry for his Masters, his loyalty to them and his anger that he had been unable to stop the dead looking dangerous mech draining him of what little energon he had left in his systems.
Windshear let him go and remembered hearing several hundred Sharkticons charging down the hall toward him. He knew from the last time he dealt with a flood of these primitive mechs that he stood no chance of defeating them all alone. With a quick look up towards the faint ceiling more then high enough for a jet to fly, he flipped himself into jet mode and flew out of the destroyed room and the sea of Sharkticon below him.
And now he was here. By his internal chronometer there was a 13 hour gap between him leaving the ship and when the suns rays woke him up a few moments ago. Yet again Windshear looked around. Then he glanced at himself and saw bits of dried energon his chest. He did not rend the Seacon so this was from something else, someone else. But who? No clue to any of this was anywhere for his optics to see. But his damage was gone now and right now thats all that mattered.
The dead colored Decepticon Seeker took a step and looked to the sky. The voice in his mind was quiet right now. He longed for that voice to be gone from his mind. And the voice in his head longed for revenge at its own imprisonment, imprisoning another to get that revenge. But what would be the subject of the Seekers revenge for his own imprisonment? The answer to that was simple and obvious and Windshear knew someone else was counting on it.
A voice echoed in his mind then "Let him take you. And when its time I will --" the memory was abruptly blacked out and silenced then and Windshear knew why. A small smirk spread across his lips giving a cold tone to the semi- permanent look of misery his face seemed to have taken on recently.
"When its time..." Windshear echoed in a darkly textured baritone. He leaped up into the air and transformed into a Cybertronian Leader-Class Tetrajet. The jet hovered for a moment as all the avionic computer systems and sensors flooded the Seekers processors with information as a jet. And after that moment the Vampire started running the coordinates to the other Quintesson Spinner ships on Earth and then started thinking on the Quintesson Judge whos scream sliced the air like a dagger. The voice in his mind suddenly roared back in fury and the smirk grew slightly as Windshear let that fury wash through him. The jet pivoted west and the blackness of that fury darkened the glare of the sun that still fought to over load his optics.