Nature is formed at one hundred and twenty degrees.
Nature also breaks along those same lines. For the sake of efficiency, for the sake of cleanliness.
For the sake of breaking.
Skyfire dimmed his optics, putting a hand over his chestplate and wondering if sparks followed the same pattern.
Were the breaks even, he wondered. Were the fractures in his spark crisp and clear lines like in terran honeycombs- made of tens of thousands of little lives enveloped in sticky sweetness like a whispered I Love You? Or were they messy, were they ruptured like the cracks over the surface of magma bubbling and bubbling until it burst forth to drown everything in a flash of pain and then numb silence.
He winced, feeling something prickle at the corners of his optics.
Were the lines jagged, like fault lines crisscrossing under dust and loam and ruined cityscapes trying to rebuild?
Or were they microscopic, barely seen but felt with the fury of hell itself like an infection- like gathering cells in a tumor spreading and spreading to split health and happiness down the center like an executioner’s blade.
Skyfire leaned forward and griped the counter, wheezing out a vent and choking back the sob that tried to glide out with the recycled particles of air and dust and old promises. And he remembered bright colors and crooked goggles. And he remembered sharp yelps and huffed swears at subpar equipment.
He remembered stars.
The fractures were like ice, he decided, like the arctic frost that once spread over his plating like death or the plague in artful geometry and froze his joints and slowed his spark almost unto stopping.
He broke like ice, he broke like a glacier- at 120 degrees, he leaned over the counter and let his optics leak like springmelt and wished he could see his Star again.