There are times within your recharge cycles when your processor blesses (curses?) you with nightmares consisting of you and the horrible, horrible reality of yourself.

Hm. That doesn’t sound quite right.

The reality of —a “you”. You, Rodimus of Nyon, but not quite. A quantum duplicate, the you who got the short end of the stick, the you that you (the original, the not duplicate, the lucky) dreaded and dread becoming. He creeps into your thoughts and wedges himself within your dreams, and the reality of it makes you want to throw up whatever’s in your tanks when you wake up, not because you aren’t him but because you could be, would have been, you are, if none of this had gone right, when none of this went right. The you who wakes up alone and wanders alone, who receives empty stares and pitiful whispers, who has no determination and no will left to keep going. The you who went wrong, the you who lost so much for so little, the you you wish you could put on your palm and squeeze until nothing but a puddle remains.

There is a soreness in your throat and an ache to your processor.