Return of the lost soldier

AN: Before anyone kills me for not updating in like a year let me just point out, *carefully takes deep breath* I spent the entire school year traumatized by the number of first person accounts of genocides in the 10th grade reading curriculum. After the research project about genocides in Rwanda, Cambodia, Ethiopia, World War II, and terrorist actions in Ireland and Tiananmen Square, I just really need to vent and Sonic is a willing victim. I know I keep trying to promise more constant updates, but I really can't put anything fluffy out without slaughtering said furries and everyone they might know. It starts off just trasformers so Sonic fans be patient.

So I tried on some transformers terminology for size. Experts can correct my usage and spelling. It helps my case.

The Void

Primus fraggit all to the pit. I was on the Matrix's doorstep, making small talk with the Great Primes for the allspark's sake. What did the First Prime mean by "You weren't supposed to die" anyway? Everyone who went into the Well of Sparks were there because it was their time. Right? There shouldn't be any "weren't supposed to die"'s.

A small silver cybertronian with a blue visor and faded Autobot insignia leaned against a wall of his conscience, one of the many such walls created by hundreds of offlined cybertronians trapped in the imitation void, while he ranted at his fate. He, Jazz, Second in Command of the Autobots, was trapped in some holding field with a bunch of crazed bots using their renewed sight and hearing to blast each other into nonexistence. What in the pit did Soundwave do to lock up the void like this? He's turned it from a silent world at the edge of the Well to hell's waiting room turned war-zone. At the moment, Jazz was willing to use this strange field's rules to afford him a rest and time to think. This world was based entirely on the extent of the recipient's conscious. Decepticons could shoot as much as they want and not hit anything unless someone thought they were hit. If he shuttered his optics and tuned down his audio receptors so the shots sounded far away, he wouldn't be hit. He would be as immune to them as though he had a force field, but he dare not loose conscience. Loosing conscience would be like dying a second time with no chance of an after life. The young once autobot he tried to help proved that to him. Hornet, an inexperienced front liner, was barely upgraded past his youngling model. He was a lot like Bumblebee, sporting the same friendly nature and bravery, and they shared the same open honesty that made it so hard for him to pretend no one was close. It was the same honesty that made him believe that a shot fired wide hit home, that condemned him with the heavy blow to the back, that convinced him that the injury must exist and could not be ignored, and it was that same honesty that caused him to fade into oblivion when he fell into stasis lock. Jazz unshuttered his optics to stare up at the field's dimly glowing sky, or more like a tall dome ceiling, which lit the void in gold and flashes of red. Every bot trapped here could see the hazy, dim light, but only he could see beyond it. Only he could see through the haze and into the decepticon base, where the experiments took place. Humans screaming as their bodies were put through torture beyond what any government throughout history has imagined. Each, one by one, beaten and electrocuted until they could no longer fight back, injected with energon repeatedly over a number of days while being exposed to some energy source he could only assume is radioactive, and if they still cling to life after all of this they are biopsied alive to look for whatever it is Megatron wants. Jazz grimaced and shuttered his optics quickly as one of a few unlucky survivors from the injections, a young woman, is dragged towards Odd job's and Knock out's medbay. Optimus, help them. And Primus, save us all.