Master of Puppets

Convoy:	Convoy's in a... strange place right now. If he had a mind to associate his current emotional state to anything, he'd probably relate it to floating - not quite touching ground, moving along without thinking much about where one's going... Everything feels slightly dulled. He exerted enough energy in the desert and on the way back to the base, and now he's trying to settle himself into his normal state of good will and it's simply not coming. Still, he has more important things to deal with than recent developments - mostly Dead End, who he'd left recharging with no sight. That had been rude of him, but Dead End needed rest and he needed to do this (even if he regrets it, now). So, Convoy wanders the halls for a while, half remembering his way, and then reaches Dead End's quarters, inputting the code and sliding into the room, door locking itself behind him as it closes.
Dead End:	He has been lying in recharge since before Convoy left, never waking up from it - although it has become lighter and deeper with irregular intervals. His systems remain inactive even as Convoy re-enters his room, but there is a spike in the usage of processing power as they register the mech, not finding it important enough to wake the Stunticon for, at least not yet. The scanners are paying attention to what the Prime redeco is doing, though, ready to wake Dead End up if the surveilling systems concludes it being necessary.
Convoy:	Convoy first goes to the berth, looking Dead End over with a strange look on his face. Soon, he'll shut down and not even remember the Stunticon. Or Tracks. Or Moonracer, or Optimus Prime or the base or- ... He turns and paces to the wall, looking over (but never touching) the sparse arrangement of items in the room. He can't even really muster up enough curiosity to question that stuffed camel.
Dead End:	As the mech approaches the berth where he's lying, the general level of awareness rises, in human terms one might say he was waking up. He doesn't reach full consciousness before the truck has wandered away again, only noticeable by a rumble from his engine, since his optics isn't there to give the normal give-away. Convoy. He uses a quiet voice, not asking a question as much as stating who it is. He might be wrong, but that will show soon enough.
Convoy:	Even when he hears Dead End, he doesn't turn away immediately, still looking at that blasted camel for a moment or so longer before finally looking back to the berth, smiling even if the other can't see it. Dead End - how are you feeling? His voice is just the same as always, but a shade or two off from it's usual tone.
Dead End:	Doesn't really notice anything off about Convoy, but even if the Porsche has become used to the truck's usual self, he can't see and the mech has barely spoken two sentences. Rested. More of Dead End's weird sense of humor - if one can call it that at all.
Convoy:	Good, good. I was hoping some rest might help you, if only a bit. Do you need anything? Still slightly off, Convoy comes a bit closer, putting his hand on Dead End's shoulder, lightly. Won't get to do this for much longer, if his rival is being patient.
Dead End:	Faint shake of head, turning his face to where Convoy is indicated on his scanners in the process. No. Either still missing or ignoring the offness in Convoy's voice.
Convoy:	All right. His hand tightens briefly and then he lets go, moving back to the shelves I'm afraid I'm at a bit of a loss, what to do for you, really... Is there anything you want?
Dead End:	Light frown, didn't Convoy just ask about that? No, thank you. Sits up and moves his legs off of the berth, letting them dangle off the edge; not moving beyond that. Did you recharge as well?
Convoy:	He keeps his optics on the shelves, an extra bit of visual distance that's really unnecessary, considering the circumstances. I - didn't, actually. I had an errand to run. Forgive me for leaving you alone, but I assumed you would rest wile I was gone, and I didn't want to leave when you might truly need my assistance.
Dead End:	Nods once, he isn't a very caring mech in general, and even less so when he's in recharge (for obvious reasons). I see. I trust it went well?
Convoy:	...In a... manner of speaking, yes. His smile visibly fades for a moment as he thinks of just how well it didn't* go, all things considered.* Perhaps it could have gone better, but I suppose I'll take what I can at this point. Not much else to do, really.
Dead End:	Pauses for a moment before speaking again, looking faintly thoughtful. He could understand the acceptance in Convoy's tone, though. Is there something I can do for you?
Convoy:	Lets out a brief second of a choked, gut-reaction laugh before snapping his mouth shut. He can only hope that didn't sound quite as hysterical to his stoic friend as it did to him. No, Dead End. There's nothing to do. And doesn't that sound final?
Dead End:	Turns his not-optics towards the sound, staring* at the mech. He knows something's off now. Since when did Convoy think and sound like the fatalistic Stunticon?* Nothing?
Convoy:	Isn't looking at Dead End, and so he doesn't notice the other's staring. ......No, nothing. His tone is light, as though he's just making an idle remark, but it's a little forced, as if he's still got the urge to laugh. It's not particularly important. At least, it won't be, soon enough.
Dead End:	Pessimistic Convoy. Apparently this day was when spectacular things happened. Very well.
Convoy:	At least he can trust Dead End not to push a subject. That's reliable enough, for however long he's got. ...Hah. The strangeness - the absurdity of this situation strikes him, and he shakes his head. I must really seem ridiculous. Still in that light tone, still looking at the shelves. All this talk of choice...
Dead End:	Dead End is of the opinion that if he is supposed to know, he will. Cybertronians have nothing but time, sometimes. What of all this talk of choice? Calm voice, he will remain himself even if Convoy does not.
Convoy:	...I don't know what to do anymore, Dead End. I look for choices where there are apparently none, and I only now realize it. A rather inopportune time.
Dead End:	You live until you do not. Reassuring Dead End is slightly less reassuring than his normal self. And Convoy should know about his thoughts on choices by now, so the Stunticon remains silent on the matter, though it's heavily implied that there are no choices.
Convoy:	Yes, Dead End, I realize the difference between life and death, thank you. He stops himself before his voice gets too much harsher, less like himself and more like... ...I want to help but I can't even... He was right. Pathetic.
Dead End:	Expression goes blank as he listens to the uncharacteristic words coming from the truck. What was going on with Convoy today? Who.
Convoy:	Deep breaths, Convoy, think of calming things, like a cold bottle of soda on a hot summer day, not about him being patient and signing a death warrant- ...Forgive me, Dead End. I didn't mean to bring up these things around you. Turns and looks the other over - he's got plenty* to worry about on his own, no need for more problems.*
Dead End:	An annoyed look flash over his face, mechs with troubled minds was always such a hassle. Tell me. As an afterthought, adds-- ...please.
Convoy:	...Dead End said please.** ...I... spoke with that... being. And he told me things I thought I needed to know to live my life and make the proper choices but now... This is ridiculous, telling Dead End his problems, so he starts to pace, trying to ignore the very concept of having any problems of his own for once and failing miserably.
Dead End:	Well, that was easy. Listens to the mech's steps as he paces. But now? He has* tact, he's just not using it a lot.*
Convoy:	It isn't hard when all he really wants to do is unload, after all - he stops near the shelves at Dead End's interjection, offlining his optics briefly ...But now, I have no choices to make. I... It won't even matter soon enough. Choices are for those who do not kneel when commanded.
Dead End:	I see. You do not matter anymore. That might have been a bit provocative from Dead End's side, but he never a nice mech.
Convoy:	This is beyond mattering! This - .....This is just the opposite. I matter more than he wants to say, and I simply do not have a choice as to whether or not I want to matter... I just - he'll wipe me clean and start again, and if I get corrupted again, he'll do it again. His shoulders slump and he looks to Dead End, voice cracking ...At least you have the choice.
Dead End:	Tilts his head, not really having any clue of what Convoy's talking about. Someone has managed to agitate him, that much is obvious, most likely about choices and that slag. The choice. Of what? It's not spoken out loud, but it's not that hard to pick it up while it hangs in the air, wanting to be heard.
Convoy:	Tenses up again, not really aware that his hands are clenching into tight fists as he stares at Dead End The choice! The ability to leave, if you really wanted! The choice I thought I had. I can't even hide, because he simply orders me to come to him and I do. You can say no. You can fight back. He doesn't like feeling like this, not at all, and he tries to laugh it off but it sounds so tinny and fake. I can't even think to raise my hand against him.
Dead End:	Misses all visual signs, again. Go figure. 'The ability to leave'? 'Fight back'? Almost deadpanned, back, he doesn't* have those choices.*
Convoy:	You can do it. You have the freedom, whether or not you believe it. I won't even have a chance to say no, in the end. Doesn't like* feeling this... defeated. If he knew how to hate, he'd no doubt be hating himself.*
Dead End:	Does it matter? Your future is not your own, whether or not you realize it.
Convoy:	I realize that now, thank you! His voice lifts into a slightly frantic shout, before he takes a deep "breath," plating shuddering on his shoulders, clanking lowly
Dead End:	He supposed it was a bad sign that Convoy was starting to remind him of Breakdown. At least he had more than enough experience with handling that. Gets off the bed entirely, standing for a little moment before walking calmly over to where Convoy's voice comes from - and where his scanners indicates a mech - stopping a meter or two from him. If there is nothing you can do, why worry yourself about it?
Convoy:	Because there has to be. After so long believing that he had a choice, this idea that he doesn't have one* just... doesn't compute.*
Dead End:	Stretches out a hand, fumbling a bit around in the air before taking another step forwards and brushing it against Convoy's chestplate, using it as necessary navigation to get closer to the truck, which he does, sliding a hand up to the mech's shoulder, and putting the other on his hip. There has to be nothing.
Convoy:	...I need there to be something, Dead End. He looks down at the mech and sighs, shaking his head There has to be a choice.
Dead End:	And if there is nothing? Hand goes from shoulder to neck, around to the back, always touching the metal. You will crumble?
Convoy:	He bends down slightly, putting his hand on Dead End's shoulder and shaking his head before letting his forehead meet the Stunticon's ...I don't know what I'll do.
Dead End:	Action is not a requirement. Lets the mech rest his head against his own, a finger tracing the edge of Convoy's helmet. The Pepsi-lover seemed calmer now, physical contact seem to help him collect his mind. Good.
Convoy:	Quite the contrary - it's his personal need to appear collected that's keeping him from pacing or shouting, but the other's touch is starting to drain some of the desperateness from him. It's leaving him feeling... almost tired. I want to stop this from happening. He's not talking about his current attitude, or even about his lack of choice. Maybe he could come to accept that... if he had just a little more time.**
Dead End:	In either case, the touching is helping. Then do so. He would, had he been able, most likely have been staring calmly - and blandly - at Convoy's chestplate, instead he just bears the expression. Are you afraid?
Convoy:	...I am. Fear is a foreign emotion, and Convoy doesn't like it. At all.
Dead End:	Doesn't have too much experience with fear. Loathing on the other hand, and terror - those* he knows.* What do you fear?
Convoy:	...I don't want to die. He had been so sure that saying that would bring him back to his senses, but it does nothing more than make him shudder, optics offlining as he tries to regain some kind of control over this whole situation. And to forget everything is the same as dying. I can't lose what I have now, Dead End - this feels wonderful, this freedom that I have... that I thought I had... He doesn't even know where he's going with this, just that his processors are formulating the words before he can think of them
Dead End:	... Personally, he wasn't afraid of dying (then again, he just wasn't an afraid mech in general). He didn't have that much to lose, either, apart from his own spark and those of his fellow Stunticons. Tugs lightly, putting gradually more and more pressure Convoy's neck, angling his own face upwards.
Convoy:	Frowns and follows with Dead End's movements, blindly stopping before fully initiating a kiss, mouth almost on the other's. ...If I lose my AI, I lose myself, don't I? weakly
Dead End:	Pauses in his movements. ...AI? Lose AI? Get brainwashed, he mean?
Convoy:	Artificial Intelligence. What they installed to pass for a mind of my own. He chuckles, sounding slightly bitter Most likely the cause of my horrid memory.
Dead End:	...I see. Hasn't heard anyone refer to it by that term before Upgrade it. Such a simple solution. Pulls again, muffling whatever Convoy was planning on saying next by pressing their lips together.
Convoy:	Makes a slightly surprised noise, onlining his optics long enough to stare at Dead End - he's got a one track mind and right now all he can think about is that he'll inevitably lose and forget all about this kind of thing. The thought alone spurs him into action, one hand sliding from Dead End's shoulder to the back of his neck, the other grabbing the Stunticon's hip without much uncertainty at all
Dead End:	If he thinks this sudden change of things is strange, he doesn't show it; he barely even grants it a thought. Deepens the kiss slowly, the hand on Convoy's side locating a seam and rubbing it.
Convoy:	More aware of himself than usual, Convoy tightens his grip slightly and leans into Dead End's movements, trying to use the other as a distraction from his own thoughts and, for once, failing miserably at it.
Dead End:	Notices something is not quite right, but writes it off as being related to the whole choice- and freedom-thing from earlier, and doesn't push the subject further - he figures Convoy will talk if he feels like it. Then again... he breaks the kiss, almost abruptly, but doesn't move away from the taller mech; but just looks at him - only he doesn't.
Convoy:	...Convoy's hands clench tightly for a long moment as Dead End "looks" at him, and then his grip slackens to the point where he's barely holding on. ...Forgive me.
Dead End:	For? Granted, Dead End wasn't a mech who usually cared, and Convoy was a bit strange, but he couldn't see what the truck was apologizing for - and even if he had an inkling of an idea, he would rather just the other mech tell him rather than assuming and being wrong.
Convoy:	For being unable to handle this myself. I thought it would be... easier. I suppose most of this must seem trivial, compared to your life.
Dead End:	...trivial? Hasn't really thought that much of how his life might be compared to others, seeing as how he's treated is normal* for him, even if it's a horrid thing to others. Again with the calm, almost reassuring, voice.* What happened while you were out?
Convoy:	...I spoke with the... "man" who has been so eager to control me. It... did not go well. Convoy sighs. I was hoping to deal with him on my own. Forgive me for bringing it up.
Dead End:	He still controls you. Still not pulling away, not by much, at least.
Convoy:	Yes. He doesn't hesitate in answering, but his voice speaks volumes for how reluctant he is to admit it.
Dead End:	Light nod; he knew how much being controlled bothered Convoy, if previous conversation (and this one) had been a clue. He doesn't feel like rubbing the inevitableness in Convoy's face, though, for some reason one shall not go into at this point in time.
Convoy:	...I didn't even realize he was doing it. Another one of those laughs escapes him, and he shakes his head. I suppose it's just more programming they installed upon creation. More restrictions for me.
Dead End:	Then why fight it? Spend the time you have to do something more useful. Slight headtilt, engine a quiet rumble.
Convoy:	What is there to do? The only thing I've done is try to be my own person... But now, even that is not an option. His optics focus more on Dead End's face, and he finds himself wondering why he's talking about his most infantile problems to someone like this. At least the one who controls him* doesn't tear out his optics.*
Dead End:	Be the other you, while you wait for it to pass. And it will* pass, one way or another. Again, while this was on the rather violent side of things, it's still within the range of what's normal. He's just a tool, after all.*
Convoy:	...I liked who I was. Weakly
Dead End:	Stay who you are, in that case. He is listening, just being...himself, one supposes.
Convoy:	...I suppose I have no choice in that matter, either. Well, doesn't that* sound defeated?*
Dead End:	You suppose.
Convoy:	It isn't as though I have much choice, apparently. I might as well... There's a long pause. Give up.
Dead End:	Wears a neutral - patient - expression, idly wondering why Convoy hasn't given in to the outside forces controlling his life yet. An overly optimistic spark may be the culprit? Very well.
Convoy:	...That concept hurts more than he had thought it would, but he shakes his head slightly to clear it. ...Do you need anything?
Dead End:	No. Apart from a new set of optical circuitry, and well as a de-bulking and a proper job done on his jaw (not to mention salvaging the paint job and a brand new layer of wax), he doesn't need anything right now. Not even energon. I am fine, thank you.
Convoy:	I'm afraid I'm of little use, then... Chuckles and shakes his head again. Very little for me to do, other than provide my rather lackluster company.
Dead End:	Since when did Convoy do anything else than provide company? Is at a bit of a loss of what to say or do. A walk, perhaps?
Convoy:	Since when did Dead End suggest things? ...Is that something you would accompany on, or a suggestion for what I should do with myself while you have no pressing needs?
Dead End:	Since he got bored of this conversation, perhaps. Which would you prefer? Bland tone
Convoy:	That would be hurtful for Convoy to know. ...I don't mind company, but I seem to be... rather unsociable, so I'd understand if you wouldn't want to.
Dead End:	Dead End is hardly one to care about mechs' feelings - not even his own. I understand.
Convoy:	He's not even sure if that's a yes or a no.
Convoy:	...I hope you do.
Dead End:	Can be a bit cryptic at times. If you wish, I will accompany you.
Convoy:	Just a little. ...I would like it, if you're willing.
Dead End:	I am. Because he is very bored, truth to be told. Isn't much to do when you can't see, and he's just recharged.
Convoy:	...All right, if you're sure. Kind of hooks his arm around the other, slowly enough to make it obvious that he's getting ready to play guide-dog again
Dead End:	Ignores that, pulling back to a more normal distance to have between two mechs - still a bit closer than usual, with the whole seeing-eye mech thing. Where do you wish to go?
Convoy:	...A slow, subtle look comes over his face - a resolute sort of expression. I'd like to stop by my room, briefly, perhaps. If that's all right.
Dead End:	Misses the expression, go figure. Very well. Adds a nod to that, he has no rush whatsoever.
Convoy:	Convoy himself doesn't even notice the expression, of course. Instead of answering, he moves to lead Dead end out of the room and into the halls. ...I'm afraid I'm rather lacking at conversation right now. Even in an apologetic tone of voice!
Dead End:	Does not matter. And it's obvious by his* tone that it doesn't. Though it's not difficult at all anymore - it's amazing what you can get used to - he focused on walking instead. Silence isn't a stranger to him.*
Convoy:	Silence is,* however, a stranger to Convoy, but he's starting to appreciate it more and more lately. He keeps mostly quiet, even refraining from humming, all the way to his room. He manages, through a strange bout of determination, to not get them lost on the way, and he comes to a stop outside the door with a calm look on his face.* We're here. ...And yet he's not moving to open the door.
Dead End:	If Dead End notices the uncharacteristic silence from the other, he doesn't show it (as usual). He waits with something akin to patience when Convoy announces their arrival to his quarters. After a little while, when it seems like Convoy is just standing* there--* Well?
Convoy:	...Mm. Convoy waits another moment before stepping forward and inputting the code, opening the door and guiding Dead End in as well as himself. It'd be rude to leave a friend outside, wouldn't it?
Dead End:	It would, though it's not certain Dead End would care. Being left outside as laughing stock, however, that he will care about. And what Dead End cares about, he takes seriously. (Go figure.) Moving inside, he stands still, the truck's room was a mess if he remembered correctly, and thusly easy to trip over things.
Convoy:	Indeed, Convoy's room is still a mess, cases of Pepsi soda lying around, some stacked in the corner from a long forgotten attempt at cleaning up. There had been a point to holding on to the soda before, but he can't seem to recall exactly why. The logo just reminds him of that blasted* man and his power over the mech, not of good things like it used to....*
Convoy:	Convoy doesn't realize that he's lashing his foot out at a pile of cases until they go sailing across the small space, crashing against the wall and exploding with carbonated soda.
Dead End:	Tenses at the first crash and soda-explosion, then relaxes again as he realizes it's just Convoy making a racket - strange as though that is. He remains calm, but his voice is annoyed when he speaks up again. I doubt that is an efficient way of cleaning up.
Convoy:	Looking at the mess he's made just from a few cases, Convoy can't really find a reason to apologize. ...Forgive me. It just makes me so... So...... AUGH! He lashes out again and sends another pile against the wall, foot stomping down on another case and causing it to pop underneath the pressure. Destroying things shouldn't feel this good* to him right now, but he can't find it in himself to care.*
Dead End:	What is wrong* with Convoy today? Realizing the truth shouldn't be this upsetting.* Convoy. A much sharper tone, almost commanding. Enough of this slag.
Convoy:	It wouldn't be so upsetting to someone else, maybe, but Convoy's been living under the ideals of absolute freedom for as long as he can remember - possibly longer than that, he's not even sure. Still, he stops himself from kicking another small pile of cases when he hears Dead End's voice, intakes flaring briefly before he turns to face the other - even if he can't be seen. ...Forgive me.
Dead End:	Control on your actions. Still sharply, but gentler than before - barely. Who knew when a wayward can could hit him straight in the face (or the non-existing optics).
Convoy:	Convoy finds himself glaring* at Dead End for the briefest moment, before wincing and putting a hand to his helm, turning back to look at the mess he's made (of everything? Convoy's not so sure).* ...I needed to do something myself.
Dead End:	Still his stoic self, though had he had vision it might have been another waltz entirely. To ruin and destroy. He sounds approving, he can understand that urge, the joy of watching and feeling things break from your own power - it was something to relish. He never did it in his own quarters, though, not being too fond of cleaning up the messes he made.
Convoy:	...I didn't mean to do this. He gestures uselessly at the mess, sighing. I don't enjoy this. Everything else just feels... so futile... A weak chuckle. I really am such a child.
Dead End:	You did not enjoy it, and yet you did not stop after the first one? Is almost scornful, albeit on the faint side, do not mock the destructions he lives for.
Convoy:	I... I need to do something without an order. I... I wanted to see if I could do it.
Dead End:	And? Back to the passiveness he's known for, now.
Convoy:	...I stopped when you told me to, didn't I? Sounding drained.
Dead End:	So you obey me. Still the neutral, but there's a hint of something* in his voice.*
Convoy:	...I'm beginning to wonder if I'll listen to anyone who commands me to do something. Bitter, almost: Not quite what I imagined my politeness to really be.
Dead End:	Not-looks at Convoy with a quiet expression. Do you?
Convoy:	....I couldn't begin to try and discern what I'm doing anymore, my friend.
Dead End:	Very well. Somewhat limited in his actions by not seeing, but he still manages to give off an air of ...uncaring without problem.
Convoy:	...Instead of trying to even continue any sort of conversation - especially one he couldn't hope to even understand - Convoy turns and goes to the mess on the floor, kneeling down to sweep exploded cans and bottles into his hand.
Dead End:	Stop what you are doing. Finds the noise of ruined cans clanking together to be annoying at the very least, and with no real way of orientate himself he has no clue what the mech is actually doing* with them.*
Convoy:	He sighs and pulls back from the mess, but only after setting a pile of destroyed soda bottles and cans down rather neatly near the berth. Forgive me. I'm not sure what else to do.
Dead End:	Stop fumbling around. Getting close to regaining the sharp tone from earlier, but not quite there yet.
Convoy:	Then what should I do, Dead End? Sounding mildly exasperated, rising back to his feet.
Dead End:	I thought you believed in freedom. Yes, that last word is mockingly spoken, Dead End-style.
Convoy:	Clearly freedom isn't for someone like me. Either he hadn't recognized the mockery, or he simply doesn't care at this point - he just doesn't even question it. I have a remarkably short period of time before I lose everything and there's nothing I can do.
Dead End:	Are you looking for pity, Pepsi Convoy? Emotionless - as usual.
Convoy:	No. Firmly - the last thing he wants is pity. He just doesn't know what else to do in this situation.
Dead End:	Guidance?
Convoy:	I don't know. I just... This is pathetic of him, he realizes, as "I don't want to leave" is seconds from escaping his vocalizer.
Dead End:	You 'just'? Half-lifts an optic ridge in expectation.
Convoy:	...I don't want to be like this, Dead End. Weak-voiced again. I want to be free.
Dead End:	Then be free. Even if there is no such thing, you foolish, innocent little creature.
Convoy:	I can't be. I'm going to die in... in a matter of months. And when I come back, I won't even have the mind to say no... A somewhat bitter chuckle Even if I hardly have that ability now.
Dead End:	Well, he certainly sees the flaw of logic in that. You will die and come back. Pulling a Starscream, Convoy?
Convoy:	He would wish.** The... equivalent of wiping a hard drive clean. They get to keep the body, I get... nothing. I'm not even - this whole thing has been a disaster. I wish I had never... He barely* refrains from kicking out at another case of Pepsi.*
Dead End:	If you are not yourself anymore, why would it matter? Is perhaps infuriatingly calm, depending on how Convoy likes mechs not caring about his predicaments.
Convoy:	Because they're using me! Shouting a little now, looking a mix of frustrated and almost scared - he would hide the expression, if anyone were able to see it, but he's allowing himself the full range of emotion, now. They're using me and even if I'm dead and gone I can't leave them!
Dead End:	Doesn't reply at first, it's not as if soldiers are good for anything but* being used.* Quiet.
Convoy:	Falls silent at Dead End's voice, having nearly forgotten the other was really* here - part of him says not to listen to the other and just keep on shouting, but the politeness in him forces him to listen to his friend.*
Dead End:	Calm down, you fool. Isn't as harshly spoken as one might think, but then again - it's Dead End. He doesn't do much in the emotions department.
Convoy:	I'm trying. And he really is, going so far as to actually clench his fists in an attempt to keep himself from screaming more.
Dead End:	Very well. Doesn't sound like he's believing you too much, but that may just be the neutral tone conveying things that aren't there.
Convoy:	It's... I'm sorry, Dead End. And unlike most of the other times, this isn't an instinctual apology - Convoy really means it, from the spark. I shouldn't be bothering you with the immature problems of some human made... thing. This was all a mistake.
Dead End:	He gets the difference, it just doesn't properly, fully* register with him, the significance of a truly genuine apology.* You are saying you are a mistake? Might be provoking, might not be.
Convoy:	I must have been. I cannot be who I want to be, and yet I can't even fulfill my reason for being. I was created to do something and I can't even do it.
Dead End:	And so you fail.
Convoy:	And if you were to fail, what would happen?
Dead End:	Then it was meant to happen. Matter-of-factly.
Convoy:	But what would happen to you?
Dead End:	Would anything happen?
Convoy:	Would you just continue on, failing your main purpose in life? Would you stop? What would happen? I don't have your luxuries, Dead End.
Dead End:	You assume I have a purpose in life.
Convoy:	To follow orders to their fullest extent. To... Do you not have obligations? To protect your brothers? What happens if you fail to do either of those?
Dead End:	They are capable of taking care of themselves. They do not need me.
Convoy:	Then you have no purpose?
Dead End:	Combining into Menasor.
Convoy:	And if you fail that? What happens to you, then? Being remarkably patient, compared to his earlier fit, really.
Dead End:	Then I am useless. I do not control what may happen to me.
Convoy:	How can you be so calm about it? The idea of having - of having no control, of being unable to do anything for yourself? Weakly How can you live like this? It almost looks like Convoy was* looking for guidance, doesn't it?*
Dead End:	Why should I worry about something out of my reach? Calmly. How he could live like this? How could he not* live like this?* It is simple. You are not the master of your fate. The sooner you realize it is like that, the better.
Convoy:	...I was so sure... Trails off, looking at the mess from earlier and making a low noise. I was sure...
Dead End:	Remains silent while Convoy's world falls apart around him, not enjoying it, but not hating it either.
Convoy:	......Dead End.
Convoy:	His voice is firm, almost hardened - different from any other time he's ever spoke, really.
Dead End:	Speaks with the same passive voice, but idly notes the change in Convoy's. Yes?
Convoy:	Still staring at the mess, unable to really even tear his eyes away. ...I need you to do me one favor, my friend. Just the one. He turns to look at Dead End, optics going over all the battered parts of his friend.
Dead End:	As you wish.
Convoy:	...When my AI gives out - that is to say, in essence, when I die. Do me the one favor and destroy my body any way you can. As fully and completely as possible. His voice is surprisingly steady and almost warm sounding, like he's solved all his problems - but still with that slightly hardened edge to it.
Dead End:	Contemplates that for a - brief - moment. As you wish.
Convoy:	Good. Smiles, very faintly. They can't use what they can't have, after all.
Dead End:	They may build another you.
Convoy:	It won't be me. This body is mine, and the software is mine, and the... Chuckles, weakly, sounding strained again- And the horrible sense of direction, and the need to protect my friends. Of which, I've done a horrible job of. Nearly inaudible now- The next body they use won't know any of that. It won't even know about warm summer days with a cold soda. It'll just be a pawn. And, in a louder tone, still quiet but not nearly as much- It won't be me. It won't know anything about me.
Dead End:	Doesn't know anything about warm summer days with a cold soda either - or cold energon, for that matter. And he is just a pawn. How nice. If you say so.
Convoy:	Moves forward, putting his hands on either of Dead End's shoulders. I say so. I want nothing more than for this body to disappear with me. I would say to do it now, but I rather did enjoy living. I wouldn't mind doing more of it, for now.
Dead End:	...very well. Shoulders sag every so slightly under Convoy's hands, but do not be fooled into thinking that it's because of emotional turmoil - there is none. You may comm me when the time is right for it.
Convoy:	If I can, I will. Thank you, Dead End. It means a lot. Being completely honest with his friend - who cares if Dead End even cares about this? He's doing more for Convoy than he probably even realizes.
Dead End:	Sure enough, Dead End doesn't realize just how much he's doing for the other mech, but Convoy seems to be satisfied and somewhat helped by it, so the Stunticon isn't going to unravel it for him (upset mechs were normally a hassle, and Convoy was no exception).