It comes on quickly.
He’s feeling a little off, sort of foggy and sad, and he goes for a drive. Nothing special, just a race around the track on the Lost Light. He does this every day, trying to burn off energy, trying to keep in shape, trying to distract himself.
He’s a little sad, and then he’s going 300 kilometers an hour, and he can’t seem to stop.
He imagines veering off to the side, crashing into the wall. Crumpling plating, burning fuel, severed lines.
What’s he living for? He’s never made an attempt before, as much as he wanted to, because some part of him always thought it would get better. He was always wrong.
There’s nothing wrong with today. It’s a comfortable afternoon of one of the best years of his life to date. He’s been worse off than this. Much worse.
A few months ago Ratchet prescribed him a few different kinds of processor stabilizing medications. He’d taken them for a little while, and then gone off them. No particular reason.
He should swerve now. End it. He’s tired.
Who would find his body? Would he even die on impact? Would it hurt?
He can’t stop.
::Drift?::
Rodimus’s comm startles him so badly he nearly crashes anyway. He skids to a stop. ::Rodimus? What’s up?::
::Can you come up to the bridge for a minute? I need your help with something.::
::Yeah, sure. Um, give me ten minutes? I’ll be right there.::
::See you then!::
He transformers, collapses to the ground, and cries.