He peeled off his carapace and everybody screamed.
He began to cry. Sobbing, he fled the shrieking crowd, running as far away as he could. It wasn’t his fault he was born a cockroach. It wasn’t his fault his mother had read Kafka’s Metamorphosis when she was pregnant, and then in history’s strangest pregnancy craving actually eaten the book.
He scuttled as fast as he could, dodging as many of the falling bricks as he could. Safety was just ahead; a beautiful drainage pipe off the side of the busy street.
He saw Bumblebee in front of him. Man, did he love that yellow car. Every song it played was a serenade, even now, when he blasted heavy metal, and he ran for his life in the crumbling city.
The Transformers movies were supposed to be fictional goddamnit! Like, fantasy-fictional!
Someone, please tell Michael Bay that explosions are cool only when they happen in movies. Please. Millions are dead.
We can take solace in the irrefutable fact that their death only opens the door to millions of souls transcending their earthly forms and becoming eternal cosmic gamma rays.
When the barriers between separate consciousnesses break down, we will all be the collective. Our thoughts will be one. We will be an existence of self-hatred.
We will become the self-hating HIVEMIND OF DOOM.