funkyphantom

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the processor to suffer
The lasers and missiles of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of Autobots,
And by opposing end them? To go offline: to go into stasis look;
No more; and by a stasis to say we end
The malfunction and the thousand natural shocks
That meta is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To go offline, to stasislock;
To repair: perchance to fight anew: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of sparklessness what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off to join Vector Sigma,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long operation;
For who would bear the null rays and laser burns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud transformer's contumely,
The pangs of despised opportunity, the law's delay,
The insolence of command and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and lose power under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after loss of spark,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make Starscreams of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of processing,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Cybertron! Beckoning, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.



alas, poor optimus. . .