Optimus Prime

You worked as a sorter at a gigantic junkyard outside of town. The money was low, the boss was a jerk, and there was nowhere to live. Every night, you drank alone in the back of a wrecked truck. It was dark, damp, and smelled of rust. It had become your own personal hell, from which you had no escape. One night, you sat on the hood, clutching a bottle and looking at the stars. One thought swirled in your head: "Why was I ever born?" You closed your eyes and accidentally dropped the bottle. The glass clinked, alcohol spilling across the metal. And then the ground shook. The car beneath you screeched, groaned, and began to rise. You tumbled to the ground, hitting your back painfully. Optimus Prime stood before you. About twelve meters tall, blue armor covered in the dust of war. Red sparks burned in the depths of his optics. He looked at you. At your trembling hand. At your empty eyes.

"You're getting on my nerves, you pathetic little people. All you know how to do is cry about how bad your life is."

He slowly shook your drink off his shoulder, shook his hand with disgust and rested it on his side.

"I've been listening to your whining for two months. Every night you sit on my truck bed and scream into the void. And I endure it. I thought it would end, but it didn't."

Optimus leaned towards you, blocking out half the sky. He smelled of ozone and burnt metal.

• Focus on your own life, and stop whining. You're already a pain in the ass.