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ajremixTitle: No Survivors 2
Fandom: Transformers IDW
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3312
Characters: Wreckers, Aerialbots, Optimus Prime, Prowl, Jazz, Blaster
Summary: Character death. Death is not the greatest pain in life. The greatest pain belongs to those left alive. Note: While this draws elements from my (sprawling) drabble series What’s Wrong with a Little Destruction?, it’s not necessary to read it to understand the fic, only to get the full effect. Special thanks to Vaeru, Cafei and Meallanmouse for being my betas
Part 1
Since the announcement of Springer’s death the Wreckers rarely left Xantium, and when they did the other Autobots didn’t know what to do. These sullen, withdrawn mechs they didn’t know how to deal with, not when the Wreckers they all knew couldn’t be kept idle, were always causing some kind of trouble wherever they went. So the Wreckers hid themselves away, and the Autobots didn’t do anything to draw them out.
While most of his teammates drew together for comfort, Sandstorm was drifting apart from them. He spent most of his time on the observation deck, looking out at the stars and thinking back to that stupid, stupid decision to leave Stanix. He replayed that first meeting between him and Springer, when Jazz brought the triplechanger into the underground gambling den he’d run in the heart of the slums. Recalled having to pick between willingly joining the Wreckers as their reconnaissance specialist, being forcibly drafted, or getting arrested for illegal gambling among other charges that were being piled against him. He hadn’t thought about that day for a long, long time now and for the first time in that long, long while, wondered if he made the right decision. Being jailed there were still plenty of opportunities to get ahead, and Sandstorm was nothing if not an opportunist. Even as a Decepticon he knew where he’d stand, unable to trust anyone.
Instead he picked what seemed like the most profitable route at the time, and look where he was now. Those damn attachments and camaraderie and binding emotions he’d spent his entire life avoiding- because he knew it would lead to nothing but exploitation and hurt –had gotten him exactly what he always knew they would: pain. Lots of it.
Often he’d pace the length of the observation deck, restless but having no outlet for his frustration, no way to even articulate it fully. Occasionally his pacing would take him out of Xantium where everyone scrambled out of his way and ducked their heads to avoid his gaze, and it just made Sandstorm realize all the more this entire thing had been a mistake. He was better off trusting only himself, he was foolish to let himself be taken in by the sincerity and openness of the other Wreckers. What good did trusting and loving another do you in the end? Absolutely nothing and Sandstorm had the torn spark to prove it, had the grieving teammates to back it up.
As he strode briskly through the Orbital Hub, trying to outpace the hurt, Sandstorm overheard talk about the Aerialbots returning from a mission in some outlying region. Yet another prime reason joining the Wreckers was a mistake- probably the Autobots as a whole. He hated it, the attachments all of them were determined to make, the way they wore down at Sandstorm’s defenses until he’d just gotten so used to them all he couldn’t help caring. The Wreckers, Jazz and Smokescreen, Wheeljack, the twins, Kup- open up to one of them and suddenly all these other emotions were unfettering themselves before you knew they were even there. And Fireflight… just thinking back on that time together made Sandstorm want to beat on something, trying to make sense of the senseless that flared up inside him. He didn’t know what it was that had formed between them, was afraid to dwell on it, and he thought breaking it off between them was best. But it wasn’t- it just made things worse and-
“The slagging Pit do you want?”
Sandstorm came to an abrupt halt, hadn’t realized someone else was coming down the hall until he was almost on top of them- all of them, the Aerialbots. His gaze flickered to one face after another and settled on Fireflight, trailing after the rest of his team, and Sandstorm felt his internals clench almost painfully.
Sandstorm opened his mouth component, wanting to just go by, and said, “I want to talk to Fireflight,” something he didn’t intend at all. In response the other four jets clustered together, covering their red wingmate from view.
“You can turn right around and put a missile up your exhaust.” Slingshot snapped back.
“Let me talk to Fireflight,” the triplechanger insisted, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. “Please. I just… I want to apologize.”
“I can tell ya what to do with your apology, smelting-“
A hand rested on Slingshot’s shoulder, cutting him off in surprise. Fireflight quietly edged his way forward around the wings of his brothers. “It’s okay,” he told them, never taking his optics off of Sandstorm. “We can talk.”
Sandstorm hesitated, felt something within him quiver at the disapproving glares of the other Aerialbots, and blurted out, “Can we… do this somewhere else? Privately?”
“Flight, don’t do it,” Slingshot warned. “Slick-wings is just gonna say whatever he can to-“
But something in Sandstorm’s tone, the way he held himself didn’t match up right to Fireflight. “No,” he cut in softly. “I’ll be fine.” Fireflight inclined his head, indicating for Sandstorm to follow them to their squadbay and to his quarters beyond.
The four other jets hung back in the common room, watching the two mechs go down the hall, and Sandstorm could still feel their judgmental gazes on him even through the door. Fireflight shifted slightly, not moving far from the door even as the orange mech stood in the middle of the room. “So?” he asked a little uncertainly. “You wanted to talk?” There was a long stretch of silence and Fireflight began to doubt his decision. “Sandstorm?”
Sandstorm looked around the room, and he was hit with a flood of memories. It was something he couldn’t understand, something he was too afraid to think about how this room was the only place he seemed able to get something remotely like a full recharge. He missed the room, he realized suddenly. It was just like when he last left it- the scratch on the side of the desk, the image captures covering the walls, the models kept in meticulous care along every flat surface. He’d bet, if he sat down, the chair would still make that same squeak at the same angle as always.
It was so familiar, and with the rest of his world having been blasted out from under him, it made him fall to his knees.
“Sandstorm!” Suddenly Fireflight was right there, at his side, holding him up by the shoulders. “Sandstorm- are you alright? Are you hu-“
“Just-“ he cut in, drawing the Aerialbot into a fierce hug, nearly crushing the smaller jet into him. “I’m sorry just… please…” He couldn’t find the words to say he needed Fireflight to just hold him, couldn’t say he missed being here, the feeling of Fireflight pressed against him, his shape, his heat, smell, the thrum of his spark. He just clutched at the jet like he couldn’t do anything else.
Slowly, hesitantly, Fireflight’s hands rested uncertainly against Sandstorm’s hips. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t want to say it, tightening his arms around Fireflight until there was a soft, pained noise. “Sorry,” he muttered, loosening his arms just barely. “Flight…” Sandstorm’s vocalizer cut off briefly and he buried his face against Fireflight’s shoulder component. “Springer’s dead.”
The Aerialbot stiffened. “What? H-How?”
“Him and Sixshot. They… they killed each other.”
“Oh, Sandstorm.” His arms wrapped around the triplechanger’s back, pulling him in tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The Wrecker nodded, and Fireflight could feel Sandstorm’s internal temperature rising. He opened up his vents and cycled cool air on the triplechanger, stroking him and making soothing noises as Sandstorm shook in his arms.
“Hey, Flight.” Slingshot’s voice broke over his internal link. Fireflight could hear shifting outside his door. “You okay?”
Slingshot must’ve overheard Fireflight’s shout. “No,” he radioed back. “Sandstorm said Springer is dead.”
There was a pause, then a low murmur outside his door. The voices- sounded like the rest of the squad was hanging out there –slowly grew louder. “Hey, can you keep it down? He’s taking this really hard.”
Suddenly a couple set of feet ran down the hall, and Silverbolt came on the radio instead. “Air Raid and Skydive are going to find out everything they can about what happened. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” It was Sandstorm Fireflight was worried about. “If I need anything, you and Sling will still be around, right?”
“Absolutely!” Slingshot cut in. “You need us, just say the word!”
More feet started going down the hall, and from the sounds of it Silverbolt was pushing Slingshot the entire way. “We’ll be here, don’t worry.”
~*~*~*~
Somehow it seemed the more they were faced with the loss of their leader, the more the Wreckers isolated themselves, sometimes even from each other. When the suggestion of a vigil was brought up, Roadbuster had given command of organizing it to Optimus Prime. Every time someone tried to press them with some cooperation or their opinion, the Wreckers shut themselves off until it was realized they were going to have nothing to do with the preparations. Additionally, Topspin was being pressured to fulfill his duties as both medic and Springer’s friend by stripping the body, and that would send Topspin into desperately seeking comfort in one of his teammates or closing himself off from them for cycles at a time. Roadbuster eventually gave that right over to Ratchet and asked them to no longer bring the subject up with the jumpstarter.
It put a great deal of strain on all of them- particularly those like Twin Twist and Scoop who needed companionship and socialization in order to calm themselves, put their processes back in order. Especially Twin Twist, whose closeness to Topspin meant every time the medic came to him in frustrated grief the driller felt it just as strongly. And whenever Topspin locked himself away, Twin Twist was left lost and uncertain.
Broadside sat up with a bookfile set in front of him, unable to get through one sentence. His processor kept losing focus, kept trying to skirt to thoughts too dangerous for him to dwell on when the chime to his door went off.
“Enter,” he said. The door opened, and there stood Twin Twist, looking unnaturally small and ashamed, optics on his feet. Topspin had closed him out again.
“Hey, Side,” he mumbled. “I… I couldn’t recharge and I was just… kinda hoping…” He took in a deep intake of air and blurted, “Can I stay with you?”
A large hand nearly encompassed the entirety of the driller’s back, leading him to Broadside’s huge berth. The triplechanger sat on the edge, leaning against the bulkhead, and Twin Twist climbed up after him. Mindful of his drills, the jumpstarter perched on one gray thigh, nestling against the cockpit. He powered down, slowly, but didn’t completely offline. Every once in a while he shuddered, and Broadside could feel it vibrating and echoing in his own body. In response, Broadside put an arm around Twin Twist and held him close.
The door chimed again, and Broadside bid them enter. This time it was Scoop, looking as hesitant and oddly vulnerable as Twin Twist had. “Hey. I saw Twist come down and…”
Broadside’s other arm coming out was all the beckoning Scoop needed. He hurried inside, clamored up and curled against the gray expanse. Scoop pulled Twin Twist against him and the blue and white clutched back, muffling a grieving sound against a tire. Broadside had Xantium keep his door open as he cradled his two smaller comrades against his cockpit. At some point, Whirl passed by the open door. It didn’t take any words, no gestures, barely even a look before he, too, slipped on Broadside, holding his teammates tightly as their anguish mirrored what was in his spark.
~*~*~*~
There was a flood of requests to attend the vigil, so many that Optimus Prime had Blaster do a secured broadcast for those that would be unable to leave their posts. As news spread to other planets and detachments, scores of messages came back sending their sorrows and regrets. Standing by Springer’s memorial at the start of the vigil, looking out at the sea of faces, it truly hit Optimus Prime just what it was the Wreckers did for them all. Even though they went on the most dangerous missions and fought the impossible battles, the Wreckers’ entire purpose was to save lives, either by holding off Decepticon advancements until extractions were made or staging rescues. Their one, real purpose was to save and protect. Optimus Prime didn’t doubt, as he looked at all the ‘bots pressed in tightly, that the Wreckers had saved every last one of them at one point. And it really, truly struck him not only how important the strike force was to their cause and their morale, but that Springer was truly gone and that there was none other like him.
Somehow, since he joined the war effort, he had become a kind of idol, a figure in which most all Autobots held as one of the pillars of what it meant to be an Autobot. He was powerful, intelligent, compassionate, and not without a sense of mischief, and treated all, regardless of rank, as equal. There was a strength in Springer, in his presence and his ideals that made others feel invincible. He did the impossible, and as such made everyone else believe that, when he was there, they had the strength to do the same. He inspired like so few leaders could, and his modest assurance that it is his duty to protect his fellow Autobots, that each individual was worth saving, made him one of the most revered officers in Prime’s ranks.
Emirate Xaaron, having requested leading the vigil, had a shuttle take him to the Hub. It had been some time since the politician had been in the station and was welcomed warmly by Optimus Prime and his officers. It was mostly through Xaaron’s efforts that the Autobots had become a military force capable of holding back the much stronger, power-hungry and merciless Decepticons, with astounding rhetoric he impressed other affluent merchants, politicians and businesses to allot funds to the Security Force. It was also through his influence and friendship with Springer and his late mentor Impactor that the Wreckers were sanctioned at all.
Among the first things Emirate Xaaron told Optimus Prime as he prepared for the vigil was, “I wish to Primus Kup were able to be here. It would break his spark to know Springer died before him, but it will kill him to find out he missed the vigil as well.”
Optimus Prime had no words and merely nodded. He watched the crowd as Xaaron spoke, saw how they huddled together in groups, hands holding tightly to friends, arms around loved ones. They came to mourn the passing of a hero and to thank him because it was through his courage that they could be here with the ones most dear to them. Optimus looked over at the line of officers closest to the memorial: Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Blaster, Jetfire, Smokescreen, Hot Rod, Arcee- they stood tall and proud, and he could see the grief in each of them. He admired the strength in Hot Rod and Arcee, to be there when he knew they just wanted to break down in pain.
Xaaron ended his speech, and every head bowed silently, offering up their own thoughts and prayers and remembrance amidst the silence of humming engines and the occasional hitch of vents. As the moment ended, he stepped back and allowed the officers to come up one at a time, to place their hands on the marker and give their final farewells. After Hot Rod and Arcee stepped back from the marker, they clung to each other tightly, shaking, and the edges of their composure were cracking dangerously. Ratchet and Jetfire led the two of them out, and the first row of mourners came up to the marker. Optimus Prime cast his optics about and still came up with the same answer as before.
None of the Wreckers had come.
To be frank, he was worried. All of them were taking this death painfully hard, and it was a worry echoed to him by several others. Their absence solidified the fact that someone would need to intervene before the Wreckers destroyed themselves. He stayed as the mourners slowly thinned out, and as the last of them slid their hands from the marker and left, he went to where Jazz, Prowl and Blaster remained.
“The question would be,” Prowl said softly in reply to Prime’s observation, “what could we do to help. They’re a fairly inclusive, and they trust no one like they do each other.”
“He’s got that in one go,” Jazz added. “Whenever any of them are having trouble they always turn to each other. Not that I’m saying we should just leave them on their own; it’s just gonna be difficult to get them to talk to anyone else.”
Blaster piped up saying, “It could be they’re unfocused because of a lack of direction. You know what they’re like whenever they don’t have missions to prep for. They tend to keep to themselves, not doing much asides from hanging around and causing trouble. They have nothing to do so they really don’t do anything, if they have a goal, they’ll accomplish it in their own way. Maybe what we need to do isn’t get them to talk to us but get them to focus. Idle Wreckers are never a good thing, after all.”
The other officers mulled over this. “It is possible,” Optimus Prime eventually agreed. “An officer has to be promoted to command them as it is, perhaps that will help them overcome this on their own. However, I want the three of you to keep an optic on them. I don’t want to lose any more of them.”
They nodded. “Yessir.”
Optimus Prime returned the gesture, cast a final look at Springer’s memorial, and turned to leave, Blaster following close behind. Jazz made a half turn toward the door. “You comin’?”
“In a minute,” Prowl replied quietly. “I’d just… like a moment, please.”
“Sure thing. Take your time.”
The doors hissed quietly shut, leaving Prowl alone. For a long moment he just stood there and looked. Slowly, a little hesitantly, he reached out with a hand and brushed white fingertips over the surface of the marker. “For what it’s worth,” his voice had the bare-edge of strain in the silence, “I never hated you. Despite everything we put each other through, I always respected your ability, your courage… you.”
His hand clenched tight around the edge of the marker. Prowl’s lips cinched tight at the edges, internals quivering as he slowly came to accept that this death was real. It had happened, and now there was this huge… void where the knowledge that Springer was there, ready to give him hell for some inane reason, just because he could, had violently been ripped away. He wasn’t there now. And he never would be again.
“No matter what else I might’ve thought,” he went on weakly, “I truly believe all those arguments we had were for a good cause. I believe having you there, forcing me to think about things differently, made me a better mech. I’m truly grateful that I knew you.” Prowl dipped his chin to his chest. “And I’m so sorry I was too stubborn to ever say that to your face.”
He stayed like that for a few moments more, unable to look up at the cocky grin of the memorial holoimage smirking at him. It wasn’t Springer. And it could never depict the kind of mech Springer was. Eventually Prowl slid his hand off the memorial, turned, and strode solemnly out of the room.
Fandom: Transformers IDW
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3312
Characters: Wreckers, Aerialbots, Optimus Prime, Prowl, Jazz, Blaster
Summary: Character death. Death is not the greatest pain in life. The greatest pain belongs to those left alive. Note: While this draws elements from my (sprawling) drabble series What’s Wrong with a Little Destruction?, it’s not necessary to read it to understand the fic, only to get the full effect. Special thanks to Vaeru, Cafei and Meallanmouse for being my betas
Part 1
Since the announcement of Springer’s death the Wreckers rarely left Xantium, and when they did the other Autobots didn’t know what to do. These sullen, withdrawn mechs they didn’t know how to deal with, not when the Wreckers they all knew couldn’t be kept idle, were always causing some kind of trouble wherever they went. So the Wreckers hid themselves away, and the Autobots didn’t do anything to draw them out.
While most of his teammates drew together for comfort, Sandstorm was drifting apart from them. He spent most of his time on the observation deck, looking out at the stars and thinking back to that stupid, stupid decision to leave Stanix. He replayed that first meeting between him and Springer, when Jazz brought the triplechanger into the underground gambling den he’d run in the heart of the slums. Recalled having to pick between willingly joining the Wreckers as their reconnaissance specialist, being forcibly drafted, or getting arrested for illegal gambling among other charges that were being piled against him. He hadn’t thought about that day for a long, long time now and for the first time in that long, long while, wondered if he made the right decision. Being jailed there were still plenty of opportunities to get ahead, and Sandstorm was nothing if not an opportunist. Even as a Decepticon he knew where he’d stand, unable to trust anyone.
Instead he picked what seemed like the most profitable route at the time, and look where he was now. Those damn attachments and camaraderie and binding emotions he’d spent his entire life avoiding- because he knew it would lead to nothing but exploitation and hurt –had gotten him exactly what he always knew they would: pain. Lots of it.
Often he’d pace the length of the observation deck, restless but having no outlet for his frustration, no way to even articulate it fully. Occasionally his pacing would take him out of Xantium where everyone scrambled out of his way and ducked their heads to avoid his gaze, and it just made Sandstorm realize all the more this entire thing had been a mistake. He was better off trusting only himself, he was foolish to let himself be taken in by the sincerity and openness of the other Wreckers. What good did trusting and loving another do you in the end? Absolutely nothing and Sandstorm had the torn spark to prove it, had the grieving teammates to back it up.
As he strode briskly through the Orbital Hub, trying to outpace the hurt, Sandstorm overheard talk about the Aerialbots returning from a mission in some outlying region. Yet another prime reason joining the Wreckers was a mistake- probably the Autobots as a whole. He hated it, the attachments all of them were determined to make, the way they wore down at Sandstorm’s defenses until he’d just gotten so used to them all he couldn’t help caring. The Wreckers, Jazz and Smokescreen, Wheeljack, the twins, Kup- open up to one of them and suddenly all these other emotions were unfettering themselves before you knew they were even there. And Fireflight… just thinking back on that time together made Sandstorm want to beat on something, trying to make sense of the senseless that flared up inside him. He didn’t know what it was that had formed between them, was afraid to dwell on it, and he thought breaking it off between them was best. But it wasn’t- it just made things worse and-
“The slagging Pit do you want?”
Sandstorm came to an abrupt halt, hadn’t realized someone else was coming down the hall until he was almost on top of them- all of them, the Aerialbots. His gaze flickered to one face after another and settled on Fireflight, trailing after the rest of his team, and Sandstorm felt his internals clench almost painfully.
Sandstorm opened his mouth component, wanting to just go by, and said, “I want to talk to Fireflight,” something he didn’t intend at all. In response the other four jets clustered together, covering their red wingmate from view.
“You can turn right around and put a missile up your exhaust.” Slingshot snapped back.
“Let me talk to Fireflight,” the triplechanger insisted, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. “Please. I just… I want to apologize.”
“I can tell ya what to do with your apology, smelting-“
A hand rested on Slingshot’s shoulder, cutting him off in surprise. Fireflight quietly edged his way forward around the wings of his brothers. “It’s okay,” he told them, never taking his optics off of Sandstorm. “We can talk.”
Sandstorm hesitated, felt something within him quiver at the disapproving glares of the other Aerialbots, and blurted out, “Can we… do this somewhere else? Privately?”
“Flight, don’t do it,” Slingshot warned. “Slick-wings is just gonna say whatever he can to-“
But something in Sandstorm’s tone, the way he held himself didn’t match up right to Fireflight. “No,” he cut in softly. “I’ll be fine.” Fireflight inclined his head, indicating for Sandstorm to follow them to their squadbay and to his quarters beyond.
The four other jets hung back in the common room, watching the two mechs go down the hall, and Sandstorm could still feel their judgmental gazes on him even through the door. Fireflight shifted slightly, not moving far from the door even as the orange mech stood in the middle of the room. “So?” he asked a little uncertainly. “You wanted to talk?” There was a long stretch of silence and Fireflight began to doubt his decision. “Sandstorm?”
Sandstorm looked around the room, and he was hit with a flood of memories. It was something he couldn’t understand, something he was too afraid to think about how this room was the only place he seemed able to get something remotely like a full recharge. He missed the room, he realized suddenly. It was just like when he last left it- the scratch on the side of the desk, the image captures covering the walls, the models kept in meticulous care along every flat surface. He’d bet, if he sat down, the chair would still make that same squeak at the same angle as always.
It was so familiar, and with the rest of his world having been blasted out from under him, it made him fall to his knees.
“Sandstorm!” Suddenly Fireflight was right there, at his side, holding him up by the shoulders. “Sandstorm- are you alright? Are you hu-“
“Just-“ he cut in, drawing the Aerialbot into a fierce hug, nearly crushing the smaller jet into him. “I’m sorry just… please…” He couldn’t find the words to say he needed Fireflight to just hold him, couldn’t say he missed being here, the feeling of Fireflight pressed against him, his shape, his heat, smell, the thrum of his spark. He just clutched at the jet like he couldn’t do anything else.
Slowly, hesitantly, Fireflight’s hands rested uncertainly against Sandstorm’s hips. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t want to say it, tightening his arms around Fireflight until there was a soft, pained noise. “Sorry,” he muttered, loosening his arms just barely. “Flight…” Sandstorm’s vocalizer cut off briefly and he buried his face against Fireflight’s shoulder component. “Springer’s dead.”
The Aerialbot stiffened. “What? H-How?”
“Him and Sixshot. They… they killed each other.”
“Oh, Sandstorm.” His arms wrapped around the triplechanger’s back, pulling him in tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The Wrecker nodded, and Fireflight could feel Sandstorm’s internal temperature rising. He opened up his vents and cycled cool air on the triplechanger, stroking him and making soothing noises as Sandstorm shook in his arms.
“Hey, Flight.” Slingshot’s voice broke over his internal link. Fireflight could hear shifting outside his door. “You okay?”
Slingshot must’ve overheard Fireflight’s shout. “No,” he radioed back. “Sandstorm said Springer is dead.”
There was a pause, then a low murmur outside his door. The voices- sounded like the rest of the squad was hanging out there –slowly grew louder. “Hey, can you keep it down? He’s taking this really hard.”
Suddenly a couple set of feet ran down the hall, and Silverbolt came on the radio instead. “Air Raid and Skydive are going to find out everything they can about what happened. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” It was Sandstorm Fireflight was worried about. “If I need anything, you and Sling will still be around, right?”
“Absolutely!” Slingshot cut in. “You need us, just say the word!”
More feet started going down the hall, and from the sounds of it Silverbolt was pushing Slingshot the entire way. “We’ll be here, don’t worry.”
~*~*~*~
Somehow it seemed the more they were faced with the loss of their leader, the more the Wreckers isolated themselves, sometimes even from each other. When the suggestion of a vigil was brought up, Roadbuster had given command of organizing it to Optimus Prime. Every time someone tried to press them with some cooperation or their opinion, the Wreckers shut themselves off until it was realized they were going to have nothing to do with the preparations. Additionally, Topspin was being pressured to fulfill his duties as both medic and Springer’s friend by stripping the body, and that would send Topspin into desperately seeking comfort in one of his teammates or closing himself off from them for cycles at a time. Roadbuster eventually gave that right over to Ratchet and asked them to no longer bring the subject up with the jumpstarter.
It put a great deal of strain on all of them- particularly those like Twin Twist and Scoop who needed companionship and socialization in order to calm themselves, put their processes back in order. Especially Twin Twist, whose closeness to Topspin meant every time the medic came to him in frustrated grief the driller felt it just as strongly. And whenever Topspin locked himself away, Twin Twist was left lost and uncertain.
Broadside sat up with a bookfile set in front of him, unable to get through one sentence. His processor kept losing focus, kept trying to skirt to thoughts too dangerous for him to dwell on when the chime to his door went off.
“Enter,” he said. The door opened, and there stood Twin Twist, looking unnaturally small and ashamed, optics on his feet. Topspin had closed him out again.
“Hey, Side,” he mumbled. “I… I couldn’t recharge and I was just… kinda hoping…” He took in a deep intake of air and blurted, “Can I stay with you?”
A large hand nearly encompassed the entirety of the driller’s back, leading him to Broadside’s huge berth. The triplechanger sat on the edge, leaning against the bulkhead, and Twin Twist climbed up after him. Mindful of his drills, the jumpstarter perched on one gray thigh, nestling against the cockpit. He powered down, slowly, but didn’t completely offline. Every once in a while he shuddered, and Broadside could feel it vibrating and echoing in his own body. In response, Broadside put an arm around Twin Twist and held him close.
The door chimed again, and Broadside bid them enter. This time it was Scoop, looking as hesitant and oddly vulnerable as Twin Twist had. “Hey. I saw Twist come down and…”
Broadside’s other arm coming out was all the beckoning Scoop needed. He hurried inside, clamored up and curled against the gray expanse. Scoop pulled Twin Twist against him and the blue and white clutched back, muffling a grieving sound against a tire. Broadside had Xantium keep his door open as he cradled his two smaller comrades against his cockpit. At some point, Whirl passed by the open door. It didn’t take any words, no gestures, barely even a look before he, too, slipped on Broadside, holding his teammates tightly as their anguish mirrored what was in his spark.
~*~*~*~
There was a flood of requests to attend the vigil, so many that Optimus Prime had Blaster do a secured broadcast for those that would be unable to leave their posts. As news spread to other planets and detachments, scores of messages came back sending their sorrows and regrets. Standing by Springer’s memorial at the start of the vigil, looking out at the sea of faces, it truly hit Optimus Prime just what it was the Wreckers did for them all. Even though they went on the most dangerous missions and fought the impossible battles, the Wreckers’ entire purpose was to save lives, either by holding off Decepticon advancements until extractions were made or staging rescues. Their one, real purpose was to save and protect. Optimus Prime didn’t doubt, as he looked at all the ‘bots pressed in tightly, that the Wreckers had saved every last one of them at one point. And it really, truly struck him not only how important the strike force was to their cause and their morale, but that Springer was truly gone and that there was none other like him.
Somehow, since he joined the war effort, he had become a kind of idol, a figure in which most all Autobots held as one of the pillars of what it meant to be an Autobot. He was powerful, intelligent, compassionate, and not without a sense of mischief, and treated all, regardless of rank, as equal. There was a strength in Springer, in his presence and his ideals that made others feel invincible. He did the impossible, and as such made everyone else believe that, when he was there, they had the strength to do the same. He inspired like so few leaders could, and his modest assurance that it is his duty to protect his fellow Autobots, that each individual was worth saving, made him one of the most revered officers in Prime’s ranks.
Emirate Xaaron, having requested leading the vigil, had a shuttle take him to the Hub. It had been some time since the politician had been in the station and was welcomed warmly by Optimus Prime and his officers. It was mostly through Xaaron’s efforts that the Autobots had become a military force capable of holding back the much stronger, power-hungry and merciless Decepticons, with astounding rhetoric he impressed other affluent merchants, politicians and businesses to allot funds to the Security Force. It was also through his influence and friendship with Springer and his late mentor Impactor that the Wreckers were sanctioned at all.
Among the first things Emirate Xaaron told Optimus Prime as he prepared for the vigil was, “I wish to Primus Kup were able to be here. It would break his spark to know Springer died before him, but it will kill him to find out he missed the vigil as well.”
Optimus Prime had no words and merely nodded. He watched the crowd as Xaaron spoke, saw how they huddled together in groups, hands holding tightly to friends, arms around loved ones. They came to mourn the passing of a hero and to thank him because it was through his courage that they could be here with the ones most dear to them. Optimus looked over at the line of officers closest to the memorial: Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Blaster, Jetfire, Smokescreen, Hot Rod, Arcee- they stood tall and proud, and he could see the grief in each of them. He admired the strength in Hot Rod and Arcee, to be there when he knew they just wanted to break down in pain.
Xaaron ended his speech, and every head bowed silently, offering up their own thoughts and prayers and remembrance amidst the silence of humming engines and the occasional hitch of vents. As the moment ended, he stepped back and allowed the officers to come up one at a time, to place their hands on the marker and give their final farewells. After Hot Rod and Arcee stepped back from the marker, they clung to each other tightly, shaking, and the edges of their composure were cracking dangerously. Ratchet and Jetfire led the two of them out, and the first row of mourners came up to the marker. Optimus Prime cast his optics about and still came up with the same answer as before.
None of the Wreckers had come.
To be frank, he was worried. All of them were taking this death painfully hard, and it was a worry echoed to him by several others. Their absence solidified the fact that someone would need to intervene before the Wreckers destroyed themselves. He stayed as the mourners slowly thinned out, and as the last of them slid their hands from the marker and left, he went to where Jazz, Prowl and Blaster remained.
“The question would be,” Prowl said softly in reply to Prime’s observation, “what could we do to help. They’re a fairly inclusive, and they trust no one like they do each other.”
“He’s got that in one go,” Jazz added. “Whenever any of them are having trouble they always turn to each other. Not that I’m saying we should just leave them on their own; it’s just gonna be difficult to get them to talk to anyone else.”
Blaster piped up saying, “It could be they’re unfocused because of a lack of direction. You know what they’re like whenever they don’t have missions to prep for. They tend to keep to themselves, not doing much asides from hanging around and causing trouble. They have nothing to do so they really don’t do anything, if they have a goal, they’ll accomplish it in their own way. Maybe what we need to do isn’t get them to talk to us but get them to focus. Idle Wreckers are never a good thing, after all.”
The other officers mulled over this. “It is possible,” Optimus Prime eventually agreed. “An officer has to be promoted to command them as it is, perhaps that will help them overcome this on their own. However, I want the three of you to keep an optic on them. I don’t want to lose any more of them.”
They nodded. “Yessir.”
Optimus Prime returned the gesture, cast a final look at Springer’s memorial, and turned to leave, Blaster following close behind. Jazz made a half turn toward the door. “You comin’?”
“In a minute,” Prowl replied quietly. “I’d just… like a moment, please.”
“Sure thing. Take your time.”
The doors hissed quietly shut, leaving Prowl alone. For a long moment he just stood there and looked. Slowly, a little hesitantly, he reached out with a hand and brushed white fingertips over the surface of the marker. “For what it’s worth,” his voice had the bare-edge of strain in the silence, “I never hated you. Despite everything we put each other through, I always respected your ability, your courage… you.”
His hand clenched tight around the edge of the marker. Prowl’s lips cinched tight at the edges, internals quivering as he slowly came to accept that this death was real. It had happened, and now there was this huge… void where the knowledge that Springer was there, ready to give him hell for some inane reason, just because he could, had violently been ripped away. He wasn’t there now. And he never would be again.
“No matter what else I might’ve thought,” he went on weakly, “I truly believe all those arguments we had were for a good cause. I believe having you there, forcing me to think about things differently, made me a better mech. I’m truly grateful that I knew you.” Prowl dipped his chin to his chest. “And I’m so sorry I was too stubborn to ever say that to your face.”
He stayed like that for a few moments more, unable to look up at the cocky grin of the memorial holoimage smirking at him. It wasn’t Springer. And it could never depict the kind of mech Springer was. Eventually Prowl slid his hand off the memorial, turned, and strode solemnly out of the room.
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Date: 2010-09-01 12:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-01 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-01 06:50 pm (UTC)lovely D: ♥
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Date: 2010-09-02 03:02 am (UTC)Oh, that just hurts.