Sole Survivor
How long can the duty to live fend off the will to die?
When the burden of an entire peoples, a history of millions of years, does fall upon your shoulder, what are you to do? I ask myself, when was the last time that I have come into contact with another of my people? Where have they all gone? I know the answer to the last question too well, for the last words still echo in my head.
I still see the battered arms reaching out in futility towards me, the bright glimmer of electric discharge, the fallen infrastructure of once grandiose buildings. I still hear the groans amidst explosions, the sound of metallic fragments flying at twice the speed of sound, the hiss and sputter as sparks shower upon metal. I still feel the cold, steel beneath me, around me, as I seek refuge from the destruciton. I still smell the acrid smoke, the carbon residues, the industrial sulfates and nitrates, the ash and the embers, the remains of things that were once living beings. I live the memory every night, every day, as I march on in solitude. What life is this to live?
But no, I am bound by duty, bound by fear, and bound by the blood oath of a million, a billion sentient beings. It is not for me to chose life or death, but some greater power that says, "This must be." So on I lead my arduous life of hiding, of paranoia, immersing myself within the day-to-day struggle to exist. I must, for it is not my choice. It has driven me to madness, but sanity is but a small price to pay.
"You must live," the words echo in my head. I can see his arm reaching to me, the arm of the last Autobot leader. "You must live, because as long as you live, the Autobots live on. You must live, because as long as you live, the cause which we have sacrificed ourselves for lives on." I am shaking, clutching me knees as I hide behind a cluster of steel bulkheads. His eyes fall dimly on me, and he smiles peacefully as they drag him away and begin the methodical process of tearing him apart, piece by piece—all within my field of vision.
And now, as I roam the stars, waiting for whatever fate is to come upon me, waiting for that moment which I know nothing of. I drift in a quasi-existence, a true limbo, isolated from reality by duty and by necessity. "What do I wait for?" I wanted to ask. "Where do I go? What do I seek? How must I travel?" The unanswered questions remain so as I continue my shamble throughout the universe, wandering to strange whispering and whims.
"The Matrix will guide you," the words remind me. How, I silently ask. What must I do? I have tried to listen to the inner voice, and in my attempts to shed the veils of perception, I have delved deeper than any mortal ever dared to before. Guessing, second-guessing, third-guessing, and twists within turns, I have now lost myself within the labyrinth of my thought. With myself as my only companion, I have now become hardly the being I once was. I am barely life.
Yet do I, last of the Autobots, dare to embrace death? With each passing moment, the temptation increases tenfold, but I cannot, and I dare not. Or do I? I am the sole survivor. I am the last of the last. I am the hope, I am the light. But when will this burden not be enough to hold me back from the comforts of eternal rest? How long can I go on before I decide that the duty to preserve an entire peoples and this history is no longer sufficient? Will it be desperation that will cause me to seek solace, or will it be madness that will drive me to embrace my grave?