AN: Lyrics by U2 and Robert Burns.
Auld Lang Syne
By the Lady Razorsharp
All is quiet on New Year's day
A world in white gets underway
I want to be with you, be with you, night and day
Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day
I will be with you again
I will be with you again
Jazz stared into the mirror in his quarters and sighed heavily.
Truth be told, it wasn't exactly a mirror; it was just a highly polished piece of steel hanging on his wall that he used to double-check his paint job every now and then (and also to perfect his dance moves). Lately, however, he'd taken to looking at it more often--not out of some new-found vanity, but simply staring into his own optics, trying to see something more than just his reflection.
He raised a hand to his visor; his twin did the same in reverse. With a soft click, he unlatched the heavy sapphire shield and pulled it free to reveal his optics.
The sight of his naked face almost startled him.
One corner of his mouth curled in a mirthless smile. Many times in the past year, he had been grateful for the visor that hid the anger and pain and despair that was so clearly written in the azure windows of his fellow Autobots.
Tonight, Earth's year--the ones the humans called '2005'--would end. Tomorrow, a new year would begin. A chance to start all over again, he had heard someone say. A clean slate.
Jazz tipped his head forward until it rested against the mirror. The ache deep in his chest had dwindled to a tolerable level over the months following the attack on Autobot City, but it had by no means disappeared. Tonight, the pain was nearly unbearable, and he groaned softly in the silence of his room.
Primus, he missed them.
There would be a Calling tonight--a time of reading the names of the dead, a time of remembrance for those left behind. For a moment, Jazz wished he could disappear into the snowy Oregon night and be alone. His face would remain his own, then. No one would see anything he didn't want them to see.
But Rodimus...Rodimus needed him. And truth be told, he needed Rodimus. Someone to guide, someone to teach, someone's name to put in the glaring hole before the word Prime.
Jazz straightened with a sigh. He automatically went to slip his visor back on--and then stopped.
The saboteur considered the heavy visor for a moment, weighing it in his hand. It had been cut from a single flawless sapphire back on Cybertron, polished and honed to precise specifications in order to assist in his function as a spy. The visor was part of his equipment, but it had also become part of his identity. Few had seen him without it over the vorns, and with a shock, Jazz realized that those few could be counted among those he would remember tonight.
Ratchet. Wheeljack. Prowl. Optimus Prime.
With a solemn nod, Jazz put the visor into subspace, and then went to join the others.
Under a blood red sky
A crowd has gathered, black and white
Arms entwined, the chosen few
The newspapers says, says
Say it's true, it's true
And we can break through
Though torn in two
We can be one
I, I will begin again
I, I will begin again
Mirage hated Autobot City.
In fact, he hated cities of any sort; the cheerful, industrious bustle of city dwellers reminded him too much of another city long dead, its cheer turned to sorrow, its industry turned to ruin, its citizens piled in heaps of lifeless hulks.
Invisible to the optics of all who walked beside him, Mirage moved silently through the corridors--some of which were still in various stages of repair. Six months ago, Autobot City had been laid to waste; it too had been a place of sorrow, of ruin, of death. Mirage shuddered, remembering his first sight of the City after the Decepticons had burned it to the ground. As he stared at the devastation, something he'd read in one of the humans' holy books had sprang into his processor:
A voice is heard in Ramah,
weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more.
Looking at Autobot City that terrible day, Mirage knew exactly how Rachel felt. Even now, he refused to be comforted. His friends were no more. It was the same thing all over again--except this time, he had not wept. Tears solved nothing; he had learned that the first time.
The Calling was slated to begin at 00:01, and he planned to be very far away by that time, just a pair of footprints in the snow.
Tonight, he would mourn them. He would hear their names spoken, but not in a crowded hall. Tonight, only the snow and the trees and the volcano would hear their names.
And he would begin again.
Ah, maybe the time is right
Oh, maybe tonight
I will be with you again
I will be with you again
Elita-1 sat in Optimus Prime's chair, swinging it gently to and fro out of the need to be in motion--anything to keep from just sitting.
The desk was bare of ornament, of datapads, of anything that might mark it as having belonged to the former Autobot leader. Ultra Magnus had carefully boxed up everything not of mission significance ('Magnus had taken those things to Rodimus) and brought it to her a few days after the funeral. As of this moment, the box was still sitting untouched in a corner of her quarters on Cybertron.
Elita stopped the motion of the chair and laid her palms flat on the surface of the desk. After a moment, she tipped forward and laid her cheek against the cold metal.
Nothing.
He was not there.
She let her fingertips curl into her palms. Tonight his name would be Called with those of his fallen soldiers. With a bitter smile, she recalled the debate she and Kup and 'Magnus had had with Rodimus about whether to Call his name first or last. In the end, it had been decided to Call the names in the order in which they had been taken, and he had truly been the last one.
The grisly task of checking the stilled internal chronometers of the others had fallen to Perceptor. She had been there when he emerged from their ruined sparks, had held him as he shook with revulsion and horror, had listened as he whispered the times to First Aid, who took down the information on a datapad. Brawn, 13:11:05. Prowl, 13:11:10. Ratchet, 13:11:20. Ironhide, 13:12:15.
Though the time had been carefully recorded, Elita did not need anyone to tell her when her lover died.
She had been deep within Cybertron, shouting directions to her femmes, when pain--unimaginable pain!--had seized her and driven her first to her knees, then pressed her to the floor. At first, she was sure she had been shot, and lay there with her femmes standing over her, waiting to die as Moonracer shouted her name.
She had watched as awareness had dawned in their faces, and every optic swung to where Chromia sat and stared unseeing into the chaos around her.
Ironhide, Chromia murmured, over and over. Where is Ironhide? I have to find Ironhide. I need Ironhide. I love you, Ironhide.
Firestar had been the first one to say it. Optimus Prime is dead.
NO! Moonracer howled. You don't know that!
Look at her, said Firestar, with a jerk of her chin toward her commander. He's gone.
After a few moments, Elita had risen with the help of her femmes. She pulled Chromia to her feet and shook her, hard. The blue-plated femme looked at Elita as if coming online from a deep recharge. She saw the loss in her commander's optics and nodded.
They're together. They're safe now. After that cryptic pronouncement, Chromia had turned on her heel, picked up her pistol, and ran to help the others.
With effort, Elita wrenched her thoughts back to the present. She stretched her arms out in front of her, palms flat against the desk once more, and rolled her head to the right until her nose tapped the steel surface. Softly, she pressed her lips against the cold steel.
It was like kissing his battlemask.
He was there.
And so we're told this is the golden age
And gold is the reason for the wars we wage
Though I want to be with you
Be with you night and day
Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day
On New Year's day
The tall stone podium, hewn out of Oregon basalt, was draped with a black banner embroidered with a red Autobot symbol. It stood alone in a pool of light at the end of the great darkened hall, and Rodimus laid the datapad on it. He looked up into a sea of glowing blue optics, and began to read.
"We remember Brawn."
He paused for a full thirty seconds. The hall was silent.
"We remember Prowl."
There was a vague brush against Rodimus' mind, tinged with pain, and he found himself looking for Jazz's tell-tale visor. Oddly enough, he didn't find it, and went on.
"We remember Ratchet."
He fought to keep the catch out of his voice as he read the name of the beloved medic. Several of the pairs of optics dimmed momentarily.
"We remember Ironhide."
Primus, he couldn't do this. He wanted to turn and hand the datapad off to Ultra Magnus, to Elita, to anyone else, just so he could run away and drive and drive...
"We remember Wheeljack."
Outside, there was a faint boom: New Year's fireworks, bursting over Portland. Very softly, someone began to sob. There was a scraping of metal on metal, a few murmured words of comfort.
"We remember Windcharger."
The requisite thirty seconds of silence stretched out once more.
"We remember Huffer."
Another silence.
There were many names he could have read, might have read. Red Alert. Trailbreaker. Smokescreen. Mirage. Tracks. Sideswipe. Inferno. Hound. All had been gravely injured during the battle, some missing for days before they could be dug out of the rubble by the few that remained behind while he and his small band drew the Decepticons away from Earth. All of those 'could-have-beens' were Autobots who even now bore the mental--and in some cases, physical--scars of their ordeals. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Hound or Trailbreaker. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker kept to themselves, and he had learned early in his administration to give the twins a wide berth. Inferno had tendered his resignation from active duty almost immediately after the fires were out in Autobot City. Tracks was on an extended leave in New York, and had applied to stay and man the Autobots' covert East-coast base of operations. Smokescreen had been spotted on some casino satellite, indulging in gambling and femmebots, staying one step ahead of any patrols Rodimus sent to retrieve him.
Red was still around, though, happily seeing to the security of Autobot City; Rodimus suspected that the work took his mind off whatever was bugging him. Rodimus hadn't seen Mirage in weeks, but the Ligier could quite literally be anywhere.
So much damage, even six months after the fact. Troops who wouldn't talk to him, supply problems on Cybertron, trying to coordinate human workers and Autobots in the City--and doing it all in the shadow of one who he felt watched him with disapproving optics. Even Arcee had turned away from him, and found comfort in the arms of his best friend. Was there no end to the suffering?
He suddenly realized that the silence was very loud.
Only one name left.
"We remember Optimus Prime."
Absolute, utter silence. What was there left to say?
From the back of the room, a smooth voice--unmistakably that of Jazz--began to sing:
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and days of auld lang syne?"
The rest of the assembly joined in on the chorus:
"For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne."
--End--
AN: Bible reference: Matthew 2:18, NIV.