Why had he lived?

It wasn't right.

He wasn't supposed to be the one to live.

Oh, he'd dreamt of it. He'd hoped for it. He'd even acted to make it happen, once, long ago.

Or — perhaps more than once, if he was totally honest. But honesty had never been his strong suit.

But he'd never imagined he would actually walk away from something — from something Megatron wouldn't.

It wasn't possible. Not when he'd seen Megatron cheat death before. Not when he'd tried to help death along afterward only to find himself snatched out of the air by his quite alive — and quite unimpressed — master.

He could almost believe it would happen again, almost think he might see the silver frame healed of all wounds and all scars, rising from the life-giving pool —

Except that it hadn't.

Except that the emptiness deep in his spark told him it never would.

He shrieked.

Some mechs said his voice could break things: shatter glass, blow out audio receptors.

He wished that it would.

He wished that his screaming would hurt — hurt the ones who had done this, hurt the ones standing around like everything hadn't fallen apart, hurt himself and replace the hollowness he felt.

Nothing happened.

He heard his own voice, quieter now, snarling threats — threats he would have to make good on himself.

Which would mean moving.

Acting.

Living.

He would have to do them all, now.

"I will avenge you, master!" he cried, suddenly aware that he was shaking —

— and suddenly aware that he meant every word.