She draws back the curtain and thrusts open the French windows. You imagine her there, alone with the thoughts she never voices, drinking in the sea breeze that sweeps in like a welcomed guest. From the balcony she could see everyone on the beach, if there were ever anyone there. But there isn't, and she returns to the large room that is hers, silent as always.

She is an enigma, voiceless and surreal, as though she had been dreamt, and not born, into existence. In his letters, she is always the postscript, the light, flawless characters at the bottom of more forceful strokes. In his home, she is the afterthought, elaborating on the family history but never telling you hers. Perhaps she has none, and is merely a guardian sprite that will vanish with the wave of a hand. Or perhaps she is a child of spirits, a whimsical thing amused by the mortals she chooses to serve. Either way, she will leave when she wants.

I clean the brushes and put them away, in a tin can on the desk, where they should be and almost never are. The room's a mess as always, so I figure I'll use my day off to clean up a bit. It'll probably go back to the way it was in two days, but I guess that's just the way it goes. What to start with? There's notebooks all over the floor, along with the odd can of paint and box of colored pencils. The Indian ink and charcoal are next to the easel, but they should be in a drawer. Boxes of books and clay have kept me from making the bed in months, which is ok, since I sleep in the hammock by the balcony. And then there's the desk, littered with odd pieces of paper and clay figurines I haven't painted yet. I think there's a pencil in there somewhere too.

Guess I'll start with the notebooks. I guess I should put them in boxes in the closet. Not this one, I just finished it, but this one is two years old, and this one can go…Oh look, here's one I did nearly a decade ago. The girl in the picture, with the ribbons and bells tied into her hair, is Sparra. I've got her looking at a skull in her hands like Hamlet, only she's looking at it like she's having a friendly conversation with it. She always loved the stage…

Think, now. She used to dress in torn jeans and stained shirts when she wasn't in uniform, and her hands were always busy: doodling while taking phone calls, molding clay while on duty…and folding napkins at dinner. The first time you noticed, she'd folded one into a crab. But then Aurelius started talking to his father about some businessman, and the crab became a devil. The previous subject of conversation had been his cousin. Aurelius and Rose burst out laughing when you brought it up, but you still have no idea what humans mean in calling someone a crab.

It helps, sometimes, to remember that you were wanted. Not like here, where even the noble Optimus refers to you simply as "that thing." Yes, "that thing," a title you didn't even need to raze Omicron to earn! You were "that thing" from the moment they created you, a mere tool to subdue the cosmos for them. They couldn't even be bothered to name you, just "Protoform X, that thing" we have locked up for the time being! Even now, now that you have named yourself, the ones who use it lie! "Rampage" is not a person to Megatron, it is "that thing" which he can unleash on anyone at any time! No, the ones who cared, who saw you as someone, some person, called you "friend." You were the Ciceros' "dear friend," Transmutate's "Dark friend," and Elf's (the Cicero's butler/head-of-security/sort-of sister and/or daughter) just "friend." Depthcharge should stop getting so angry when you call him your "old friend." The title really is an honor.

It's odd that the CD should reach "Sweet Child of Mine" at the same time I flip to the sketch of Houdini. The song was one of his favorites; he was always playing it back at Galileo. Used to drive Adriana crazy. In the sketch, he leans against the wall of an alley, grinning like some pusher. He had a reputation out on the streets, hence the name. I don't think they ever found a cage that could hold him, except the coffin they buried him in. Always went it alone, Houdini, "nobody's pet", as he liked to say. But then someone hired him to break into Galileo, and he met his match in Adriana. She was the head of security back then, and she gave him two choices: sign up with the guard, or she'd call the police. Stupidest threat in the world, really, because they'd have never kept him locked up for long. Course, Adriana had never lived on the streets, so she wouldn't have known. But something about her must have impressed him, because he signed up. Sparra was so happy; she loved Houdini. She called him MacCavity after that cat in the musical. You know, "And when you reach the scene of crime, MacCavity's not there!"

He always grinned when she hummed it as he walked by, and he never used his real name to sign anything, always Houdini. He used to stop by, back when me and Sparra lived in the streets, before Galileo. I'd make dinner, and Sparra would ask him if it was true what they were saying he'd done this time, or said this time. She knew he loved to hear about himself. Sometimes I start talking about him because I think he'll come to hear about his various escapades. Or maybe I'm just confusing him with Peter Pan. It's not like there's much to confuse. And Peter Pan is immortal, so maybe Houdini will come walking up the driveway one day, laughing at the silly people who thought a wooden box and six feet of earth could keep him locked up forever.

Come to think of it, "friend" is not the only title ever used by those who cared in the least. Silverbolt called you "brother" once, when Transmutate died. Had you ever had time, you would have told him about Rose. It was ridiculous, the way she died; the irony was brutal. Mr. Cicero (Aurelius Cicero II) owned the largest pharmaceutical drug company on Earth. For his daughter to have died, at eighteen, of a disease that they had eighteen years to cure, was Lady Fortune at her ruthless worst. Her brother will never forgive himself. He was fourteen at the time, fourteen and a child prodigy already hard at work in the company that he stood to inherit. He found the cure last year, a year too late. And of course, it's nonsense, because no one worked harder than he did to save her, but he'll never believe you.

But it's not her death you want to tell Silverbolt about. You want to tell him that Rose was every bit the prodigy Aurelius was. Had she tried, she might have saved herself, but she never did. She took a keen interest in natural cures, and preferred to study how they could be used to help the poorer segments of the population. She loved folktales, and could read quite a few of them in their original tongues. Apart from her native English, and the Cybertronian every Cicero learned, she was fluent in Maya, Quechua, Hindi, Swahili, French, and Old English. In her spare time, she translated her beloved folktales from one language to the next, letting Elf illustrate. You spent all night listening to her read them once, and she never told you she was getting tired. You shouldn't have done it, though, because Rose was weak and dying even then. It took all her strength to walk (usually she didn't), and the coughing fits could have her hacking up blood. You never even got to say goodbye. The day she died, you were trapped in a stasis pod, and Depthcharge will never understand that he has already taken his revenge ten times over. This is getting ridiculous. I started cleaning the room an hour ago, and I have succeeded in putting the notebooks away. I haven't even done that really; I've put them in boxes, but the boxes are supposed to go in the closet, and they aren't there yet. That's the problem with cleaning; I spend way too much time down memory lane.

That's ok, though; I've taken care of the major distractions. All I have to do is put these in the closet and the rest should go smoothly. There! On to the bed, now, I really should change the sheets. So let's see what's in this box. A guide to drawing I outgrew when I was ten (eighteen years already!), French for Beginners (I'm totally bilingual now), a worn-down copy of Where the Wild Things Are (I loved that book!)…In other words, I should be giving this box away (with the exception of the Wild Things, that's a keepsake). Next box. Clay. That can go in one of the drawers.

Box number three: more books. Pride and Prejudice, Don Quixote, oh, look, Crime and Punishment! Sparra and I loved those books about repentant sinners; it was worth all the trouble saving up to buy them!We even got Houdini hooked on them, even if he was one sinner who was never going to repent. Matter of fact, he got me this one, signed it right there: To the now-respectable Elf and Sparra, roses by any other name, Houdini. Always had to make a statement, that one. Hmmm…The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, another classic. Life's but a walking shadow…This box I'm keeping. I really should get a bookshelf, though. Now where's Les Miserables? Oh, that's right, I gave it to Rampage. I should have given him Crime and Punishment; that one had a murderer in it. But no, Rose had to go telling him about the great French literary tradition!

You have read that book more times than you care to count. Silverbolt would doubtlessly say this is a sign that you are still a Maximal deep inside, and that you are obviously redeemable, however many miracles that would take. This is doubtlessly why you have not told him about it; how Blackarachnia put up with it! Besides, there's only one person you want Depthcharge to kill, and it so happens to be you. But back to the book, sometimes you read it only because there were no other books to read. It was the only book you owned, to be honest. And you don't consider yourself Valjean by any LONG stretch of the imagination. Stealing a loaf of bread is not the same as murdering an entire colony, and he didn't even take any pleasure in his crime! For all the pain and humiliation you've suffered at the hands of others, you've had fun. Even with Megatron, there's been enough chaos to keep you entertained. Innocent victim you're not.

There is one part, however, that bears a striking resemblance to your own life. It was the part that made you want to read the book when Rose mentioned it: Javert! Oh, look, Depthcharge is in this book! An obsessed officer with nothing better to do than to track down the same one person! You'd lend him the book, but he wouldn't find it at all funny, and you just sent it back. It just wouldn't be fair to Elf, depriving her of her favorite story like that, when you won't even be around to read it! No, now that Megatron is off fussing over his plans for the Nemesis, it's time to rewrite the book. Les Miserables, new and improved, in which Vajean, and not Javert, will be committing suicide. And the best thing is, not even the actor realizes there's been a change in the script!

Alright, so I was wrong. The boxes on the bed have taken me two hours, and I haven't cleaned anything; I just know what's in the boxes. So I won't be cleaning in the early afternoon either; I'll be buying a bookshelf. Actually, I'm going buy the wood and nails. No sense buying what you can make just so you can clean. And I'm going to clean, just after I make a bigger mess by making the bookshelf. Right now, I'm going to eat. This brown bread looks delicious, and I think we have some apples in the refrigerator. I've been dying to make my own sandwich. There's usually a cook who insists upon making everything, and it makes me feel so spoiled, because I used to make dinner myself before I moved here. But the day after tomorrow, the heads of the guard come to train and clown around for a week, and nobody's allowed here but us and Aurelius. Security, you know.

I would make my sandwich, but a large metal bird has just come in- with a package. Aurelius made those birds; they're capable of traveling through space to send messages to Cybertron. But he rarely uses them for that, and this particular one is the one he uses to send messages to Rampage with. Lucky thing Ms. Rose figured out how to track his spark like Depthcharge can, so the bird was able to find him when they got to prehistoric Earth. I open the package; for some reason it's specifically addressed to me. Oh man. Oh please no. It's my book, and there's no note. Why am I looking for a note? He doesn't need to write a note; the book itself is his note. It's over. He's not coming back, and so he's returning the book. He's been hinting in the last few letters; just like him to draw it out, lousy fiend…

Guess I'll just go to get the materials for the bookshelf. No sense trying to eat now, I doubt I'd even taste anything. Besides, it'll give me something to do, something to distract me. Good grief, why am I even upset? I knew he wasn't coming back, we all knew from the moment Megatron enslaved him. Maybe Rose and Aurelius knew from the moment he left in the first place. How many times have I prayed that Depthcharge would just get it over with? I know what Rampage did was wrong, but what Megatron was doing to him…I can't stand to see anyone in pain, no matter what they've done. Depthcharge will be quick about it at least, he'll know better than to drag out a moment he could lose. I'd best call Aurelius…

Oh, he's quick alright. There's no pain at all, unless you count the warning. He tells you to take it, the energon he's trying to press into your spark, and you obey him gladly. You let go, of the shard, of the pain, of the enslavement, of all hope whatsoever. And you laugh. How can you not? He thinks he's killing you, he's yelling about Omicron, when all he's doing is releasing you! If he'd really wanted revenge, he should have spared you, given you an entire eternity of enslavement to whoever wanted you next! Oh, thank you, old playmate; thank you SO much!

The ocean disappears into a merciful darkness. And then…

"Are you the guy they call Rampage?" You whirl around. You're standing in an alabaster hall with huge white columns, and a human youth leans on the nearest. His dark hair is a longish mess, pulled back into a short ponytail. His brown eyes glitter, accentuated by a dark blue shirt he wears loosely under a dark jacket. And why he's smiling is beyond you.

"I am."

A brown-skinned female steps out from behind the column to the right. She's even more of a sight than he is, with all those ribbons and bells tied into her hair. And she smiles with eyes of the same color, eyes that would have been complimented by that green poncho had she not been wearing so much jewelry.

"So then you must be Depthcharge." She grins, and for the first time you notice your old friend, a mere pace behind you.

"Two for two." He responds coldly, "Who are you?"

"Call me Houdini," the man responds.

"And I'm Sparra. You don't belong here, millions of years in the past. So we've come to take you back."

Glad that's over with. Aurelius didn't say much, just sighed and thanked me for the news. He told me to send the bird back tomorrow with some of its "friends," to try and recover the body. I don't want to, really; it'd be like him dying all over again. But the Ciceros hate holding on to illusions, like the ones that say someone isn't really dead. Having a body would take care of that.

Now what kind of wood should I use? This one's pretty; it's called blood wood. How ironic. If Sparra were here, she'd be begging me to buy it. I think I'll give in this time. It's going to be so pretty, and maybe I'll carve something from the Les Miserables musical into it. What would Rampage like? Apart from the "Master of the House" song, because I know he'd find that one hysterical, but it's not exactly profound. Maybe I should use that line about there being "Storms we cannot weather." I think he'd have liked that. It certainly fits this house. First Rose, then Mr. Cicero, now Rampage…who are we losing next? Stupid question, really, there's only two of us left. Now, let's see…I've got the tools for the shelf, I've got the nails…we're all set, then.

I hope Aurelius is alright. Rose made him promise to try and help Rampage, and I don't know if that included letting him kill himself. Not that there was anything that could have been done, but I doubt Aurelius is going to care. He never cared much about logic where Rose was concerned; I don't think anyone ever did. I guess I'll have to keep on eye on him this week, because he isn't going to say anything if that's what he's thinking. He'll just increase his working hours, that's all. Like father, like son.

They should have listened to Mr. Cicero; don't ask me why they never did. They asked him to help with the Protoform X project, because apart from running the Earth's biggest pharmaceutical drug company, the Ciceros are experts on transformers. He told them it was a bad idea, asked them how they were going to control something so much stronger than their own security. He even let eleven-year old Aurelius make the decision as to whether or not to help (he always had an odd, incredibly world-weary sense of humor). Aurelius of course said no. I can just picture it, Mr. Cicero picking up the phone, Aurelius's confused tone on the line as his dad asked him if they should help make an invincible, immortal, transformer. I'm sure he was relieved at the end of the conversation when his dad told him he was still in line to inherit the company.

You follow them past a large door and down the LONG hallway that it opens to. Neither of them can seem to keep their feet on the ground; they walk with a good-natured bounce in their step. Houdini is constantly shuffling a deck of cards in his hands and stops only to show off another trick. Sparra occasionally breaks off into a cartwheel or back flip, smiling as if she's expecting applause. Their emotions are impossible to sense, but your playmate's are easy enough: he's as confused as you are.

"Oh, yeah," Houdini pauses suddenly, "I'm supposed to give you this." He reaches into his pocket and draws his hand out again without revealing what's in it. Whatever it is, he presses it into your hands, and the presence is unmistakable.

"Rose." You murmur, sliver of spark in hand, questioning look on Houdini.

"She said to give it to you."

"You-you know her?"

"Well, duh, I worked for her family. Didn't Elf mention me?" he asks, pretending to look hurt.

"No, she didn't really say much in the three days I was there."

Houdini groans, "We served on Galileo together, till an earthquake hit the place. Then I had to leave."

"Galileo!" Depthcharge exclaims, "Then this Rose…you mean Rose Cicero?"

You laugh, "The same. But why…"

"Well, you didn't get the rest of your spark back, did you?" Sparra chirps.

You shake your head. Opening your mouth might result in a tirade hardly appropriate for the moment.

"I guess she thought you'd feel better without a hole in your chest." She cart wheels towards you and put her hand on your shoulder.

"And hers?" you press, and the both of them laugh.

"Giving someone a piece of your spirit is not the same as having your very spark ripped in half." Houdini points out, "If anything, she's more whole than ever."

"And when they send me to the pit, she won't suffer?"

"Not that you shouldn't have thought about that earlier, but I'm sure she already has." He replies bluntly, and for a moment, all laughter vanishes from his eyes.

You pause, still holding that fraction of her spark, "She wouldn't have just replaced it…she was never that simple…but then…Megatron used my spark to control another…could she mean to do likewise?"

"Now?" Depthcharge asks skeptically, "Isn't it a bit late for that?"

Again you laugh, "I meant that as my spark gave another certain 'ideal' characteristics, she may intend to so influence me. She had a conscience, you see; I don't."

"Pity she didn't think of that earlier." He snaps sarcastically.

"Earlier she wouldn't have survived the transfer; she was too weak. And I don't think she means to save me, merely to let me understand…agonizing guilt, nightmares, oh this does sound fun!"

And to his surprise, you press that shard of salvation into your chest, savoring the burning sensation it produces.

Finally. The bookshelf is done, the books are all in it, and it is now time to clean up. Or rather, it will be, after dinner. I think I might be able to eat now, after all that work, so I make myself a huge plate of fruit, cream cheese spread, and slabs of brown bread. After this, I'll finish the bed and start on the desk. The maid will be so happy when she gets back; she always walks past my room and sighs. Then again, it's going to be more than a week before she gets back, so I might have undone all my efforts by then.

The strawberries are delicious; I'm glad it's July. Fall's alright, I like apples, but the strawberries are my favorites, and they're summer fruits. The seafood is also great this time of year, because Aurelius and I go out fishing for it on weekends. Neither of us likes fishing, but sometimes we're really in the mood for something that's just been caught. In fact, tonight would be a great night for a crab salad if I wasn't going to break down crying in the process of making it. Part me thinks I'm joking, but just in case…I turn on the Cybertronian news; maybe something will come up. Stocks, some election, the latest ship-building technology and the billionaire who thinks he's going to save the world with it…wait! Here we go!

Optimus Primal and his crew, who have been missing for such-and-such a time, arrived on Cybertron at such-and-such an hour, where they were greeted by such-and-such a pompous official…Megatron is in custody, but the remaining four thieves are reported dead…seems one of those thieves switched sides early on; his memory will be honored along with other Maximal dead in some ceremony…more details later. He's not with them. Not that it would have done any good; if he'd been with them, he'd be back in some lab having who-knows-what done to him. I wonder if Advil would work for the pain in my chest right now.

The long hallway comes to an end, and Houdini throws open the door to the next. He is equally callous with the second door, pounding it once and calling:

"Hoy! It's Houdini! We've got your fish!"

What is wrong with him? Depthcharge glares, but the effort is lost on its victim. Sparra is doubled up laughing even as the doors open to an oversized throne room. Yet for all the room, there are only two souls in it, both seated on thrones. They are two transformers, one female and one male. She is white and gold, a gentle presence. He, on the other hand, an imposing figure of black and red, makes even you uneasy.

"We might as well start with the easiest case," he tells her, "Or are you going to contest our right to him?" he nods towards you.

"I cannot." She responds, "Take him." The dark one's smirk is worse than Depthcharge's as he snaps. It is also fleeting; it changes to pure rage in an instant.

"He's protected!"

"He's what?" she asks, and Sparra grins at you in the background. Your old playmate looks ready to try and murder you again, but you shrug in his direction; you're just as confused as he is.

"He bears the spark of another, one who has already been admitted to the Matrix!"

He cannot be serious. There has to have been a mistake. But the light one turns to Sparra, "Call Ms. Cicero, please."

"There is no need." She is here. By the p- she is here! Rose, Rose who could hardly stand when you last saw her, walks effortlessly into the room. You wish Aurelius could see her now, with coloring in her face and no trace of exhaustion. Her eyes, the Ciceros signature grey, meet yours for a fleeting moment. There is a faint smile on her lips, and she turns to the enthroned ones.

"Did you give this man a piece of your spark, Ms. Cicero?" the white one asks.

"I did." She replies, and the dark one gnashes his teeth in fury.

"Did you do so willingly? The white one presses, and she nods again.

"No one can force me here."

"And did you know, Ms. Cicero, that in giving this man a piece of your spark, you were preventing the Pit from taking what rightfully belonged to it?"

It's like the sky itself wanted to protest the injustice in the world. It was clear just this afternoon, but now it's a terrific storm out there. The rain's coming down in buckets, and the thunder made me drop a large box of clay on my foot. At least the bed's clear. Sparra would have loved this. She always loved the storms, the power, the chaos, the absolute madness! She'd sweep the floors, or fold the clothes (I never did let her cook), and keep dashing back to the window to watch it all. I hated them; they were always so loud. I was the type who would have been happier under the bed, if Sparra hadn't been dragging me to see it all. Besides, I always tried to be brave for her. She taught me that most threats were just a whole lot of noise, and there was nothing to be scared of. Guess that's why I wasn't really scared of Rampage. Once you realize that the worst he can do is kill you, it's easy. Everyone knows living's a whole lot harder than dying. Besides, he wasn't that bad when he wasn't high on the fear he thrived off of.

He would have liked Sparra. He probably would have stayed here all night with her, just watching the storm. Of course, she wouldn't have been content to just watch. She'd have taken out her pan flute, the one that rests on my belt now, and played some happy, lively tune to the thunder. She taught me to play it, but I can't really play those tunes like she could. I guess you need her personality to be able to play happy songs like that. I can play other things though, like Scarborough Fair. She taught me that one, too. I think I'll play it now, as a matter of fact; it's as good a time as any.

It could almost be peaceful. Sparra's song echoes throughout this lonely place, an eloquent cry to the thunder. It mourns her absence to the howling winds; it sings to the sea of the friend that grieves; it takes its case to the heavens.

"How could you allow this to happen!" the dark one screams in fury, "He was ours from the day he was created! You can't just claim him because some manipulative tart sets up a roadblock!"

"And this is what you call justice," she asks softly, "That one is created for the pit? That one is damned from his first breath, because another craved powers the Matrix reserves for itself?"

"Created for it?" Depthcharge snaps incredulously, "Are you actually expecting someone to feel sorry for him? It was his decision to level Omicron, and I for one didn't ask him to kill anyone at Starbase Rugby! You're letting a murderer go free!"

She locks eyes with him, and the look in hers is a strange one. Sympathetic, certainly, and if looks could heal, he'd not be bitter. Yet for all that, it is unyielding.

"They wanted the perfect soldier, didn't they? Since when does the perfect soldier feel compassion? Since when does he allow himself to understand the pain of others? Soldiers were meant to kill; it's the rules that hold them back, not empathy. Yet Omicron chose to create the perfect soldier and set him above the rules."

"In other words, they deserved what they got, is that it?" he growls.

She shakes her head, "In other words, you're looking for justice in a situation where there is none."

But she's wrong. "Rose, stop." You turn to Depthcharge, directing your gaze on him even as you address her, "As much as I appreciate your attempts to save me, it isn't right. I can't say I'd take back Omicron, because in my opinion, most of them deserved what they got. But Depthcharge didn't know what was going on, and neither did his brothers. I let him go because of that, because he wouldn't feel sorry for me, because he wouldn't understand. When the time came, I knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill me, and that's exactly what I wanted. I even killed a few more of his friends on Starbase Rugby, just to make sure he wouldn't forget his purpose. What they did to me at Omicron was repulsive, but I had no business taking it out on Depthcharge, or forcibly enlisting him in my plans for assisted suicide. Give the Pit its way, Rose."

She says nothing; merely nods. In her eyes it is no longer the grey that calls her a Cicero. Lady Fortune had never loved that house. Whatever the vendetta, she would not be appeased; a fact the Ciceros resigned themselves to. And so she, like all Ciceros before her, bows to the inevitable. Like brother, like sister. Nobody cares that it hurts; the Ciceros can handle it.

"Enjoy the pain," you hear a memory laugh, "It's only going to get worse!"

Oh, shut up, you tell it. Just… "I'm sorry. Tell Transmutate I said I'm sorry…and goodbye."

You embrace her, and the dark one's smirk is savage from over her shoulder. He raises his hand once more, and once more he is interrupted.

"Wait" Depthcharge growls.

And to think people always consider me the responsible one. Just leave it to Elf, they say, she'll take care it. Right. Just like I've taken care of this room. If I took as much care of the security as I've taken care of this room, I'd be clear out of a job. I'd blame Rampage, but the head of security isn't supposed to get emotional about things, especially when it gets in the way of getting things done. At least I'll get the floor swept. And mopped, I have to mop it now that I forgot to close the windows. If Sparra were here, she'd be laughing her head off. Maybe she is here; sometimes I can just feel her, and I'm rarely wrong on that. Rampage loved me for it; I was the only other person he knew who could do it. Matter of fact, I can almost sense him now, like he's just outside, waiting for me to come enjoy the storm.

Hang on. I'm not almost sensing him; he's there! How on Earth? Well, it can't be the Ghost of Christmas Present pounding on the door! Coming already! And what in blazes?!

The guy that comes in, followed by an unexpected guest, is human. So is his friend. He's got flaming red hair, green eyes, and he's a bit younger than I am, by the looks of it. His friend has a darker complexion, much like Sparra's, except that his eyes are blue. Both of them are soaked, and one of them is

"Rampage?"

"Like the new look?" he smiles, a bit tiredly for Rampage.

"Love it. I don't suppose you want to explain what's going on?"

"Long story short, my old friend and I were playing, and the game got lethal. They'd have sent me to the Pit, but Depthcharge agreed to give me a second chance, and they decided to give him one too. I don't suppose we can fill in the details over hot chocolate?"

I give him the biggest hug I've given anyone in a long time. He's soaking wet, but I don't care. "Of course we can. Let me find you something dry, too. Welcome home, friend; welcome home." I turn to Depthcharge, "Thank you for giving him back to us. On behalf of the Cicero family, thank you so much, and consider this house your home for as long as you'll have it."

There are tears running down my face, and he turns away, "Houdini and Sparra say 'hi." He says, "She says to tell you she's sorry, and she hopes you'll forgive her."

At that point, I grab the wall to steady myself. He met them! And Sparra said…

"Thank you for passing that on to me." I manage, then smile at the questioning look Rampage is giving him, and the shrug he gives back, "There was an earthquake at the facility I used to work at," I tell them, "Sparra survived, but I was trapped underground with some forty others. They told her I was dead, so she killed herself."

They stare in shock, but I don't want to discuss it now. Besides, I have to call Aurelius.

"This way," I tell them, and start up the stairs.

Depthcharge's mercy came with a price. No longer may you inhabit the body of a transformer, nor return to their planet. And the immortality you were given is gone. The waves wash the refuse on the sand, a claw, a few nuts and blots, and you watch in silence.

"Do you miss him?" she asks, and you jump.

"No. It's better this way." You muse, and Rose nods.

"Don't try to resurrect him." She says, "No one's going to hurt you again."

No, not as long as he stays dead. They aren't looking for you; it's him they wanted. He was a slave from the beginning, to the scientists on Omicron, and then to Megatron, and always to his own intoxicating madness. You are free; there is nothing to envy.

The sound of footsteps makes you turn. He is there, in the form he has chosen, and may discard as he chooses. Something tells you he won't.

"I wanted to thank you," you tell him, forcing the awkward phrase to your lips, "I-I never expected to have that-that place, Elf and Aurelius…to be able to go back…thank you."

He raises his eyebrows, "If I'd known it would have left you so speechless, I'd have done it sooner."

You laugh; the Matrix knows you deserved that one.

"Where is my brother?" he asks her, "And my friends? You said they would meet me tonight."

"They are waiting, where you first met Rampage here." She sees the look he gives her and chuckles, "This is a dream; you can breathe underwater if you want."

He nods and turns towards the ocean. Rose turns to you as he dives into it after a moment's pause.

"Tell my brother there was nothing he could have done. I am happy here; pity should be spent on the living, not wasted on the dead."

"I'll tell him. Have you told the brother of my playmate to pass on a similar message to his renegade relative?"

"He means to." She replies, "Don't tell Depthcharge when the nightmares start, especially if it would mean telling him about Omicron."

"You have my word." You tell her, "But-when it starts, you'll there, yes?"

"Never far." She smiles, "Come on, Transmutate is waiting."

The idea of seeing her drives any further thought of the future from your mind. In the morning, you will tend to details like living arrangements and work. You will argue with Aurelius to let you and Depthcharge stay while his heads of security are there, and you will re-accustom yourself to being allowed to argue at all. But that will be in the morning; for now

"Coming, dear friend."