The tall, bulky mech stood infront of the grey door, breathe coming in short, quick gasps, shaking his red and white form, as he remembered who used to live here.

They were the bane of his existence. Everything they did seemed to irritate him, but when they had arrived in his medical bay, bodies torn, energon leaking, faces contorted in agony, he had suddenly realized just how much they had meant to him. He LOVED then, Primus fraggit! Watching their bodies suddenly lose color, the twinkle of mischief in their optics gone, had hurt more than any physical wound ever could.

Sunstreaker had been the most vain mech he had ever known. The onyx and golden bot was always complaining about his paint, finish, or wax. The fact was, though few would admit it, that he was the most handsome Autobot on the planet. His golden paint had often caught the early morning dawn, reflecting a cool, serene ray of light onto the mountain. He had many times followed the beautiful mech to watch this. This was the time when the melee warrior, whose anger and temper were feared by all, both Autobot and Decepticon, was truly calm, sitting on a ledge, sketching the dawn with such precision as to stun the greatest of Earth's artists into eternal silence.

There was only one mech aboard the Ark that could rival Sunstreaker's beauty, and that was Sideswipe. The cherry red mech was nearly always wearing a smile to launch a thousand star fleets. His attitude was a beam of hope in the dark war, even if you were on the receiving end of one of his pranks. The bot had loved to cause trouble whenever he could, and woe betide the mech who invoked the wrath of Sideswipe, which, considering how level-headed he was, was usually only possible by hurting his brother.

The two had been inseparable. Sunstreaker's fierce strength was complimented by Sideswipe's deadly aim. They were a package deal. They got into trouble together. They defeated many Decepticons together. They had shared a spark since the moment they came online. They were brothers. Closer, still, they were twins. They were dangerous when they were alone, if that ever happened, but together, they had always been thought unstoppable.

Until now.

Ratchet recalled how, after watching the damage that their latest attempt at jet judo with all three of the seekers had ended horrifically, he had shut himself in his room, locked the door, overridden all the security programs so that the only way in was with an extremely powerful cannon blast, and collapsed. He had lain on the floor for weeks, refusing to allow anyone to enter. Prime had shouted at him through the door, but no one seemed to be able to open it. He had nearly died from lack of sustenance.

Then, one day - or maybe night - he heard a soft rustling. When he looked up, he saw a folded sheet of paper had been slid under his door.

Summoning his strength, he reached out and grabbed it, unfolding it with trembling, strained hands.

It had been in Sunstreaker's hand writing.

The note had said to come to their room and look on the top shelf of Sunny's closet. It said there would be a box. He was to take the box back to his room without opening it and, when he reached the room, sit on his berth and make a wish, then open the box. The note had told him that he HAD to make a wish before he could open the box, and that the wish had to be what he wanted the most in the universe.

Ratchet, delirious from exhaustion and lack of fuel, had thought Sideswipe had come up with another prank and had swiftly leapt up and raced to the twin's quarters to reprimand them for their foolishness.

Only after he reached the door did he remember the most important fact.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were dead.

The tall, bulky mech stood infront of the grey door, breathe coming in short, quick gasps, shaking his red and white form, as he remembered who used to live here.

Shouts were heard as though his audios were wrapped in cloth. He was unsure of what happened in that moment, but, the next moment found him lying on the floor, someone's gentle, soothing hands stroking the side of his helm and whispering something inaudible.

Ratchet shuttered his optics as he lost consciousness, dreams of his long gone twins dancing about his memory banks.