Part One in a set of drabbles set after Transformers: Dark Of The Moon. Reflecting on parts of the move that my muse decided to harass.
You know he drill, I own nothing.
Part 1: Ironhide.
"You fought bravely," Ironhide would be proud.
The words hung between them as the dust of battle settled. Their grim smiles barely masking the pain of their loss; a loss to mirror their physical injuries. But bodies could be repaired; parts mended and reformed; upgraded and improved.
The loss of their weapons-specialist; their Ironhide, would haunt them for an eternity. An open wound, infecting and festering. So damaging, so crippling, that not even Ratchet could heal it.
It was as they stood there; in the wreckage of the city, surrounded by the bodies of enemies and friends, that they paused a moment; a moment to remember what they had lost to the never-ending war, to grieve their comrade, their friend and their mentor. to wish for further retribution from the dead Sentinel Prime. To curse his name and his legacy; he would never be forgiven.
it was as the dust settled and the wounds of the day became apparent, that all who knew took a moment to remember. To grieve for the universe's loss, and their own. To remember the mech that saved so many but couldn't save himself.
They took a moment to remember him. Ironhide.