While IMing my friend, she asked me about my older stories, and so I thought I'd post some here. They're currently under reconstruction, though. :)

Note: I do not own Transformers, only Dragon and (a majority of) her family.

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Head bowed, I walked through the hallways; a ghost of my former self as Jazz had so eloquently put it. I merely flipped him off and continued my wandering way.

A month had passed since… I really didn't want to think of it now; the wounds were still far too raw. I found myself stroking the soft scar on my wrist thoughtfully. I grimaced when I caught myself and looked down at it before moving on.

It was very hard not to think of her; I often found myself expecting to see her turn around the corner and smile when she saw me, patting me gently on the head or shoulder before moving on to her original destination.

I clenched my fists, reveling slightly in the pain from my fingernails digging into my scarred palms. I shut my eyes tightly and willed it with all my might to be a dream; that Mo – no, the Captain of the ship's (it felt better to feel that she wasn't so close to me that she was an anonymous face in the crowd of Autobots) – death had never happened and this was all a dream.

I let out a great, gusty sigh and stopped. Looking up, I frowned and shook my head. My feet had taken me to her quarters; I saw her name and title engraved high above my head in dark red, her favorite color.

That was something I didn't know the reason of, one thing of many. Why did she have me around? Did she really care about me? Why did she like dark red as opposed to any other of the colors on her slender body? Who were her creators and how did they die? Why was she so loathe of speaking much of her past?

The questions had piled up for the length of time I had lived with her, and now…

Now she was dead and I couldn't ask her. I hesitated, my palm hovering over the keypad on the doorframe. A hideous shrieking echoed from the hallway to my right and I turned to find Firebird walking, his majestic wings and feathers dragging desolately behind him. His usually-vibrant colors were dull, and it was obvious even from here that he hadn't preened his feathers recently.

The source of the shrieking was his feathers scraping on the floor of the ship. Head bowed, he made his slow way toward me, stopping a few massive doors down and looking up. His orangey optics were dimmer than usual, holding a haunted look that I was aware that I also had. He made an odd sound, like a half-sob half-sigh and a great shiver shook his frame.

I took my hand from the keypad and walked over, wrapping my arms around his great chest and pressing my face against the unusually rough feathers. Awkwardly – and with much hideous screeching – he drew his wings around me to return the hug.

He bent his great neck and stroked my cheek with his smooth beak before turning around and moving on. We didn't need words; we both knew that the other really needed a hug, but not from each other. And that the person we really needed a hug from was gone forever.

With a sigh, I turned and walked back to the keypad. My hand shook slightly as I keyed in the password – one that I knew by heart as well as my own – and watched grimly as the doors hissed open, revealing the dark room.

She was never one of those femmes that cared about material possessions; her room was neat, tidy, and simple with a desk, small computer, chair (obviously well-worn judging by the claw-marks on it), recharge berth, and set of shelves. The room was plunged into darkness when the doors hissed shut. Automatically, I groped for the light-switch and pressed it, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the unusually bright lights.

I remembered then; she had a slight vision problem and had to work her optics overtime to function as well as they should in regular lighting; here she could let them relax while she did as well.

On every wall, even the ceiling, were enormous murals. She used them like picture frames, painting images from her past that brought her joy or were memorable to her. I found one of me and her and smiled, running my hands over the smooth lacquer.

There wasn't much to explore on the ground; aside from the shelves which covered half of a wall from top to bottom and was filled with various paints, lacquers, brushes, and the tiny statuettes she was fond of making, there was nothing.

I climbed uneasily on the desk, noting the thin coating of dust; otherwise it was like she was still here, still alive and walking the long hallways and grumbling about 'the stupid rookies' she was fond of mentoring.

In the middle of the desk was the computer, and on either end were piles of disks and files. On the right of the keyboard was a pile of reports she hadn't finished looking over at the time of her death. To the left was a small, half-finished sketch; she was fond of working and drawing at once. On the left side of the desk was a bin as tall as my waist filled with data cubes. I pulled one out and looked at the small label; it read the title of a song and its artist.

I grimaced and put it back; she was very fond of listening to music while she worked as well, and tended to listen to slow or depressing music, claiming that it made her feel better. I wandered to the other side and found data plugs. Curious, I picked up one of the small data pads that lay next to the computer screen and plugged it in.

I smiled slightly as I read her neat handwriting. I looked at the neat rows of data plugs; each were numbered with Cybertronian characters painted in white, and I was glad that she had taught me how to read at least those.

I found my messenger bag which she had been fixing before she died (thankfully she finished) and put them in.

The captain was a…rather quiet femme, who spoke often but gruffly, prone to insulting others in her rough but caring manner. Not many would remember her unless there was something to remind them of her.

The famed mural she did in the Memorial Room of the ship helped, as did the small murals she did in the rooms from time to time. The ship's computer, first mate, new captain, and communication's officer as well as her "pack" would always remember her, of course, but… not everyone would. There was a limit to their memory capacity, and soon the accounts of her life would be grossly exaggerated.

I climbed down the desk and walked to my room where I organized the data plugs on my desk in numerical order and grabbed an empty data pad, plug, and stylus. I sat myself down and read her journal in one hand and wrote her shortened account with the other.