AN: This is a sequel, of sorts, for my short story Untouchable, and also makes reference to events that took place in the first chapter of The Beckoning Silence. It stands on its own, however, and the stories don't have to be read in any particular order. The term ku'at is my own coinage, and is a play on the ancient Egyptian concept of Ma'at, which encompasses truth, balance, order, law, morality and justice. Ku'at means more or less the same thing. A very special thanks to Novaspark for helping me brainstorm a suitably poetic title.

Keepsake of my Starless Beloved
by Grayseeker

Scavenger bolted into his quarters, slammed the door and sagged against it. He'd barely managed to slip away. Fortunately, Hook was still busy running triage in the medical center downstairs, trying to return as many injured Decepticons as possible to battle-readiness just in case the Autobots decided to press their advantage with a surprise attack. The rest of his team were in the command center, helping to dismantle equipment. Everyone was running back and forth shouting random orders at each other, and Scavenger had managed to disappear amid the confusion.

He was lucky that the demolition operation hadn't yet found its way down here to the crew level, where most of the Decepticons were quartered. It was just a matter of time, though, and Cyclonus' orders had been extremely clear. Any able-bodied mechs who were unable to assist in the search for Galvatron were to return here, to the Decpticons' main base of operations in Kaon, and make preparations for a hasty departure.

He hadn't specified just where they were departing to, at least not to the likes of Scavenger, but Hook had opined that they were probably returning to Charr. The fact that there was already a base there meant it would be easier to return there, Hook had reasoned, than to try and start over somewhere else. Scavenger suspected Hook was right; Hook was right about most things, and rarely let anyone forget it. Either way, Cyclonus had instructed that they bring only what was essential, and destroy everything else.

Scavenger didn't have to guess which category his collection of treasures would fall under. Ever since the Autobots had declared victory, he'd been racking his processor trying to come up with a plan to save them. He was still drawing a blank. There was only so much that he could smuggle in his subspace, since every mech would be expected use most, if not all, of his available subspace to carry a share of the aforementioned "necessities." Personal keepsakes didn't count; not even Scavenger's record collection, his selection of antique welding equipment, or his artful stacks of crushed Volkswagens, refrigerators, and other Earth oddments.

His entire collection would be deemed useless clutter, and Scavenger knew from painful experience that attempting to save any of it under circumstances such as these would likely result in severe punishment. His one real option would be to bribe Astrotrain into carrying a few unmarked crates in his hold, but there were two inherent problems with that. For one, Astrotrain was in deep space right now, helping Cyclonus, Scourge and the Sweeps in their search for Galvatron. But worse, Scavenger could think of only one item in his possession that would be of any interest to the shuttle, and that item was non-negotiable.

With a sigh, he pushed away from the door and shuffled across the room, trying hard not to look at or think about his doomed treasures as he passed them by. There were rusted pipes and cracked hoses, an old barrel filled with burned-out luma-stones, an antique hi-grade decanter covered in a patina of age, and many piles of old books, magazines, sea shells, cinder blocks, broken toys, and other things that he'd managed to bring with him from Earth. He sent a mental apology to each one as he passed, wishing he could save even a few.

At the far side of the room he knelt, tucking his shovel-tail up behind his back, and ran square digit-tips along a hairline gap between two of the metallic floor tiles. He found the catch, pressed it, and one of the tiles slid back to reveal the small storage compartment he'd built beneath the floor. There were two items inside. He pulled out the first one and held it cupped between his palms, considering it.

It was a book about the size of his two fists and bound with thick, unengraved steel plates. This was not the original binding, but one that he'd cobbled together out of scrap metal after Bonecrusher had discovered the book and had attempted to, well… crush it. Scavenger had managed to salvage most of the pages and stitched them into this new, crush-proof binding, and then, as an added measure, had built the hidden storage compartment. Until last orn, it had been his most treasured possession.

He let it fall open, flipping through page after page covered in his square, careful block-script. Each page was different. He'd experimented with various meters, tried sonnets and ballads, blank verse and haiku. Each poem had been a fresh hope, a renewed chance of finding the elusive combination of words that would somehow make Starscream understand how he felt. He came to the last poem and turned to a fresh, blank page. There were many such pages left, pages that would now remain forever blank. He brought out his stylus, paused to consider for a moment, and began to write.

When he was done, he rocked back on his heels, contemplating his work. He'd composed it during the return trip from Planet Junk, when he'd finally had a moment alone with his thoughts. It was then that the full gravity of everything that had taken place over the past orn had come crashing in on him, and the poem had emerged into his mind fully formed, like an image developing in an old-style holocube. It was, he thought, the best poem he'd ever written. It would also be his last.

He closed the book and tucked it into his subspace. Once he arrived on Charr, or wherever they were going, he would destroy it. He hoped it would be Charr though, because, if possible, he wanted to drop it into one of the planet's many volcanoes. That seemed a fitting end for the words that Starscream would now never hear. Until then, he needed to guard it closely in order to make sure that none of the other Decepticons—or, Primus forbid, the Autobots—got their hands on it. He'd been fortunate in that Bonecrusher wasn't much of a reader, but if anyone else found it, he'd have to jump into a volcano himself in order to live it down.

Reaching back into the compartment, he drew out the second object. This one was shrouded in a gray canvas bag tied with a makeshift drawstring. He promised himself that he would eventually find something that was more worthy of the contents, but for now the canvas was all he had. He cradled the object for a moment, feeling its weight. Then, with trembling fingers, he untied the cord and reverently eased his greatest treasure from its hiding place.

The crown was crushed and broken, yet still beautiful. Its electrum surfaces shimmered a rich golden hue that was undiminished even by his quarters' pale overhead lighting array, and the shattered rubies were still captivating, their depths alight with flashes of crimson, scarlet and royal purple that made them seem almost alive. Scavenger ran his fingers lightly across its pitted surface. He knew that the stones and metals were precious and no doubt worth some money, but he didn't care about that. What mattered was that this was Starscream's—uniquely so. No other Decepticon leader had ever had a crown, and now it would be Scavenger's, a small piece of Starscream that he could have all to himself, to hold and admire whenever he felt like it.

A knock on the door brought him to his feet with a yelp. "Um… hello?" he asked tremulously, hastily tucking the crown back into the canvas bag. "Who's there?"

"It is I," came the quiet response.

The voice was literally the last one Scavenger would have expected to hear. If anything, he'd thought it might be a member of his team, come to give him slag for wasting time when he should be working. He subspaced the crown and edged to the door, taking a moment to glance through the security window before pressed the door release.

"Dirge?" he said, frowning behind his mask. "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead." Dirge and his trinemates had fared badly during a confrontation with Unicron, and Scavenger had assumed they were deactivated. The list of the dead was so numbingly long, however, that he could have easily missed the fact that Dirge's name wasn't on it. It wasn't as if they were friends or anything.

The dark blue Seeker inclined his head. "You would not be alone in that supposition," he acknowledged, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. His frame was indeed covered in welds and healing patches, and he was carrying himself stiffly, as though he was in pain. "I have come to you because I require assistance."

Scavenger narrowed his optics, not liking the sound of that. "Assistance with what?" he asked, praying that it wouldn't involve helping Dirge move any of his possessions.

It wasn't just that Dirge creepy, although he was. A dark aura hung around him like a shroud, infecting anyone nearby with a sense of gloom and despair, and the mournful howl of his engines filled anyone within hearing range, Autobot and Decepticon alike, with morbid dread. There were even rumors that his touch could bring death. Scavenger wasn't sure he exactly believed those, but he'd always thought it better to keep his distance, just in case. And then there was Dirge's role as Crypt Master, the mech responsible for final observances for the dead. There was no telling what he might have in his quarters that he'd want help with moving, and Scavenger really didn't want to find out.

"Starscream," was Dirge's response. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as he added, "You and I must take care of him."

"Take care of…? Wh… what do you—"

"I mean bury him," Dirge clarified.

Scavenger's mouth fell open behind his mask. "Why?" he asked. It was the first question that popped into his mind, and he could tell, by the way that Dirge's optic ridges pulled into a slight frown, that it was the wrong one.

"His remains were simply left," Dirge said. "That is far from ku'at."

"Far from koo-what?" Scavenger shook his head. "Look, I don't know what that means, but I'm not—"

"It means," Dirge cut in, "that our fallen should not be treated in such a way." He paused, glancing up and down the corridor, then lowered his voice as he added, "Especially not our fallen leader."

Scavenger tensed. "Don't say that!" he hissed. "You don't know who's listening! If anyone heard you talking about him that way they'd—" he broke off. "You need to leave. Right now."

"I am injured," Dirge said, gesturing to indicate his physical state. "I cannot do this on my own,"

"Well then, it's not getting done!" Scavenger shot back. "At least not by me. Get out of here! Scat! Shoo!"

Dirge didn't budge, and Scavenger, in desperation, took two strides forward and gave him a firm shove. Dirge stumbled backward and almost fell, but he was saved by his quick Seeker reflexes. He grabbed the edge of the door-frame and held on, using it to drag himself upright.

"I am not leaving," he said, wincing in obvious pain. "I once made a vow that if, when the time came, there was no one to care for his remains, I would be the one."

"Well that isn't my problem!" Scavenger snapped. He thumped the door release, trying to get it to close, but the safety sensors wouldn't let it with Dirge's fingers in the way.

Fingers.

Scavenger glanced at his own. Had he actually just touched Dirge? The death-bringer? How big of an idiot could he be? He lunged for his work-bench, yanked one of the drawers open and rummaged until he found a box of mesh-wipes and a jar of solvent. He dunked a wipe in the solvent and began scrubbing at his hands.

"I didn't take you for the superstitious type," Dirge remarked from the doorway.

"I'm not! I just… just…" Scavenger glared at him. Maybe he was superstitious, just slightly. His palms felt numb where they'd touched Dirge's chestplates, but then again, that could be an effect of the solvent. It was an old jar, probably past its expiration date. "Shut up!" he snarled as he redoubled his efforts, rubbing faster and harder. "Why can't you just leave me alone, you great, big, metallic vulture?"

Dirge's brow ridges shot up. "The Scavenger accuses me of being a vulture," he said, his gaze sweeping around the room as if noting its contents. "How droll."

Scavenger flinched. It was at moments such as this that he saw his treasured collection as others might, as a chaotic jumble of useless items. He hated that feeling. "Just… just go!" he begged. "Please, just leave me alone and find someone else. I don't want any part of this."

"There is no one else," Dirge replied. He had settled his shoulder against the door jamb, a gesture that was clearly intended to prevent any further attempts at shutting him out, though it also looked as if he was leaning on it for support. His face looked pinched and tired, and somehow even more melancholy than it normally did. He vented a heavy sigh, and said, "Scavenger, I know what you have in your subspace."

"What I…?" Scavenger's voice choked off. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." Dirge tipped his helm to one side, studying Scavenger with inscrutable narrowed optics. "I saw you pick it up," he said. "I know you have it, and I cannot help wondering what Cyclonus or Galvatron might think if they learned that it is in your possession."

"You… you saw…?" Scavenger stared at Dirge. The Seeker's gaze was hypnotic, reminding Scavenger of stories he'd heard about predators that could hypnotize their prey with a mere look. He barely felt the rag slip from his numbed fingers. "Are you… blackmailing me?"

"I suppose I am." Dirge pushed himself upright with a wince. "Assuming, then, that my attempt has been successful, I will need for you to follow me."

He hobbled stiffly away, not sparing so much as a backward glance. Scavenger glared at the empty doorway, then reached into his subspace, letting his fingers brush lightly against the rough canvas. No one was going to take it from him. Of that, he was absolutely determined, but that left him with little choice.

"Wait," he called out. He hurried to the doorway, then paused. He'd meant to lock it behind him, but what was the point? His teammates would only knock it down when they came to demolish the place. He took one long, backward glance at his possessions, and turned to follow in the footsteps of his blackmailer.