Optimus walked down the corridor slowly, keeping his arms crossed and his head bowed. Though lost in thought, he didn't bump on any corners or missed any turns on his way to his dorm. He had been dead for a more than a year, but he still knew Autobot City like the back of his hand. The place was exactly as he remembered it, although it was true the City suffered a lot of damages during the outbreak of the Hate Plague, and several areas had to be reconstructed from scratch. In fact, it almost felt like he hadn't been gone at all.

When he met his companions again, however, Optimus knew that nothing was the same. Jazz told him about everything that happened in the last year, and Optimus was shocked to hear how hard it was for the Autobots to cope with it all - especially for his old comrades from the Ark days. It wasn't that Rodimus proved a bad leader or anything of the sort. As Jazz put it, "It just wasn't the same."

Optimus couldn't help but feel like he had somehow failed them, all of them. He always believed that everything he did was the best for the Autobot cause, and yet here he was, wondering what he did wrong. What more could he have possibly done so that he and everyone else didn't have to mourn good friends? Probably nothing. And perhaps it was some kind of poetic justice that he died along with them back then.

So then why was he back to life, trying to carry on as though nothing was changed? How could he deal with the Autobots that saw in his face all those comrades who wouldn't come back? Couldn't come back? How was Optimus himself supposed to continue being their leader under such circumstances?

The sound of a TV reached his audios, making the Autobot leader freeze in his tracks. He listened carefully, trying to determine where the sound came from.

Sector B-12. Optimus remembered quite well that there was a common room at that sector. Nevertheless, he was surprised that a TV was still on at this time of night. As far as Optimus knew, all the Autobots had retired to their dorms by now.

Sure enough, when Optimus headed to the common room, he saw that the lights were out. It was strange that the TV was on anyway, but then Optimus figured that the last occupants probably expected Metroplex to switch off the power on his own. Metroplex, however, was offline, because First Aid said he needed to make a full diagnostics scan on him; the giant Autobot had taken quite the damage as well during the Hate Plague.

Shaking his head, Optimus walked up to the TV and turned it off in the old-fashioned way by pressing the button.

"I was watching that."

Optimus turned around at once, startled to see a pair of blue optics shining brilliantly. They did little to illuminate the whole form as it was sitting on a nearby couch in the darkest corner of the room, but Optimus still managed to discern a youthful face and a pair of red chevrons.

"I didn't realise you were here, Bluestreak," Optimus said in a form of apology. "You should have said something when I walked in."

"I didn't feel like talking."

Optimus winced before he could help it. Jazz had already told him about Bluestreak's own difficulties to cope this last year, and Optimus couldn't help but feel for the young Datsun. The war cost him his home and then someone he considered a family; finally, the Hate Plague almost cost him his sanity as well. It was enough to taint Bluestreak's gentle spirit, aging him far more than his actual years. Optimus saw it only too clearly in the way the young one regarded the Autobot leader without even the slightest hint of a smile on his features.

"… Did you hear me?"

Optimus blinked. He hadn't realised Bluestreak was talking to him. "Ah… Could you repeat yourself please?"

Bluestreak shook his head, a faint sigh escaping his lip components. "I said you look troubled, Optimus. Do you want to sit down?"

Optimus pondered on the question for a brief moment, until he decided to accept the Datsun's offer. He settled next to Bluestreak.

"I thought you said you didn't feel like talking," he noted.

Bluestreak shrugged. "You've turned off the TV and I don't want to go to my dorm yet," he replied simply.

"And what about your duties tomorrow morning?" Optimus asked.

"Surveillance duty at noon," Bluestreak answered. "It has been my only duty for the past year."

Optimus sighed inwardly. Of course. Jazz told him that Bluestreak had been relieved of his rank as a gunner; everyone was too afraid Bluestreak would turn his guns against himself. And after what Bluestreak went through at a time when the whole world sank into madness, First Aid still didn't want to take any chances.

"Do you miss the battlefield?" he asked softly.

"I don't miss fighting, if that's what you mean. The only reason I ever fought was to protect my friends." Bluestreak's optics dimmed significantly. "In those days, I thought it would make a difference."

Optimus clenched his hands into fists before realising it, for he understood he wasn't the only one who felt helpless when everything went so awry a year ago. But, even though he was now sure that most of the Ark Autobots must have felt the same way, the Autobot leader still didn't know how he could help them. How could he take that pain away, when he had inflicted it in the first place? If he hadn't been so hesitant in facing Megatron head-on before the Decepticons had conquered Cybertron, if he hadn't decided to separate the Autobots, placing most of them on the Moonbases, if he hadn't sent that shuttle to Earth… so many ifs and each of them were directed at him, accusing him.

"Bluestreak…" he said, the words flowing out as if on their own accord, "A lot of things happened while I… was gone… and I can't help but feel concerned." He paused and looked at his hands, resting on his lap. "In fact, I think the Ark Autobots should back away for a while."

Bluestreak sat up and stared at the Autobot leader in disbelief. "Optimus?"

"Allof you have been through a lot this past year, Bluestreak. You, of all mechs, know this better than anyone. The death of our friends and comrades, the grief, the endless war without any sign of victory in sight, the Hate Plague… all these will pay their toll eventually." Optimus looked up and met the Datsun's gaze. "I don't want to see any of you break."

Surprisingly, Bluestreak smiled a bit. "May I speak freely, Optimus?"

"Always," Optimus answered.

"We've all suffered in this war and lost someone we loved and cared about. That was also the reason we struggled for something better. That was what Prowl, Ironhide and everyone else, including you, died for, and that was what you expected from us as well. We can't just step away completely." Bluestreak reached for one of Optimus's hands and clasped it boldly. "Prime, I realise you're in part feeling responsible for what happened. But you've also done good by offering us hope when the Decepticons left us with none. You've even done the impossible by coming back to us from where no mech has ever returned." The young one's door panels stood proudly behind his silver back. "Trust me, if we've pulled through so far, we can sure manage now."

Optimus looked at Bluestreak in shock, for he couldn't believe that the former gunner spoke to him so confidently and wisely. The incessant stream of words that were part of Bluestreak's innocent young persona was gone, replaced by a calm, soothing tone that seemed to appease the most troubled spark.

"Is something wrong?" Bluestreak asked.

"No," Optimus answered at once with a small shake of his head. "It's just that you sounded like a common friend of ours."

A soft chuckle escaped the young one's lip components. "I can't say I'm surprised. I've been told he rubbed off on me before."

The Autobot leader shared Bluestreak's humour and chuckled too, yet the memory of Prowl and the others made his spark sink. When Optimus had returned and resumed command once more, all the Ark Autobots expected the others would be brought back to life as well; Optimus could see it in their optics only too clearly. And he would never forget the look of disappointment in all those optics when he told them it was impossible. That the Mausoleum was gone, destroyed along with the bodies of their friends.

"Bluestreak, I'm really sorry," he said, his voice barely coming out of his vocaliser. "If only I could somehow…"

"I know," the young one said quietly, not allowing Optimus to continue. He obviously understood where the Autobot leader's mind drifted off. "For all that it's worth, I'm not angry with you. It was the Quintessons' fault and they got what they deserved." His grip on the blue hand tightened, squeezing it in reassurance. "I forgive you. And perhaps… you can forgive yourself too someday."

Optimus didn't speak at once, taking in Bluestreak's words and accepting them with a sense of a relief. And he realised that perhaps things would turn out all right after all. All he needed was to have as much faith in the Ark Autobots as they had in him.

"Thank you, my friend," he said.

Bluestreak simply nodded, then stood up and headed for the exit, saying one thing only:

"Go to sleep, Sir. You need it."

Optimus raised an optic ridge. "Is that an order, Bluestreak?"

A soft chuckle filled the air. "A suggestion. But, I could pull a Prowl on you, if you like."

"You won't have to; I know when I'm bested." Optimus said, rather surprised that he could feel amused under the circumstances. But, even as Bluestreak walked away, a part of him realised that perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. Because even when things feel utterly gloomy and dark… all it takes is a kind word from a friend to pull you out into the sunlight of hope. And it gave Optimus the motivation to be that sunlight of hope for all the Autobots in the days that would follow.

Thanks, Bluestreak…

THE END.