Scene iv

It was not until several orns later that Elita met again with her old enemy. He found her on the rooftop of the Talus tower one evening, and asked with awkward deference to speak with her. But he wasn't certain how he should begin. And Elita would not try to draw him out. So they stared in silence out over the rising city as the dusk winds drifted past, and the sun settled in a haze of green.

"Does it bother you," he inquired at last, "The way I treat you?"

She gave a light laugh. "Should it?"

He huffed, frustrated. "This is serious, Elita." He looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. "I don't demand your complete submission to me. I've never hurt you or thrown you bodily across the room. I've never even called you names!" He snorted. "I'm supposed to be the sparkless spawn of Unicron himself. And yet I 'warble over you' like-" He broke off with a shrug.

Elita ignored his sarcasm, and gave an honest answer. "I'm one of the last six femmes of our race. For better or for worse, there's not an Autobot on Cybertron who wouldn't jump in front of a laser blast to protect me. But your fondness is – may I say it – refreshingly personal. I do not take it lightly."

She never touched the gray mech without making the conscious choice to do so, but now she put a light hand on his knee. "You're learning to be kind," she said. "But is that such a bad thing?"

"I don't know," Megatron huffed. He drew away from her, and wrapped his arms around his knees, blocking her out.

It was full dark before he spoke again. Elita stayed, and waited.

"He told me he was leaving. But he's always been a liar."

Elita turned to him in some surprise. "What do you mean? You haven't needed recharge since the last-" She looked at him more closely, and then said in apprehension, "You feel him with you during normal operation, don't you?"

The big mech nodded mutely. After a time, he muttered, "I almost wish I had linked sparks with him. It would have been better than this..." He chuffed. "This bond of hatred." He looked aside at her. "Do you think it's possible for two mechs to hate each other so deeply that their sparks destroy each other rather than enter the Matrix?"

"By the Source! I hope it's not!" Elita shivered.

Megatron hunched in his shoulders and looked sideways at the small femme. "The worst of it is that we don't. Not really," he whispered. "We hate what we've become in our obsessive quest to torment one another. But underneath all that..." He stopped, and stared up at a star that flickered above them in the violet sky.

Elita thought a long time before she spoke. "I felt your grief," she murmured. "The night you saved us."

"The night I killed him," the gray mech clarified.

"Yes."

Elita chose her words with care. "I was intertwined with Optimus. But I could feel his jealousy, his hatred screaming out against us." She shivered. "I was afraid. And then you came..." She raised to him a face unmasked, without the cover of reserve she wore in daily life. "I felt your anger. Your resentment. Your fear. But I also felt your love. Love not only for Orion and myself." Again, she put a hand upon his knee. "Beneath the hate you feel for Starscream, you also love him, Megatron. He is a part of your spark."

The Decepticon threw his near-sister a pleading glance, and at her nod, he wrapped his arms around around the little femme and pulled her close. "I don't think that I've ever seen the lugnut for himself," he said. "He's always seemed like part of me. All the worst parts..." The big mech plunked his chin down on the crown of Elita's helm. "He was the very essence of my own worst failures," he said. "I hated him for showing me my weakness." Then, barely audibly, he added, "And I pitied the poor slagger."

Megatron's gilt crest had been noticeably absent of late, and Elita found she missed it. It was evidence of how much the impasse with Starscream was getting to him, that the sign of his bravado was kept furled for so long. She ran a hand over the folded slats, and pulled away.

The big mech's optics dimmed, and he let go of the smaller femme. "The little scrap was right," he said. "I don't deserve all this."

"Deserve?" Elita's face grew hard. "I'm Optimus Prime's bondmate. If I gave you all that you deserved, I'd disassemble you a single diode at a time!" Her brow furrowed for an instant in a memory of pain. "Love isn't something you deserve. Love is a gift. So don't insult me, Megatron, by thinking you can earn it!"

The big mech stared at her, abashed.

"And don't expect Starscream to earn it, either," she said sharply. "Love cannot be a payment. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"I'm trying to," he said, unusually contrite.

"That's good." Elita flashed him a brief smile.

"But I do not have any love to give that piece of slag," he said. "Well, not the kind he wants," he added harshly.

Elita gave the taller mech a knowing look. "You say he always sought for your approval. Perhaps there's something you could say-"

"You mean pat him on the back and tell him, 'Good job, Starscream; you excel at ghosting?' I don't think so, little one."

"Well, pat him on the back, at any rate," she told him lightly. "It's a good start. And a little kindness might be all he needs in order to move on. To free you both."

"And if it's not?" demanded the Decepticon. "What if he never leaves?"

She turned to face him. "You're the mighty Megatron," she said. "You're sure to think of something." She scrambled to her feet, old servos squealing softly at the motion after long passivity. "May I suggest you try to see the Starscream who is real, and not just the tin-foil cutout you've concocted in your processor? Look for the mech behind the enemy." She quirked a smile at the Decepticon. "You'll be surprised at what you find."

He grunted noncommittally.

"And now," she said, "I'm going to take advantage of the fact that Optimus has unscheduled breems this evening. I have you to thank for that. We never got to spend much time together before the Ceasefire."

Elita walked away, but turned and called a last thought over her shoulder from the elevator's door. "Remember, Megatron my friend, that you are good at being kind. And you do know how to love." She shrugged. "I am alive because of it."

"Why are you still coming here?" asked Megatron.

"I don't know any more."

Such a listless reply surprised the gray mech. Even when battered, insulted, and defeated, Starscream had always – always – leapt up snarling. But not tonight. Tonight, for the first time since Megatron had known him, the red Seeker was... numb.

The ghost shuffled a few steps and sat down heavily on the room's storage trunk, his hands palm-upwards on his knees. "There's nothing I have left to scream at you," he said. "I thought that I was free. And yet I find myself still coming back to you, like always." He raised his face to meet the old mech's gaze. "I don't think I know how to leave," he said apologetically.

Megatron sat up, dropped his legs over the side of his bunk, and leaned his elbows on his thighs. "And I don't seem to know what I can do to make you go," he said.

Starscream looked up in mild surprise. "You're not going to yell at me?"

"What would be the point?" the gray mech asked. "If we are stuck here with each other, yelling seems a waste of time and energy." He rolled his neck, exhausted by it all. "Besides, Elita told me I should be nicer to you. I make no promises, though," he added, in his usual low growl.

Starscream's mouth dropped open. "What is it with you and Elita-One?" he asked in obvious confusion. "Why do you confide in her, of all bots? She's not even your-" he choked a little on the word, "-Bondmate. Why should you give a hunk of slag what she thinks?"

Megatron shrugged. "Elita's nice to talk to. I enjoy her company." He stopped and raised his hands in quick denial. "But I'm not-!"

Starscream gave a short laugh. "Elita-One would rip your neural cortex out if you tried anything. Then Prime would slagging kill-" He stopped and grimaced, thrown off balance. "Frag," he whispered. "Bonded with the Prime." He wiped a hand across his face. "But I suppose I should have seen it coming. He was the only one you ever treated like an equal."

"It seems that we have snobbery in common."

"What, you and Prime? Of course you do!"

"No," said Megatron. "I meant myself and you."

The two mechs stared at one another.

Time passed in silence, and Megatron was moved by a reluctant curiosity. Psychoses were more common than plain sanity among the ranks of the Decepticons; but even the most mal-programmed mech among them had often reassured himself, 'at least I'm not Starscream.' Despite that, in the past their Leader had assumed his Second had a crew of malcontents to plot and grouse with. Now he was less certain. "Whom did you go to, when you needed a friend's advice?" he asked.

Starscream laughed hollowly. "I haven't had a friend since-" He broke of with a strangled choke. "Primus," he whispered. "I haven't thought of him in vorns."

"Who?" asked Megatron.

"The last true friend I ever had," the ghost-jet replied sullenly. "You ordered me to kill him, of course." His lips moved soundlessly to form the long-forgotten name. And Megatron watched as a change crept over the dead jet, so slowly it was almost imperceptible.

The Seeker's features softened. Instead of the accustomed sneer of hateful resentment, his expression changed to one of hope: untarnished; almost eager. The hard veneer of cruelty Starscream had built up around himself melted away in kliks. His colors bloomed, polished and bright. And the Decepticon insignias upon his wings sank into the white metal skin as if they'd never been.

"Tell me about this friend," said Megatron. He wondered at the power of a mech whose memory could bring such a profound change in his Second. "What was his name?"

For a long time, Starscream did not answer. He sat with his hands clasped tightly between his knees, his arms and body rigid. When he replied at last, it was in a tight, protective whisper. "Halfback."

As the red jet gave up the name, his frame fell slack with a sharp hiss like pain. Halfback was the one untainted thing in all the wreckage of his life, and he'd just sold his memory to Megatron. But Starscream had never been able to keep his treasures safe from his Commander.

It took Megatron nearly two kliks to retrieve the file from his CPU. Under a grainy image of a squarely-built brown bot was the brief entry:

Halfback: applied scientist with the Altihex Lab-Group.
Allegiance: Undeclared.
Rank: Civilian.
Alt-mode: Six-wheeled ground-based transporter.

Items of Note: Shares quarters with Starscream, a flier of some possible interest.
Addendum: Newsfeed Y-4027B/9 An unprovoked attack on the Lab Complex in the third orbit of Altihex is presumed to have been led by a small group of the so- called Decepticon rebels... many casualties, including... Halfback,...

Megatron vaguely remembered something about sending Starscream out to kill a friend. But spite had led him to command the red Seeker to give up many of the things he loved. The incident at Altihex was blurred among masses of similar files.

"What was so special about this groundpounder?" he inquired. "I'd have thought you would prefer the company of other fliers."

Starscream looked up, but his unfocused gaze passed right through the Decepticon Leader. "He listened to me," he said dully. "He never asked me to be anything but what I was. Didn't need me to be something else," he clarified. "He let me go my own way; but he stuck to his own path." The Seeker gave a little half-shrug. "I admired him for that. I never could manage to hold out..."

His focus sharpened, and his voice went hard. "I never risked my plating just to save my principles. Oh, I'd put up a token fight sometimes. But I never fought quite hard enough. I gave you everything you asked for, Megatron." The hot red optics dimmed. "Halfback had slagging integrity." He waved a desultory hand. "And look what it got him- Killed in the crossfire of a war that wasn't even his."

"How close were you, really?" Megatron asked quietly. "I remember So-" He caught himself, thinking it wise to avoid the touchy subject of Soundwave for the moment. "Someone told me once that you meant to bond with him?" He phrased the statement like a question.

"No." The single word fell with a hollow sound: empty, bereft, abandoned. "Though I suppose I should be grateful he was kinder to me than the other mechs I've propositioned over my lifetime." His voice took on a coarse, guttural twang. "'Why don't you fix your own damn programming, ya cable-yanking pervert?'"

The Seeker sighed. "What Halfback said instead was that I should find wholeness within myself." He raised his optics. "And I tried, Megatron. Unmaker knows I tried." He laughed harshly, a bleak, forsaken sound. "For all the good it did me." He raised his gaze, and blurted out, "His spark was green, Megatron. Green like the open sky. I could have curled up in the safety of his soul, and been content for..."

Megatron said nothing. But he understood more than he wanted to admit, as Starscream's pinched voice faded into silence. He sat and watched and wondered, and for once did not condemn.

"Primus fragged up when he made me; that's for certain," Starscream snorted. "Halfback was the only mech I ever met who didn't think I was a piece of smelting waste. He said that if I truly needed him, he might consider bonding." Starscream's shoulders slumped, as he curled down into himself. "Halfback took care of me," he whispered, "Even when I didn't deserve it."

"Elita told me-" Megatron's voice actuator caught, and he shunted its tiny servos. "Elita said love isn't something we deserve," he offered awkwardly. Grimly, he added, "But I suppose no one deserves to have it ripped out of their hands, either." The gray Decepticon looked down at his lieutenant, and released the pressure in his taut cydraulics in one long, drawn-out hiss. "I should have slagging well left you alone," he muttered angrily. "I should've damn well known better!"

Megatron stretched his long legs restlessly, and steeled himself to speak the words that had been, up till now, unthinkable. "I'm sorry," he said shortly. "I was selfish. I should not have made you-." He grimaced, and then forced himself to add, "Not when I know what it feels like to be so utterly alone."

Slowly, deliberately, Starscream raised his head. His gaze, when it met Megatron's, was murderous in its rage. "You filthy liar."

Megatron bristled, shocked and uncomprehending. But the red mech rode unheeding over his spluttered remonstration.

"How dare you say that you know what it feels like? You. Have. PRIME!" His hard mouth twisted in a brief spasm of pain. "Every slagging bot here loves you now! You're Cybertron's new golden mech. And all the while, I'm here. I'm forced to watch. And dead. And Megatron, I'm more alone than you can possibly imagine." Starscream looked at his Commander with optics that were like two tunnels into the very Pit itself. "It hurts, how much I hate you," he choked out.

Then in an instant he collapsed to a disintegrating pile of blackened cinders, just as Megatron came out of recharge with a frantic, gasping lurch up to his feet.

Prime was sitting in his ad hoc office in the newly-built command center, when there came a hesitating knock upon his door. The Autobot put down the stack of progress reports he'd been studying. "Come in, Megatron" he called.

"How did you-?"

Optimus pointed to a little image in one corner of his desk-screen. "Red Alert installs spy cameras as an expression of affection," he replied with a half-smile. "This one turned up this morning."

"Well, turn it off," said Megatron peremptorally. "And turn off all the others."

"You need to talk?" asked Prime.

"I don't know," Megatron replied. "But I know I sure as slag don't feel like putting on a show."

Prime nodded. "Either way, it's done." He typed in a pass-code, then flipped the last switch manually. It's all right, Red, he commed. You know as well as I do that I'm safe with him. But I'll check in after four breems, and let you know I'm still alive.

Right, Optimus, the Autobot Security Officer commed crisply. I'll be waiting.

Prime stretched his arms behind his head, then gestured to a second chair beside the massive touch-screen workdesk. "Want to help?" he asked.

Megatron curled his lip at the disorder of his Brother's station. "I wouldn't even know where to begin," he said contemptuously.

Prime leveled a long look at his fraternal mate. "Begin at the beginning," he suggested. "It's usually best."

Megatron fidgeted a bit, then fell into the proffered chair with a short burst of profanity.

"It's about Starscream," he said. "Although I'm sure you figured out as much." He snorted. "Damn mech would have killed himself a hundred vorns ago, if he'd known I'd give his ghost this much of my attention."

Prime nodded, but said nothing. He waited.

The big mech rubbed a hand across his face, his gesture unintentionally similar to one of Starscream's.

"I laughed when Soundwave first brought him to me," he said. "He was so full of fire – like a star on the edge of supernova. I was delighted. I thought what fun it would be to direct his flare-ups at my enemies."

Now he too stretched his long limbs out, but restlessly, as if they itched him. "Poor slagger. Always wanting to be puppet-master, but knowing all the while he would forever be my stooge. I suppose I ought to pity him..."

"He wouldn't want your pity," put in Prime. It was the one thing he was certain of.

Megatron snorted. "No, he wouldn't. He wanted my approval, and that was something I could never give." He turned to Optimus. "How well would you have done, Great Matrix Bearer, if one of your lieutenants was forever demonstrating all the same weaknesses you detested in yourself, but were powerless to change?"

Prime thought about it. "I believe I tend to turn self hatred inward, rather than directing it at others," he replied. "But I too find it hard to countenance my own deficiencies in others. It's not easy facing such an unforgiving mirror."

"Mirror." Megatron gave a harsh snort, as of pain. "You said it, Optimus. That's all he was to me. A hated, hateful mirror. And I tried to shatter it. Over and over I slammed my fist into his face, not wanting to see what it would show me." He looked up, and met Prime's immeasurable gaze. "The things I did to Starscream would have crushed the spark of any other mech. But he refused to break. He just stared up at me with that same defiant smirk, and took everything I threw at him..."

The gray Decepticon rose suddenly, and began to pace around the room. But by now, Optimus was used to this reaction. He leaned back in his chair, and let his optics follow his bond-brother's path across and back again.

"You know the sickest thing about all this?" the big gray mech demanded, turning suddenly. "I thought that I was doing him a favor. I couldn't fix myself, so I attempted to make Starscream change. I tried to wring out of him all the follies I detested. Perhaps if he'd been able to become something he wasn't, I could have felt some hope for my own abominable spark..."

He stopped mid-stride, and glared at Prime. "Is this all me?" he asked, "Or is this sudden welling-up of guilt another product of our bonding?" He took a few steps closer, looming, and pointed a hard finger in the red mech's face. "Because if you've infected me with your self-loathing, Optimus, I swear I'll-"

"I don't know if I have or not," the Autobot cut in. He'd timed his interruption to halt Megatron's threat before it petered out on its own, thinking to spare the other's damaged ego. He stood, and met the optics of his enemy, his friend. "But if you like," he offered gravely, "I will look."

Gray shoulders slumped, as Megatron lost all his bluff and bluster. "I need your help," he muttered. "Because I don't know what to do."

Without a word, Prime wrapped a hand around the big mech's neck, and drew him in, clunking his helm against Megatron's brow. He pressed his palm against his Brother's scarred chestplate, beneath which pulsed the deep red spark he now knew as he knew his own. The link between the two of them was still new – tangled, hard to follow – yet he sent his soul along it, tasting as he did so all the colors of the gladiator's knotted melancholy. When he'd found what he was looking for, he raised his gaze to Megatron's.

"My friend... My Brother," he amended, "I'm afraid your 'sudden welling-up of guilt' does not have that much to do with me." He sighed. "Your spark is clotted with unspoken self-recrimination, where Starscream is concerned." His mouth twitched in a little smile. "I know you would have liked for me to give you some excuse. But it is you yourself who want to make amends." Affectionately, he thumped his one-time rival on the back. "And of course I have to say, I think you're right."

He closed down the bridge between them with a message of unstinting love, and stepped away. "I've never understood that jet the way you do. You know him," he repeated, still with one hand firmly resting on the shoulder of the big Decepticon. "And when the time comes, you will know how to take care of him."

The gray mech tensed, each motor and cydraulic linkage whining with the sudden effort. "I promised him," he mumbled hoarsely. "I promised him I would take care of him." He dropped his head and gave an almost bestial snarl. "I ought to be eviscerated for the things I did instead."

"That was the past," said Prime. "But what is stopping you from keeping that old promise now?"

A light flared up in Megatron's coal-fired optics. "Nothing," he declared. "Not a damn, slagging thing." He looked at Prime. "I think, for once," he growled, "I'm going to be a Leader who is worthy of the title."

It was a subdued group of mechs who trailed through the pleasure chamber. Tables and other equipment had been shoved to one side to make room, but it was still a tight fit. During the last few days, every mech on Cybertron had been required to visit this place. There were mutterings among the Decepticon ranks against displaying such signs of weakness, but Megatron was adamant. "It's time to stop denying what we're doing to ourselves," he told them, "And start looking for solutions to this problem before we self-destruct."

He looked around him now at the dissimilar assortment of Cybertronians whom he had chosen to help in decommissioning of the so-called pleasure chamber. Their faces registered disgust, resentment, shame. Megatron met all their hostile stares, and did not flinch. "Welcome to the Pit," he told them.

He picked up a long, black hose that he had stumbled over on his way into the room, and began coiling it around his arm. "I always said I'd lead you through the Pit and back," he told them. "But I confess that getting back is more than I can do without your help."

There was a nervous shuffling in the ranks of gathered mechs. This kind of talk was something they did not know how to deal with, coming as it did from their Commander.

"So little study has been made of the activities that went on in this room, that we have not yet found an easy way to cure all its addictions." Megatron peered from one face to the next, searching all their closed-off expressions. "So this is where your knowledge comes in handy," he said flatly. "According to my information, every one of you has either watched a friend succumb to this craving; or has suffered it yourself. But all of you have found a way to reprogram your circuits, so that this obsession no longer controls your life."

He moved among them now, watching their faces. "I accept my culpability in all of this," he said. "But even if I were to prostate myself before the seat of Primus himself, I could not end it on my own. What I am asking now is for one or two of you to step forward, and take a leading role in this effort. I will use every resource I have available to help you. But you will be the ones whom the others follow. Please," he urged, "Help me bring an end to our shame. Let us come out of the Pit."

A weighty silence settled over the uneasy, crowded room. It lengthened, pressing down upon each mech, as every bot weighed out responsibility against the loss of reputation. Then at last, a gruff voice spoke. "I'll do it."

All heads turned, as Skywarp stepped forward. "Starscream was my wingmate. Of course I tried his slag. And it was great. But it almost killed me. So I found a way to stop." He shrugged. "But then, I had a friend to help me. Megatron is right. No one can purge this craving on his own." He looked out at the shifting group of mechs, and gave a rakish grin. "I'll lead this sick parade," he called. "Who's with me?"

But no one spoke. A small murmur of discontent spread its insidious fingers through the room. It was Brawn who finally gave voice to it. "That's great for you, Skywarp. You'll be the next Decepticon hero. But what about us Autobots? I ain't ready to come cryin' to a Decepticon about my shameful secrets just yet, Ceasefire or no. Sorry, but that's it," he finished, as his conscience pricked him.

"Then count me in," called an aggrieved, yet resolute voice from the back corner of the room. Smooth and polished, looking every inch the aristocrat he once had been, Mirage moved through the crowd to stand beside the black Seeker at the front of the room with Megatron. His secret out, he glared at all the gaping 'Bots surrounding him, defying them to comment.

He leaned close to the tall black Seeker, and hissed into his audial, "Let's consider that life-debt I owe you paid in full now, shall we?"

His gauge was reading low again, but this time Megatron was almost welcoming the dream he knew would come. This time, in one way or another, he would end all this bad comedy of errors. He patched himself into the chargers, shunted a servo here and there into more comfortable positions, and powered down his optics.

At first, he didn't recognize the huddled ball of blackened metal curled in silent agony in one corner of his room. It was a most pathetic sight, and for a moment Megatron despised his protege for daring to indulge in such a showy affectation of despair.

But he remembered all the things that Prime and Elita had told him – all they'd shown him of their own longstanding bond – and steeled himself in his determination to do something decent for a change. If he and Starscream were to be chained forever to each other, then at least he would do what he could to make captivity endurable. He walked the three steps to the once-proud mech, and reached out toward a pale shoulder-wing.

And Starscream flinched.

It was as if, after a thousand vorns of watching for the waiting blow, the fevered jet could sense his Leader's presence without having to look up.

The gray mech drew his hand back. "Starscream. It is time to end this," he said firmly. He bent to meet the hunted gaze of his lieutenant, trying to see past the things he'd always told himself were there, and in to what was real. He caught a momentary flicker of defiance in the dull red optics, and smiled grimly.

"Long ago you made a choice," he said. "You gave up everything you had to stand at my right hand. And in return, I promised to protect you. I tempted you with everything that you desired. I lied to you." He placed steadying hands on either side of his lieutenant's drooping helm, and pressed his ornamented brow to Starscream's ashen one. "I know it is too late," he said. "But I intend to keep that promise now. Here in this place – wherever this place is – I swear to you by all that I hold dearer than my life: I will take care of you."

But Starscream only turned his head away.

As the Decepticon Commander watched, his Seeker's cockpit crumbled until a corroded hole went right through the the dark torso – a hole that bore the scars of Megatron's own black fusion cannon. The gray Leader could see his Second shutting down, cutting himself off, trying to die. And to his great surprise, he realized this was the last thing that he wanted.

After an instant's hesitation, Megatron crouched down and reached around the dulled, disintegrating body, lifting it into his arms. The flaccid jet made no resistance. Sitting down upon his bunk, he hefted the Seeker up onto his lap as if the mech had been nothing more than an unwieldy bale of scrap metal.

His mouth pressed tight, he stared down at the wounded shell. Then he opened a drawer in the side of the recharge berth, and removed a much-used, grease-stained cloth. He frowned at it, but shrugged. "It's not as if you can complain about streaked armor now," he muttered. With careful deliberation, Megatron began to run the cloth over the flier's shattered plating. He wanted in some way he did not fully understand to try and smooth out all the many dents and scrapes that he had beaten into it over a lifetime.

For a long time, nothing changed. But Megatron persisted. He knew that it would likely be an age or two before the Seeker would believe that this was not just some cruel joke – before the spent jet could receive the recompense his leader was trying to give to him. A bawdy oilhouse song, "I'll Shine Your Fenders, You'll Shine Mine," fit into the repetition of the once-white cloth's long strokes, and Megatron soon hummed along in easy, rocking rhythm.

"I sang the death-song for you," he murmured, as he drew the cloth along a crumpled wing. "I never sang it for any other. Not even Soundwave," he added firmly, for the other's benefit. For although Starscream's optics remained stubbornly unlit, and though his frame was still as limp as any offline drone's, the gray Commander knew that the spiritless mech was listening.

"Starscream," he said, his harsh voice gruff. "You are, and always have been, more than adequate. I should have said so long ago. I'm sorry."

He flipped the soiled rag between his fingers, searching vainly for an ungrimed portion. With care, he wiped at the cracked lenses covering the Seeker's optics. Then he gently ran the cloth across the flier's wan cheekplates, and cleared the tiny vents along the sides of the dark helm. He noted with strange satisfaction that a fleeting sheen of color waxed and waned beneath his hand.

He stilled abruptly, then bent to the other's audial. "I do love you, you precious pest," he whispered in some surprise. "I do."

A quiver stirred the blackened form. The limp hand that had lain against his neck tightened its grip a fraction. The ghost-jet's optics flickered, and he hunkered into Megatron's embrace like nothing so much as a scared and wounded newling.

"That's right. You heard me," Megatron said brusquely. "Just tell me what you need me to do now, you ridiculous, dear mechling, and I swear to you that I will do it; even-" He broke off and drew himself together, and then added, "Even to the sharing of my spark."

At this pronouncement, Starscream let his head fall back and laughed until his engine stalled.

"Megatron, you really are an idiot," declared the Seeker, when he could speak again. "It seems that you of all mechs should remember that I'm dead. How can I share your spark? This is a dream. It isn't real!"

Belying his own words, however, he wrapped his arms more tightly around the ancient mech, and burrowed his face into the silver chest, as if to hide in Megatron's embrace until he crumbled. "This is a good dream, though," he murmured. "And it will have to do." He shrugged. "I'll take what I can get."

"You always did," replied the big mech sadly. He held the shriveled shell in sturdy arms. "You can stay with me as long as you need to," he said, "If you're still here when my charge-cycle ends, I'll find a way to carry you with me. Somehow."

Again, the Seeker laughed. "You know you've got a load of more important things to do than drag the ghost of an undying mech around with you." He sighed, and added with an effort, "I'm holding back your future. But thanks all the same, I guess." He raised his head. "And Megatron?"

"Hmm?"

The tetrajet assayed to speak; but all the words refused to come. Defeated, he fell slack, and shrugged. "You know the way I feel for you, you wonderful, demented glitch. I never stopped. I never could."

"I know," returned the big mech lightly. "And I know how it will fuel your famous ego when I tell you there were dark times when your care for me was the one thing that kept me from self-destruction." He shrugged, and met the gaze of the dead Seeker. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

It was not like a dam bursting. It was like the cautious scuttling of tiny, fearful creatures in the dark. But one by one, words trickled from their mouths, and grew in number and in strength until great raucous bursts of laughter broke away the last walls up between them.

Easily at last, their voices rose and fell and mingled in the ancient cadences of friendship. They spoke of times gone by, of all the things that might have been, of what the future held, and of the dreams that never would see daylight. Then at last, the Seeker spoke the words they both knew must be said.

"I think it's time for me to go." Starscream arose, and stood before his leader: blackened, pierced, but straight and smiling.

"It seems unfair," said Megatron. "You survived the Pit I dragged you through, and for what? I couldn't even give you the one thing you needed most. I was too late."

Starscream flashed him the old, sardonic smirk. "Well, you and I both ought to know by now that life's not fair." He shrugged. "I'll see what death will bring me."

He bowed his head, and touched his helm to his Commander's gilded brow. "I wish you joy," he murmured.

Megatron understood full-well what it had cost the Seeker to relinquish his claim on him. He wrapped his arms around the other's frame, and pulled him roughly to his chest, knowing no words could serve.

But Starscream pushed away. He flashed the gruff Commander his most evil smirk, and out of habit said the thing he knew would aggravate his leader most. "Give my regards to Elita-One, and tell her from me that she's got a lovely aft."

Megatron gave him an affectionate smack, so unlike all the others he had thrown over the vorns. "You leave her out of this," he said. "She's not for either of us."

"No pretty femmes for me, at any rate," said Starscream; and he took a step away.

But Megatron reached out and grabbed him by the arm. "How can I let you go?" he asked in sudden consternation. "I do not even know for certain where I'm sending you! I am your Leader. And I ought to fragging know!"

But Starscream wasn't listening. He was staring out unheeding past the tall gray mech, out through the small, square window into the first thin light of dawn. To Megatron's astonishment, the Seeker's wan face brightened in a disbelieving smile of wonder and recognition.

The big mech turned, as if to learn what Starscream could have seen. But as he did, the Seeker's shell crumbled abruptly to the floor.

He made a desperate grasp to catch his friend, but the black cinders fell through his black fingers, leaving naked in the early-morning air a pale blue spark that was almost as colorless as the bleached form that once had held it.

Megatron cupped tender hands around the little flame, and bowed his head in acquiescence. "Good-bye, Starscream," he whispered. "Find your peace."

Now the light of morning rose behind them. And the little globe of one mech's life-force flickered, faded, and went out.

Megatron woke to the insistent beeping of his recharge unit. He stood, scrubbing a hand across his face. He looked out into the clear blue brilliance of the rising star that was their sun, into a morning sky that was the very color of the spark he'd just watched die. He turned away and stumbled from the room.

When Prime's thick office door hissed safely shut behind him, Megatron slumped against it. Without a word, he let his body slide down to the floor.

Optimus activated the emergency locks, tapped out the code that would reroute all his Command-level communications to Prowl, and got to his feet. The tall red Autobot walked over to the desolate gray mech, and knelt beside him.

"It's finished, then?" he asked.

Megatron scowled, and choked, "A glorious victory."

"For whom?"

"I do not know." The big Decepticon let his head fall with a heavy thump against the Autobot's broad chestplates. "He's gone," he said bleakly. "He's gone."

Without a word, Prime wrapped his arms around his bond-brother, and held him close.

In ancient times, when such links between souls were more common, the femme songmaster Aria had composed a private hymn of her lament upon the death of her bond-sister. But though the singer had long perished, her great song of grief had been remembered – passed down from bot to bot as more and more transformers found that they had need of it.

He knew the two mechs were not bonded in the strictest sense. Moreover, Optimus's voice had never been attuned to singing. It tended to wander from note to note without much reference to the melody. But he mumbled now a few words from the old hymn, as he pressed his hand in silent affirmation against his bondmate's chest.

I am cloven in twain, and my frame has no strength.
My right hand has failed me, the one I adored.

Starscream looked up into the friendly face, and felt his fear subside.

"I thought you might need me," said Halfback simply. "So I waited."

The big brown mech held out a hand. "Come on," he said, smiling. "You're going to like this place. Here, all are one."