Interlude 3
*Sweet-spark…where are you. Are you alright?*
She kept calling through her bond; hoping for an answer, a nudge, a small connection to her beloved off-spring. But there was nothing. No call. No wave of emotion, no tickle of recognition, nothing.
Nothing except the interminable blackness of greasy smoke, shot through here and there with gouts of angry red flames. But even they were darkened by the miasma of roiling vapor, their only impact, intense heat to add to the pall that had fallen over the crèche.
Spindle stopped a moment, thoughts crowding out one another in her processor, each vying for dominance over the other. File after file opened, closed, catalogued, opened-closed-rewrote, opened-savedopened-discardedopened…opened…opened…
Memories, remembrances, a fixed point in time written on her hard drive, etched into her spark; of a precious green-opticed sparkling placed carefully into her trembling servos, of laughter and love emanating from that impossibly small frame, the waves of love and belonging wrapping around her spark and returning.
There were the arguments over the sparklings care, his size, his gestation period. There were the strong arms that lifted the small being from hers and placed him in a hatchling pod. And there was the overwhelming sense of loss and failure as she watched him drop off into stasis.
Of course words of encouragement and hope found their way from deceptive and dishonest mouth plates to her audio pick-ups, but they went unheard. She could have been a drone for all the caretakers cared.
"Surely this special spark needs more than you can give…certainly you would wish for him to be provided the best care our world can provide?" These were the words they used; these were the attitudes that beat down upon the femme-carrier of this singular spark. "Certainly you must have the sparklings best interest to spark…why not let us care for him, after all, we've been doing this for countless vorns."
Later came the dignitaries, the celebrities, the politicians, the crowds. Later came some small modicum of recognition for the femme who carried this singular spark. The gatherings, the interviews, the endless questions from the inquisitive, the busy-bot, the snoop, made her helm spin, her processor ache and caused her to seclude herself from friend and world.
The few whom she cared about were constantly at her door; begging, pleading, hoping for a sign, a word that she was still a part of their world, still their friend. Many were the promises made; constant was the attention from these worthy beings, their strength and love acting as a bulwark for her withering spirit. And when she finally emerged from her self-imposed cloister it was to attend the sham celebration for the youth of Cybertron, going so far as to accompany Megatron himself to the banqueting hall. She listened to the polite words, the exorbitant promises, the lofty ideals and tried to keep her dentas from grinding. And she made plans to slip away to the crèche and claim her own.
And just when the evening was near an end, just when she had slipped away from the last well-wisher so she could return to the crèche and bask in the unending love of her sparkling, the unspeakable happened. And it brought with it the end of all the people of Cybertron held dear.
The noise of several avionic engines passing dangerously close to the Great Hall drew the attention of those still in attendance. And the murderous bombings, the devastating explosions, the wild flare and finality of the flames brought cries of unbelief, screams of terror; and the loudest was Spindles…
"SUNSTAR!"
