A/N: Wow. And so it ends. The last chapter. For those of you who have made it thus far, through a story that my LJ friends call 'unreadable' I wish I could give you some kind of prize. Instead, just *hugs*. You're awesome.
43: Aftermath
Her optics flickered open, focusing first at the bright yellow armor of the face peering down at her, the optics tight blue points of concern. "Visual's up," a gruff voice said. "Looks good."
A blue-armored face pushed in, beautifully familiar.
"Chromia." The word floated up to the top of her processor—the name that matched that face. "Chromia," she repeated, tasting the name, feeling memories tendril up around the sound.
"Good sign," the yellow mech—Ratchet, her cortex fed her—muttered. "Recognition."
Chromia nodded. "Yes, it's me."
"Where's…?" Her optics flicked. There should be someone else here. Someone was missing.
Chromia's face flinched. "She…had to go. There's been a battle."
Battle. More flashes of memory, and then an image of Arcee—standing, defiant, a weapon ready. Arcee. "She can handle herself," she said, confident. Arcee could do anything.
An exchange of glances between Ratchet and Chromia. Chromia nodded. "She's fine. She's on her way back."
She smiled. "I can't wait to see her."
Ratchet tapped her on the shoulder. "What do you remember? Where are you?"
"I'm in the repair hangar. Diego Garcia. We've been here for two orbital cycles."
"Can you remember the last week?" His optics focused keenly. She recognized the word 'week' as an indigenous term. Seven solar cycles.
"No." Her supraorbital ridges raised. "Should I be concerned?"
Ratchet shook his head. "No. The memory gap will remain."
"Oh. Well. If anything important happened, I can count on my sisters to catch me up." She reached out a hand, looping her fingers with Chromia's. She smiled up. Everyone looked worried. Why did everyone look worried. There was nothing to worry about.
Her brow furrowed. "I—I cannot remember my own name." Her optics narrowed in a mild alarm. It would come to her. She was sure of it. She did a ping of her own ident code. Yes. This must be it. She smiled broadly, optics wide and innocent. She seemed to remember them different. She seemed to remember bars, lines? They were gone now the world a broad, wide beautiful expanse of light and color. "I am Elita-One."
[***]
Blackout went back to the battlefield. He knew he would. He always went back, always. He hated that he inflicted this upon himself. But he did.
He held the broad black rotor—the mounting hinges charred and warped. He sank it into the ground, so that they would not forget. No one would forget. Vortex had died here. Someone had died. It mattered. It always mattered.
He tapped his comm, a long series of codes, and a query.
"Unusual," Soundwave said.
"Just do it. He needs to know."
A moment of silence. "Yes."
Blackout stood, running a thumb over the twisted metal of the rotor's end. His comm ran through the strange echoing wails and clicks of a multiple relay call, boosted by Soundwave's comm.
"Onslaught, on," a voice said. Quiet. Tired.
"Blackout. Nemesis."
"Vortex," Onslaught said. His voice was tight. He knew. "Tell me," Onslaught said. Not an order. A plea.
Blackout had promised. A dead comm line, a ghost, but he had promised. "He chose it," he began.
[***]
Barricade groaned. He'd been aware of pain, pain like he had never known, larger than he could hold. And that became another agony, this feeling of being overfull, surfeited with agony.
And now, this. The pain ebbing and he could feel the contours of his body. He flexed his fingers. Something responded. Simpler, he told himself. He initiated his optics, and audio, basic sensory feeds.
Frag. Repair bay. Again.
Worse, a sleek bronze face staring down at him. Again.
"Getting really old," he croaked.
"I rather enjoy it," Starscream said, blandly. His own voice was thin, and Barricade noticed several gleaming patches of new armor, new hoses and cables. "At least you are alive."
"Looks like it." He didn't even look that bad. It was all…in his head. All in the combat control programming. That fraggin' helmet, taking one last bite at him. All that agony—illusory. Signal echo. Real and yet unreal.
"Soundwave had to cut the connection. I fear there will be repercussions."
"Probably," Barricade muttered. Soundwave must have gotten something while he was mucking around. He'd have the repairbots run a diagnostic. "What—happened?"
"You, apparently." A tentative smile. "I am afraid I cannot explain it, clearly. Skywarp says he was being absorbed into the thing, then he found himself on the deck plating in your cubicle. And…it…imploded."
"Sounds kinky," Barricade attempted a joke. It was a lame joke, but the attempt itself was enough. "Must have been what that program code was." That file he tore into must have been the Fallen's teleportation. Oh, Primus. Relief almost burned against his spark chamber. "Skywarp's…?"
Starscream tilted his head. "He is coming out of CR right now."A slight dip of the head—Starscream wasn't here to visit Barricade, but for Skywarp. But that somehow made it easier. He wasn't the object of Starscream's concern or pity. A large bronze hand curled into a fist. "Thank you for saving him."
"I…uhhh," Barricade blanched. He'd wanted approval, gratitude, appreciation. Hadn't he? He…had no idea how to respond. "Just…yeah." He scrambled for another topic. "So…you're in charge, huh?"
The grin returned, sly. "It so happens that I am."
"Convenient." He struggled to sit up, pausing as his head spun, his talons clutching into the mesh to steady himself.
"I…should say I have earned it," Starscream said, quietly. Barricade nodded. Both over the years and through Megatron's violence, Starscream had earned it. Funny how it had taken Megatron's return—the answer to what they'd all thought was their wish, their salvation—to show them what they'd had all along.
"So, what now?"
Starscream's optics drifted toward the door to CR. Weighing the good he could do going in there (none) with staying here. "We shall assemble the space bridge, as planned."
"We leave?"
"We have the option. There are things here we have yet to collect—that second terrestrial energon source, for one." Another glance at the door. "But then…." But then, for the first time, options. Opportunities. No longer mere survival. Something more. Something…more.
