Bumblebee woke up with a start.
His spark was burning inside his chassis, pressing against his chestplates as if it wanted to jump out of him. The scout hissed between his teeth. It hurt. It hadn't hurt so much since…
Since Rubble's death.
Bumblebee quickly shut down that line of thought. He didn't want to cry again. He thought his tears ran dry after he spent so much time mourning, yet his optics kept overflowing.
It never got easier.
The yellow bot lied back on his berth, but his spark refused to calm down. It kept pulsing erratically, reaching for something that wasn't there. The destroyed bond led to nothing but a dead end, a painful reminder of Bumblebee failure's as a father.
He hadn't been there to protect his sparkling. Now his son wasn't coming back and it was his fault. His spark thought otherwise, spinning in its casing as if it believed it could find its offspring again.
Bumblebee quickly understood he would not go back to recharge tonight. It wasn't the first time memories kept him awake and it would not be the last, although the ache in his chassis was new. Sighing, he got up. His room's door opened in a quiet swoosh, almost deafening in the silent corridors of the Ark. He began to wander aimlessly, concentrating on putting one pede in front of another.
His steps led him to the observation deck, where the large windows allowed the optics to gaze at the depths of space. A colourful nebula was twinkling ahead of the ship, illuminating the place in a soft glow.
Hence why it was easy to notice someone standing in front of the windows. A doorwing twitched when Bumblebee entered the room, but otherwise the bot remained motionless.
"Hi Prowl."
"Good evening, Bumblebee," the Second-in-Command declared without looking behind him.
The scout came to stand beside him. He knew Prowl was not the kind of mech to engage in small talk, so Bumblebee stayed silent. Instead they watched the nebula together, quietly basking in the soothing light.
His spark jumped again and Bumblebee gritted his teeth to silence a whine. He rubbed his chestplates — the motion didn't go unnoticed by Prowl.
"Is something wrong?"
The scout let out a tired vent.
"Just… my spark who decided that insomnia would be a fun activity tonight."
"Should Ratchet take a look?" Prowl asked, furrowing his brow.
Bumblebee shrugged.
"Maybe? I don't know? I'll see Ratchet in the morning if the ache isn't gone."
He didn't tell him the origin of the ache. He didn't want anyone's pity tonight.
Prowl simply nodded and the two Cybertronians resumed their stargazing. Slowly the pain settled in a dull throb — unpleasant but subtle enough to be overlooked.
"You are not the first one to experience spark pain," Prowl stated out of the blue.
"Huh?" Bumblebee blinked, confused.
"I suppose you heard about the incident with the twins that happened some years ago, when Sunstreaker clawed at his chassis to the point he damaged his spark casing?"
"Yeah," the scout nodded grimly, "it was pretty gruesome."
"According to Ratchet's report, the twins told him that their bond with their deceased sire had awakened briefly, causing a tremendous amount of pain in their spark. It calmed down after some time but it distressed them greatly. They were — and still are, I have no doubt — deeply wounded by their sire's death."
Aren't we all, Bumblebee thought sadly. He knew Ironhide was the twins' only family. He was their world, their anchor, the proof there were still love and tenderness in this crazy world… And now the twins were alone. They had nothing left — Megatron, after shooting at Ironhide point-blank, destroyed the corpse. The two brothers hadn't even gotten the chance to bury their father.
War wasn't fair. War was never fair.
"However," Prowl continued, unaware of Bumblebee's bitter thoughts, "I received another report from Ratchet later that day. Prime himself had come to see him in order to check his spark casing. He too suffered from an ache in his spark, though our medic found nothing wrong."
The scout raised his head, his interest spiking. Prowl was not telling him this for nothing.
"A few years later, Smokescreen and I felt our bond with Bluestreak bleed. It was deeply unpleasant, yet again nothing was injured within us."
As he said those words, Bumblebee saw the rigid shell of the Strategist crack. Just for once, the Praxian allowed himself a moment of weakness. His doorwings dropped and his servos fell by his sides, his optics darkening slightly. The yellow bot didn't dare make any comment. He knew what it was like to lose a member of your family, but no words could heal this kind of wounds.
Bluestreak, he who talked a lot, would find the words, silly, bubbly, enthusiastic words which made his brothers either smile or laugh.
But Bluestreak was gone. There was neither smile nor laughter now.
"Is it the same for you?" Prowl asked, regaining his composure.
Bumblebee simply nodded, his throat tight.
"It can't be a coincidence, right? What does that mean, Prowl? Prowl, why is it happening to us?"
The Praxian pressed his lips into a thin line, his doorwings held high and tense.
"I do not know," he admitted after a pause. "I do not know…"
Somewhere on Earth
Loud wails broke into the night. The house was ancient and the walls were absolutely not soundproof, letting any noise be easily heard.
Brian groaned and buried his head under the pillow. He was in the middle of an awesome dream and of course the other one had to interrupt everything!
"Daaaad," he whined, "The baby is getting annoying again!"
In the adjacent room, Randy got up with a grunt and looked into the crib. Romano's face was covered in tears, his whole body shivering and his tiny fists hitting the mattress.
"What's wrong, little fella?" the blue-eyed black man whispered while taking the infant in his arms.
Romano sniffed then pressed his nose against the chest of his adoptive father. The ex-marine sighed, cradling the baby delicately. It wasn't the first time Romano woke up in the middle of the night, trembling and crying as if he was having a horrible nightmare. After a week of sleepless nights, Randy knew the best way to calm him down was to take him outside. The fresh air and the stars above always managed to soothe him in a short time.
Putting on a light coat on his shoulders and holding Romano in the crook of his arm, Randy stepped in the corridor. Instead of immediately taking the stairs, he gently rapped a knuckle on Brian's door.
"Bri? You still up, kiddo?"
An unintelligible grumble came from the other side. Randy couldn't help but lightly chuckle.
"Wanna stargaze a bit with yah Pa or yah're too tired for that?"
The man counted backwards from ten in his head. He got to four when the door creaked open, revealing the twelve-year-old draped in a large comforter. His young face formed an adorable pout when he noticed Romano in his father's arm.
"Does he have to come?"
"Ey, yah gotta get used ta each other, y'know?"
"Yeah but he's noisy."
"So were yah at his age, kiddo," Randy retorted, grinning. "And yah still are a chatterbox today."
"Am not," Brian weakly protested.
The man slowly knelt in front of the boy and stroked his hair with his free hand.
"Ey," he called out softly. "Yah'll always be my favorite kiddo, a'right? Just coz there's a newcomer in the family, doesn't mean yah'll be left out, don't forget that."
Brian leaned into the touch, hooded cerulean eyes meeting a same-colored gaze. Randy and Brian's appearances were completely different, save for their eyes. Nobody in the family looked alike; it was unsurprising when you knew that each and everyone of them had been found on the doorstep.
With all the tenderness of a loving father, Randy took Brian's hand into his own before getting back to his feet, the motion making Romano blink. His golden eyes settled on the young boy's face and he babbled happily.
"See? He likes yah," Randy smiled fondly.
Brian shrugged. Okay, the baby was annoying but he was also kind of cute…
"C'mon, let's go," he said instead, tugging his father toward the staircase.
"Ahm coming, ahm coming," Randy laughed under his breath, following him. "Be quiet though, Grandpa and Auntie are sleeping."
Terrance was not sleeping.
The old man was staring at the ceiling, hands crossed over his chest. Phantom pain kept him awake and his legs stumps felt as if needles were piercing them. He could hear his son's and grandson's footsteps, but he didn't have the energy to grab his prosthetics and join them. He just wanted to sleep, but his traitorous body thought otherwise.
As for Elisa, she tossed in her bed, hands gripping the sheets, several scenes playing behind her closed eyelids. In her dream, every time she raised her head, blue, inhuman eyes gazed back with sweetness. Every time she shivered, strong, hard arms enveloped her body to warm her. Every time she opened her lips, a solid mouth pressed against them. And every time she spoke, though not a word was pronounced, a rumbling voice answered her.
"Elita…"