21. Angry
Feather, star, staff.
Suggested by: DargonXKS

Before the great Decepticon surge and Unicron's arrival, this chamber had been reserved for accommodations, accreditations and reward ceremonies. On the simple raised dais was a podium, flags of the many human nations, and embedded into the wall, the Autobot symbol. Today, as for the past week, there was no podium, no flags; two simple black swatches covered Primus' face in mourning. Flanked by two staff-wielding honor guards, lay the body of Optimus Prime, grey and lifeless, upon a plain catafalque.

For weeks after the Decepticon assault on Autobot City, Solarflare and her comrades had worked day and night, often going without recharging for days on end, to repair the monumental damage. Little news reached them during that time, save the triumph of Rodimus Prime over Unicron and the Decepticons' subsequent deep-space exile. But now that events had spiraled back to normal, the Autobots could properly mourn the passing of the greatest of leaders Cybertron had even seen.

A public ceremony for all of Earth and those of Cybertron had been held at the beginning of the week, with thousands filing past Optimus, touching the huge black rifle that had led them to more than one victory. To touch his body had been denied them; that honor was left to those who were part of his innermost circle: the Ark warriors, his most trusted lieutenants.

Solarflare had just come from the launching ceremony of the warriors who had been brutally murdered as their ship had come into Earth's orbit. Stalwart, unflappable Prowl; strong, determined Brawn; powerful, impatient Windcharger; brilliant Wheeljack; solid Ironhide; and Ratchet … her … father. Where she had found the strength to stand in formation and listen to the recitations of their greatest achievements, she didn't know; what she did know was that her heart broke several times over as Flamestrike quietly sobbed over her bondmate's body.

The avian femme would have liked more time to think on the past month's events, but she had a schedule to follow. Everyone and their creator wanted to make sure that they got their allotted time with Optimus' body before he, too, was sent into space on his final journey.

Ultra Magnus himself stood guard at the entrance to the chamber. The barest of acknowledgements flickered between them as the City Commander opened the door for the smaller grey femme. Slicking her fluttering wings tightly to her back, Flare gathered what remained of her strength and stepped into the chamber. Sombre, subtle lighting assailed her optics, the sensors whirling gently to adjust. Against the back wall, on either side of the catafalque, the honor guards' heads turned as one, their staffs rising slightly in their hands before they recognized the comm officer. To them, Flare gave a nod of her head, one that she would not confer upon Magnus.

Slowly, she crossed the crimson carpeted floor, past the lines of bright blooms, some whose buds were long gone and were yet to be replaced. A small stool was sitting before the corpse, on the dais. Before that short step, Flare paused, the malleable metal of her throat tightening at the reality of the situation.

Oh, Optimus …

She took the seat, looking over a metal form who used to be infused with such vitality, compassion and strength. A body that was now more grey than she was – except her grey was one of life; this was death.

The corners of her optics twitched as she looked over the wounds First Aid had refused to close up for the viewings. It was not something Optimus would have wanted – for such sacrifices to be glossed over, prettied up for innocent eyes. There were the long scratches and burn marks made by laser fire across his battlemask; here and there, along his upper torso, bits of the City still embedded. Dents, paint scratches, missing bits of metal … then, the fatal wound. Lips trembling, Flare reached across the Prime's huge body to touch the ragged edges of blown metal, the tips appearing to be soldered.

Why … why did you have to die, Optimus? she cried, taloned fingertips leaving the huge hole in his side. Of all of us, you were invincible, defying all the odds, rising from the chaos to lead us home.

Her hand trailed down his arm and took up the huge, lifeless fingers in her own. Overwhelmed, Flare gave a huge, wracking sob and touched crest to the death-grey knuckles.

Cry! she commanded her system … CRY!

But no matter how hard she willed, there was absolutely no fluid left in her system; all the washer liquid had run dry at the other ceremony. She could heave, hack and rock all she wanted, but there would be no twin streams to give vent to her overwhelming grief.

Damn you, Hot Rod. Slag you and your impulsiveness. Anger, bright and hot, welled up in her sorrow-wracked chest plate, all pointed to the newest Prime. Tightly, she clutched at the lifeless hand locked in her own, slowly shaking from side to side.

"Comm Officer Solarflare."

We need you. We need you to see the triumphs that were accomplished in your honor, for you. They're gone, Optimus, Megatron is off Cybertron. We have the advantage back. We need you to lead us towards the final victory.

"Comm Officer?"

It shouldn't have been this way. Is this what you get for giving me my life, Optimus? It's because of you that I live and that I fight for you. … We've always fought for you – you are the Autobot cause, the Autobot symbol. You are truth, hope, victory … peace. Without you, where will we go? What will we do?

"What will we do!"

"Comm Officer, I'm sorry, but your time is up. If you have a token, you'd best leave it now. Lieutenant Springer is scheduled next."

The voice of one of the guard finally wormed its way into her grief-addled cortex. Slowly, Solarflare released the hand she'd been so desperately clutching, willing with all her spark to infuse its shell with vibrant life. "Yes … yes … token," she muttered, half to herself. Sliding leadenly off the stool, she turned away from the body and reached into subspace to pull a large grey, black-tipped pinion feather.

"You have been the greatest person I have ever had the privilege to know," she whispered, turning back around and placing the Harpy Eagle's feather atop the grey chest of Optimus Prime. May Primus help us with the one who now carries your Matrix, she silently added, giving the body one last, forlorn look before leaving the chamber through the opposite door.

A keen, angry and sad at the same time, echoed the grounds, lifting to the stars, who passed no judgment.