A/N: Angst fic. Mentions (not graphic, just considering) of suicide. May be triggering to some people. Read at your own risk.
He couldn't recharge. He supposed it was due to stress, seeing all his comrades lying offline before his optics. So many brave soldiers. His breath hitched in his vents and his vocalist crackled with static, sounding almost like a human sob.
He couldn't cry. His physiology wouldn't let him. He supposed he'd talk to Ratchet, see if there was a mod he could undergo. The organics (all of them, not just the humans) were incredibly lucky. Not only did they offline early (they didn't have to see the long-term affects of war), but they could express emotion in physical ways, ways other than touch and warbling staticky keens and EM fields desperately intermingling, pulsing frantically with their owner's sorrow. They could cry.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his flanks, face buried in his servos. His frame shuddered, racked with jolts like there was electricity coursing through his circuits. He'd been fighting this for a while, the endless guilt seeping through his coding like a slick, poisonous snake. He remembered the mechs who'd terminated themselves, unable to take the anguish and suffering anymore. At the time, he'd hated them, calling them cowards. Now he understood.
He couldn't do it, though. Even if it would bring peace. To him, at least. He couldn't do it because he'd been there to see the aftermath. He couldn't do that to his fellow soldiers. They needed him too badly. With another keening, staticky sigh, he rose to exit his quarters hiding his despair behind an emotional mask. As soon as the door hissed shut behind him, he had people, both mechs and humans, vying for his attention. One voice rose above the cacophony.
"Optimus!"
He sighed and knelt down.
"Yes, Major Lennox?"