"It is not ku'at to steal from the dead," Dirge remarked some time later, as they trudged across the bridge that led to the Hall of Heroes.

"It wasn't stealing!" Scavenger retorted, glancing around nervously. They hadn't run into anyone else since leaving the command center at Darkmount, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. "It fell right at my feet," he added, guessing that his mere presence here was already tantamount to an admission of guilt. "No one else seemed to want it, and it's not like he needed it anymore."

"It is said," Dirge replied, "that if the decedent cared greatly for the object taken, his spirit will linger between worlds, searching for it until he finds it."

Scavenger shuddered. "That's ridiculous!" he said, though it was hard to keep a telltale quiver of fear from his voice. "You can't possibly believe that."

"I never said that I did," Dirge answered, glancing back at him. Scavenger was walking a few steps behind, the better to keep an optic on him, though Dirge was moving with such obvious difficulty that he didn't seem to pose much of a threat. "You are the superstitious one," Dirge added, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. "Do you believe it?"

Scavenger realized that he was clutching at his subspace, as though he expected a pair of ghostly hands to reach in and snatch the crown away from him. "Of course not!" he snapped, forcing his arms back to his sides.

Dirge replied with a soft "Hmph," which might have been an indication of amusement, or contempt, or something else entirely. Scavenger found Dirge hard to read, in spite of the fact that he, like all Seekers, eschewed wearing a mask. Perhaps mechs who didn't wear them got used to hiding their emotions in other ways, Scavenger thought. He'd never been much good at reading Starscream, either.

They passed between the two great pillars that flanked the bridge, and entered the Hall itself. It was a large, open-air auditorium, shaped like an arrowhead and bordered by two rows of towering statues. These were of great Decepticon warlords, most of whose names Scavenger had either forgotten, or, quite possibly, never known. Their sightless gazes seemed to track their progress as they plodded toward the arrowhead's apex where the podium stood, cast in deep shadow by the towering superstructure that sheltered it.

The Hall was dark and empty, the only sound being the ringing of their footsteps against the polished steel pavement. It had been so different the last time he'd been here. Then, the podium had been brightly lit and the Hall itself crowded with Decepticons eager to hail Starscream as their new leader. Scavenger remembered how proud and excited he'd felt. He'd practiced the traditional trumpet fanfares longer and harder than any other member of his team, because he'd wanted everything to be perfect. Starscream deserved no less.

But then Galvatron had arrived. Scavenger had not yet known him by that name, of course. When he and his companions had swooped down into the midst of the gathering and interrupted the inauguration ceremony, they had simply been terrifying strangers. Galvatron had exchanged a few sharp words with Starscream, then transformed into a cannon and, with a single, deadly blast, had upended Scavenger's whole sense of reality.

He remembered thinking that he must be dreaming as he'd watched Galvatron crush the crown beneath his pede. He remembered glancing around at his fellow Decepticons, and wondering why none of them had moved. Surely someone ought to do, or at least say something. This stranger had just barged into an official ceremony and murdered their chosen leader before their very optics, yet all any of them seemed able to do was to stand there staring like a bunch of stunned petrorabbits.

Not that Scavenger had been any exception. He remembered how he'd stood staring down at his trumpet, the end of which was still faintly smoking from a blast from one of Starscream's rifles. He knew in his spark that there was only one Decepticon who would have been brave enough to stand up to Galvatron in that moment, and that Decepticon was… Scavenger lifted his gaze to the top of the podium. Was it just his imagination that the shadows seemed especially dense around the spot where he knew Starscream's body lay?

"I can't do this," he said suddenly. The words came out without his even quite realizing it, and Dirge, who had by now reached the base of the steps, glanced back at him.

"I'm afraid you must," Dirge said, his tone surprisingly gentle. "You will become accustomed to the sight of death, as I have." He engaged his antigravs and kicked off with his less damaged leg, soaring to the top of the podium without bothering with the steps. Scavenger noticed how carefully he placed his feet as he settled, and shuddered. He didn't want to think about why.

"It's not that," he said, clenching his fists. He'd seen plenty of bodies, both Autobot and Decepticon alike. What he'd never seen was the body of someone he'd been, well, intimate with. Someone he'd written poetry about, or tried to. "Why me?" he asked plaintively. "Why are you making me do this?"

"It is always preferable that the decedent's friends and kin preside over the handling of the remains," Dirge replied. He reached into his subspace and drew out a plain metal urn, which he set down on the podium beside him. "Starscream had neither friends nor kin, so he has us."

"Us?" Scavenger echoed. There was something about the way Dirge had said that word, something he couldn't quite… "You?" It felt as if a missing puzzle piece had just clicked into place, but that couldn't possibly be right, it didn't make sense. "You and Starscream were… what, lovers?"

Dirge cocked an optic ridge. "I believe the expression 'frag buddies,' much as I dislike it, would be more accurate. Similar to the two of you, I suspect."

"Similar to… oh, Primus. You knew about… and the two of you were also…?" Scavenger's legs felt weak. "For how long? Wait, never mind, I don't even want to know! It's disgusting!"

"Disgusting?" Dirge's optics narrowed. "How so? Do you find it difficult to imagine that Dirge, the untouchable, might also have desires?"

Yes, Scavenger thought. It wasn't just hard to imagine, it was impossible. Perched there atop of the podium with his intakes hunched behind him like a pair of black, folded wings, Dirge looked exactly like the vulture Scavenger had accused him of being. Just the thought of those hands, on Starscream's body… it was more than he could bear. He lunged toward the steps and barely noticed himself climbing. He wanted to scream, hit something, pound it into rubble the way Devastator would. He seized Dirge by his shoulders and shook, hard, not bothering to worry about the death-touch. What difference could it possibly make now?

"This… whole… time!" he snarled, shaking him. "I was writing poetry, trying to make him understand how I felt, and you and he were…" He couldn't even say the words. "And you knew! You knew he was just using you, and yet you dragged me into this anyway! You're risking both our lives, and for what? He's dead! He doesn't care! He probably never cared about anyone in his whole life! He was just using both of us like he uses everyone, he was nothing but a—"

Scavenger broke off as his gaze fell on what lay just beyond where Dirge was standing. "Oh… Primus."

Somehow, it was worse than could ever have imagined. It wasn't so much the powdery gray ash, or the scattering of unrecognizable fragments, although those were bad enough. The worst part were the pieces that were still somewhat recognizable. Here, the fragment of a wingtip, its red and white markings faded now to dull grays. There, a few stray bits of purple cloth, their charred edges stirring in a faint breeze. Most horrifying of all was a single cracked optic right near his feet, its darkened lens staring sightlessly at the stars.

Scavenger's knees buckled, and he suddenly found himself clinging to Dirge's shoulders for support. Dirge caught his arms, bracing him as he began to sag, and then turned him away from the wreckage and guided him toward the edge of the platform. "Here." He pressed Scavenger's hand against one of the pillars that framed the edge of the dais. "Lean against this."

Scavenger did, heavily. His vents were coming in heaving gulps, and the stars were blurring into swirls of kaleidoscopic color. His tanks churned. "I think I'm gonna…"

"Go ahead," Dirge said. He had withdrawn his touch but was standing nearby, his hand resting on the pillar just behind Scavenger's shoulder. The gesture felt oddly reassuring for some reason, but Scavenger was in no condition to think about why. He had barely enough time to retract his mask before he lost control of his gag reflex and purged violently over the edge of the platform. When his tanks seemingly had nothing left to give, he sagged to his knees, leaning against the pillar. It felt pleasantly cool against his heated faceplates, and when the sobs began, he was powerless to hold them back. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped himself in a tight ball, folding his shovel-tail over his head as if it could somehow hide him from sight.

Dirge knelt stiffly beside him. "It's all right," he said quietly. "Just let it out."

Scavenger couldn't have done otherwise if he'd tried. Everything he'd cared about was gone. His world lay in ruins, shattered, and the mech he'd loved lay shattered along with it. He couldn't bring himself to care how weak or pathetic he must seem, yet Dirge's tone hadn't been mocking, and when his hand returned to Scavenger's arm in a light, questioning touch, Scavenger didn't pull away.

"It is not true, what they say about me. My touch does not bring death," Dirge said, as Scavenger twisted his head just far enough around to get a glimpse of him from the corner of one optic. Dirge's expression was calm and serious as he added, "I, too, once lost a loved one. I do understand."

Scavenger just nodded. Even if Dirge's touch did cause death, that hardly seemed to matter anymore. He felt dead inside anyway, and it was comforting, somehow, to not be completely alone at a moment like this. After a while, he mumbled, "At least now I know why he'd never kiss me."

"I don't think he did kiss," Dirge replied. "He once told me that he didn't enjoy it."

"He told you that?"

"Aye."

"I thought he was just…" Scavenger trailed off. What had he thought? Starscream had told him exactly the same thing, and more than once, but Scavenger had wanted so badly for it to be otherwise that he hadn't really listened. "I wanted him to notice me," he said softly. "I thought if he really looked, if he really saw me, everything would change. But… he was just like everyone else. No one sees me. Even my team acts like I'm invisible, and they'd probably just abandon me if there was some way they could form Devastator without me. I wanted Starscream to be different, but he just… wasn't."

"He was what he was," Dirge answered simply. "There has never been anyone else like Starscream, nor will there be again."

"I hate him."

"I think you also loved him."

Scavenger drew a shaky sigh. "Yeah. That too."

Dirge didn't answer. He kept his hand on Scavenger's arm, and when Scavenger's shaking began to subside, he said, "You are free to leave."

Scavenger gave him a startled look. "What?"

"I assumed that your feelings toward Starscream were similar to my own. I was wrong. I will not force you to do this against your will."

Dirge released Scavenger's arm and dragged himself to his feet, using the pillar for support, and walked unsteadily back to where Starscream's body lay. He knelt beside the remains, opened his tool kit and brought out a small hand-held brush and a trowel. They were a matched set, made from some dark metal with intricate silver inlays, and had an antique look about them. Working carefully, he began transferring scoopfuls of the remains into the waiting urn, and Scavenger shivered at the sound the fragments made, pinging off the urn's interior walls. Dirge's lips moved silently as he worked, as if he was offering a prayer. It was unsettling to watch, yet strangely moving at the same time.

Scavenger wondered, suddenly, how he ever could have compared this mech to a vulture. Kneeling there in the shadows, his hunched form bent beneath an unseen burden of sorrow, Dirge seemed more like a stately old raven. It occurred to Scavenger that throughout the past orn, he hadn't given a single thought to what would happen to Starscream's remains. It had seemed outside his realm of concern, a matter for someone else to worry about. Yet Dirge, who had seen Starscream as merely a 'frag buddy,' was risking his life in order to see that he was properly buried. Somehow, it seemed wrong to just walk away.

He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled to where Dirge knelt, being careful not to step on Starscream's remains, or to look at them too closely. Dirge tensed when Scavenger touched his arm, as if he'd become so absorbed in his task that he'd forgotten Scavenger was there. He glanced up, his gaze questioning.

"Um," Scavenger said, suddenly feeling awkward. "Do you have an extra set of those… things?" He pointed to Dirge's tools.

"No," Dirge said, looking even more surprised. "But you may use these, if you wish." He held them out, handles first. Scavenger took hold of them gingerly, trying not to think about the grayish powder that now clung to them.

"That's all I have to do? Just scoop, uh… him… into the urn?"

"Yes," Dirge replied. "Be as thorough as you can. It is ku'at for the decedent's frame be interred in its entirety." He paused. "Thank you."

Scavenger just nodded. He sank to his knees, steeling himself to take over Dirge's grim task, and forced himself to finally, really look at what was left of Starscream. "I always wondered why he chose me," he said in a low voice. "I mean, he was…" he paused as his gaze arrived, once again, on that fractured wingtip. Even in its charred and broken state it had a certain, stark loveliness. "Perfect," he concluded softly.

Dirge snorted. "I can think of a number of descriptors for our late colleague, but that would not be among them."

"But you're risking your life for him."

"I made a vow."

"But why? You weren't in love with him."

"No," Dirge agreed, "but I was grateful that he never regarded me as untouchable." He rose with difficulty. "I am also certain there is someone who does love him, and if I were in that mech's position, I would not wish to find the remains of a loved one simply left. I would want to think that someone had cared."

"Oh." Someone else, Scavenger thought. He hadn't considered that. "Do you think Starscream also... cared... for this other person?"

"I know he did," Dirge answered firmly. "Do not take it to spark that he could not return your feelings. I believe his own spark was given long ago." As he spoke, he reached into his subspace and drew out a device that looked something like a jackhammer.

"Uh… what's that for?" Scavenger asked uneasily, watching as Dirge braced it against his shoulder.

"I need to crush some of the larger pieces so they will fit the urn," Dirge replied calmly. Then, apparently noticing Scavenger's horrified expression, he added, "It is regrettable, but necessary. You may wish to avert your optics."

He activated the device, and Scavenger quickly discovered that his tanks weren't quite as empty as he'd thought.