Another argument with that treacherous vermin. Another thing he accuses me of.

I still hear his infernal voice. “You wanna slag me off, Kid? Look! I ain’t got time ta be arguin’ with ’ya all day, ’ya know! An’ I’m not up for watch duty for another megacycle. So stick it in ’ya command module, and leave me alone.”

“What right do you think to call me a child by?!”

“I was in da Great War when I was your age! I SHOULD know!”

“You’re not the only one who was in that war,” I snarled, my optics narrowing out of their own accord.

He glared back. “Really, den?”

“Do you think this is my original body?”

“Liar. No bot cheats death. Now . . . just keep out of my way. I’ve got bettuh thin’s ta do.”

Rot in the Pit. You belong there. All you ever do is try to act like one of the supposed war heroes that you Maximals say you all were. I don’t believe one lying word. And they say that Predacons are the evil ones, the ones that lie, cheat, deceive at all times. I’ve known better Predacons, whose actions are more honorable than yours. At least they don’t hide what they truly are.

And you say that I’m a child? That nobody cheats death? Bull. The Deceptacon Megatron, who later became Galvatron, did. Your so-called great Optimus Prime did. Even Primal has, and still you don’t care to acknowledge the fact that Predacons are capable of the same things. Sparks were taken from their older, barely-functioning bodies, and were given new ones, with all memories intact. They left their old lives, and took on new identities.

I, myself, left behind she whom I loved. She, whom I had battled with, whom I had seen through hard times and fair. She, whom after I had “died,” had mourned, and nearly had taken her life, had not I interfered. I told her what I could, since we were ordered not to say that we had been brought back from near-death. We were told to say that we were survivors of the battle, rescued, but we couldn’t return to those we love.

And it was her, who heard what I could not say, and understood.

Maybe, once this is all over, I’ll return.

Pain. A deep ache that I knew was my Spark, within this weak shell. I had to leave. I had to go. But there . . . there’s Rattrap . . .

What was he doing? Why is . . . Primus . . . he knew this was bad. He knew I wasn’t going to survive. His hand touched my shoulder, and then he grasped my own hand, trying to comfort me. I looked at him, and see Hurt, Fear . . .

“Why,” I asked, my vocal circuit starting to fail even as I spoke, “why do you fear death?”

“I’ve seen people killed in front o’ my own optics, in ways dat would make even you sick.”

“I told you . . . I’ve been there before. Or close enough to it.” I coughed, mech fluid creeping past my lips. I ruptured something vital. Something was prohibiting my mech-pump from pulsing regularly. I gasped with the discomfort, then steeled myself, not wanting to let them see how much pain I was in. I had to protect them from that knowledge. “Rattrap . . . laptop . . . in my quarters . . . password is ‘Yurei no Aki’ . . . Japanese . . . read what you may.”

“C’mon, ’ya slag-slurpin saurian . . . ’ya gotta survive dis.” His voice cracked.

I looked up at the others, then back at him. “I . . . can . . . not. . . . Tell my tale . . . to those . . . who ask . . . tell it truly . . . ill deeds along with the good . . . and let me . . . be judged . . . accordingly . . .” I hung on, barely, just barely, and said with my last breath, “Farewell . . .”

And then . . . and then it was dark . . . and painless . . .