Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.

Continuity: TF2K7 (Transformers 2007 Movie-verse)

Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Ironhide, Bumblebee

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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It was not seemly to be seen grieving before the humans.

Still, each felt the anguish of a comrade lost, the signals mixing and broadcasting between the Autobots in a palpable wave of grief. There was no singleness in a Cybertronian's pain; it was not their way to be separate when faced with such tragedy. Each fed into the other's sorrow, and bolstered their courage with the shared mourning. Prime spoke of victory, yes, and congratulated their allies, but each felt the keenness of his agony, the ceaseless litany of, had I been faster, had I been stronger that churned below his calm exterior.

Nobody seemed to note that he kept his battlemask up.

The humans, of course, picked nothing up of the subtext, the bottomless sorrow that came from the loss of the individual known as Jazz. One more friend lost; another Spark dispersed. Another name in the too-long list of fallen.

And beneath the more immediate pain, the high cost of the war's end rang in a sour, endless wail. The Allspark's had been destroyed, and it had become their death sentence, as much as it had been Megatron's. Their species, though long-lived, was by no means eternal. Prime had spoken of it, had called for it, but still its absence seemed bewildering, not quite real.

They were the last remnants of their species, and doomed to remain that way. Their bodies would weaken, and, lacking sufficient components and metals to replace worn circuitry, deteriorate. Their Sparks would ebb. They would fade. In centuries, perhaps, or even millennia - great sums of time to any creature - but all the same, an unavoidable ending. And none would be left to commiserate for their silence.

The humans did not know. Nor would they. They thought in terms of the present, and the immediate impact their emotions. If they felt pain, they wore it openly upon their faces. If they were pleased, they would share it. But each remained an island unto themselves, forced to endure whatever tragedy they bore alone.

Ironhide would have felt sorrow for their isolation, had he any more left to give.

The last of us, he thought. The last of us will know what it is like to be alone, be truly alone. Perhaps that was why Prime had been set upon destroying himself along with their hope for a future. Ironhide could not bring himself to hate Optimus for the selfishness. Had he been given the choice, he would have taken it as well.

In time, they fled the ruined city, in a line one less than it should have been. Ratchet carried the body, the form that could no longer be identified as Jazz, and his Spark burned with regret. A deep, boundless regret that crashed upon the others like storm-tossed waves upon a jagged, broken shore. It was a fathomless expanse that was startling and vast, filled with names of the fallen, and yet never full enough to stop feeling.

Behind him, Bumblebee remained quiet - no longer forced to, but by choice, and his silence filled them until it howled. The humans rode with him, and, exhausted by their plight, curled tight against each other, forehead to forehead as they slept. His was the rain that fell - relentless and directionless, perhaps, but omniscient. It thudded against their battered emotions, droned on and on and on into the farthest depths of their souls.

And Ironhide's was the thunder, the senseless rage that drove the storm, roaring at foes unknown and pain unbearable. The empty bellow that rolled above it all, and knew not why it cried so.

They shared their pain. They shared their grief.

Ironhide reached for each of his companions, his kin, who were so strong and yet so fragile. He, the aloof, the strong, the weary, held them close to his Spark, and sent the last truth, the only truth.

They were the last. But they were not alone.