Not Worth the Tears
I walked into the nearly empty mausoleum, my head down, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the Autobots that were present across the room. I felt absurd doing this. I am a Decepticon. I am a warrior. I don't walk around prostrate in enemy territory, doing whatever I could to not be seen. I am not a spy who simpers with the enemy to fit in. I arrive and they cower before me. That was how it should be.
Sometimes, when I found myself drawn here, it was all I could do to repress the urge to bring my full fury onto any Autobots that might be in the room with me. This day, however, the fight was simply not in me. Two Autobots were quietly talking in one area on the mausoleum. I pulled the dark cloak I wrapped around myself, disguising my form, one that would have easily allowed the Autobots to discern whom I fought for. The Autobots stopped talking for a moment. I did not look up; my instincts told me they were looking at me, possibly wondering who I was. After a moment, they continued with their conversation, leaving me at peace.
Peace. The word sounded so foreign. All I have ever known is war. War was as much a part of me as my own laser core. I often wondered, if my missions ended without any sort of confrontation, what would happen to me if the war ended. Would I remain on Cybertron and try to find a different area of specialty? Or would I instead join with an exploration unit and set out to colonize and conquer other worlds? Almost every time I posed this question to myself, the answer was always the same. I would explore and conquer or I would likely cease to exist. It never surprised me that I felt like this. I was created in the midst of the war. The same was true for the Autobot I was here to see. ‘Autobot,’ I thought venomously. My minded clouded as I thought back to the day he told me that he was leaving. It always did.
I walked around one marker and slowly walked towards another, my cloak brushing softly against the graves of other, lone-dead Autobots. I had been here several times already. I could find my way to the marker with my optics deactivated. My gait slowed as I grew closer. I wanted to push closer, to get this task over with, but my legs simply wouldn't respond. I felt my hands tremble, in part from anger, in part something else. Something I couldn't quite place. Finally, I stopped and stared at the marker. It was so near I could nearly reach out and touch it. I drew the cloak closer to me, hoping this would quell my trembling.
I scowled at the name etched into the metal surface of the grave. It was a name I hated. It was not the name of the friend that I once knew. Instead, it was the name of traitor, though I doubted there were many among the Autobots that knew this. It simply wasn't in the nature of either faction to trust the other, despite how they may feel. There was always the fear that this being the “saw the light” and switched sides was actually a spy or a double agent. I could not think of a single case that a former Autobot was allowed to join the Decepticons. They were always shot on sight. Somehow this particular traitor convinced the Autobots his intentions were honorable. Or perhaps he simply lied and said he was a neutral who wanted to join. If the Autobots did allow him to join, it probably had a lot to do with efficiency he fought his former allies. He was always a strong warrior, even when he fought for the enemy. Sometimes, I could not help but wonder how he would have reacted if he had ever faced me in battle. Sometimes I wonder how I would have reacted.
I stooped down, my optics still riveted to his adopted name. With my left hand, I casually began to draw in the dust in front of the marker. ‘Why do I always come here?’ I thought. Why did I torture myself and risk myself harm by wandering into Autobot territory to simply look at the grave marker of traitor to the Decepticon cause? Even now, I don't know the answer to that question. It always starts the same way. I would be at headquarters and somebody will say something about him. I would think about the good times that we used to have. The many mock battles in the simulator. The practical jokes played on our overly serious battalion commander. Around every corner, it would seem something would remind of the good times we once had. Inevitably, I would be called away from the base for a mission. The pleasant thoughts always evaporated quickly once outside the base.
It was on one of these missions that he informed me that he was leaving.
He tried to tell me he simply didn't believe in our cause anymore. He even dared to use Decepticon beliefs to justify his absurd new revelation. I simply would not hear it. He was a traitor and I told him so. Anything else he said beyond that point became irrelevant. His words meant nothing. He left. And I let him go. That was perhaps my biggest regret. I should have destroyed him right then, but something held me back. I simply watched him retreat into the dark Cybertron sky. I never saw him again.
A drop falling to the metal floor shook me from my thoughts. I watched as another drop of energon fell from my right hand, which was clenched tightly under my chin. I opened my hand, observing the crescent-shaped wounds imbedded in the palms of my hand still shimmering with fresh energon.
"How can I let you make me so angry?" I whispered hoarsely, looking back at the marker and the accursed name on it. I disliked how my voice was shaking but I continued. "You should have been the angry one. You were the one that was wrong in leaving. You were the one that took the path to your own destruction by joining those backward thinking imbeciles. But I am the one who was left behind expected to mourn for you. You'll get no such pleasure." I rose, resisting the urge to strike the marker. "You're not worth the tears."
I looked at down at the dust in front of the marker. Like every other time I visited the grave of the Autobot that was once my friend, I drew a Decepticon symbol. Before I could move my foot to scuff the symbol out, a drop fell from my optics. I cursed, dragging my foot across the dust and turned to storm off.
I stopped, my head hung. I felt an urge to look back. Instead, I stalked towards the exit. I refused to let him make me feel like this. I should not feel guilty for the fact that he got what he deserved.
I stepped out of the suffocating mausoleum into the cold of Cybertron's perpetual dark sky. I stared up at the stars for a moment and thought. I thought about the times we would talk about exploring those systems and felt tugs of sadness. I did miss my friend. But I refused to mourn before the grave of the aberration that took his form. I am sad that my friend is dead.
But he died a long time ago.
The end.
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