:raises cube: To Harm.

And if anyone guesses the main character, kudos and hugs to you.

I wander, my weapons long lost and my comrades felled along the path of destruction laid behind me.

Does anyone even know why we're in this war anymore? Is it really a struggle for Cybertron? A battle for the right of Kaonians and Vossians and lower-class citizens?

At the center of it all, is it really a war for anything anymore, or simply a way to vent their frustrations? Just an amusement? Are we only pawns, useless, expendable chess pieces, scattered like toys across a board? Is Cybertron a playing field, they the players, and we the means to win, trapped in the ultimate game of war?

I suppose I'm asking myself if I really mean anything at all to this world. I have a rank, I have a designation, but when I am viewed among the thousands of other soldiers, of other pawns, of other expendable people, I become faceless, nameless, lost in a sea of death. Like him. Oh, I could barely go on when he was taken away from me.

We had no chance to bond.

There is no hope anymore.

I am nothing in the grand scheme of things.

My plating shines with lifeblood, some dry, some still sticky, not all of it mine. My left shoulder is nearly severed, the armor ripped from it. My left optic is shattered. That was vaguely disturbing, vaguely frightening, watching the glass slip to the ground, like golden raindrops, each bearing a million miniature reflections of me. I am no longer beautiful.

I am dying from a wound close to my spark that is proceeding to slowly sap me of my energy, of my life-force.

I am dying for nothing.

My insignias have been scraped from my body; I have no faction now. I belong to no one. I will welcome death. With death, I can escape this neverending, horrifically twisted game. I will finally control my own… soul.

A soul… What curious ideas the humans have, what blind grasps at that which is beyond them. Their self-assurance that when they die, they will not simply fade, they will not simply cease to exist.

Stupid, foolish, hopeful creatures. There is nothing after death. My spark will fade and I will become a part of this battlefield. My world has narrowed and will end at this corpse-littered graveyard. This is my world now, and I walk it alone.

I continue to move, to go on. There is Prowl's doorwing, torn and bleeding. I dare not stop to see what has become of the rest of his body. There is someone's arm, and it leads to- I turn away.

There are no factions in a graveyard. A dead soldier is a dead soldier, no matter what side. I bow my head to them both and move on, pain throbbing through my very core now. I am fading into the murky depths, the enigmatic shadows of this ground, of this battle, of this war.

This pointless, idiotic war.

Megatron wants equal rights for Kaonians and Vossians, and yet has personally destroyed both cities in his search for Optimus' soldiers.

Optimus wants peace, and yet he so readily engages in war.

How is this in any way just?

This is not about equality. This is not about peace.

This is about power, and pride, and about proving who is a better leader.

I am no leader, so I cannot speak for them, but wouldn't the best leader stop sacrificing his people to something that has no worth…?

I step over a warrior's fallen and broken body before I realize that I know that golden paint. I turn and kneel to face Sunstreaker, whose optics, to my horror, are still online. He is still alive.

His body, from the waist down, is gone.

"Sunstreaker…" I murmur, reaching out for my once-rival. He has a designation. I will deny myself this right, but not him. I do not have the rights to deny another.

His optics flicker and lock on mine. He is going fast. "S-Sideswipe…" he rasps, his throat working with a dry, hollow sound. "Where is Sideswipe?"

I stand, glance about. The twins are never far apart from one another. Finally, red paint catches my gaze; it is Sideswipe, his arm outstretched, sprawled facedown and buried under what looks like half a building. I force myself to look for a moment more before I kneel back by Sunstreaker's side.

His hand latches onto my ankle. "Is he safe…?" he manages softly; his throat rattles. He is nearly dead.

My chest tightens. Finally, after a moment of silence, I respond, "He is."

Sunstreaker dies then, his fingers slipping from my leg, his optics dimming. There is none of his usual bravado, but he is smiling at the knowledge that his brother, his dear, dear twin is safe. I stand and move on; there is so much pain radiating from my spark that I cannot feel much more.

Even farther along the stretch of war-torn land is Bluestreak, slumped over his prized rifle, half of one doorwing blown off in what appears to be the killing strike. Not far from him is the seeker trine, which I assume he brought down. They are side by side, Skywarp and Starscream and Thundercracker, so perfectly that it looks like someone placed them that way. When I move closer and see Starscream's arms circling both his wing-brothers' shoulders, I think that maybe he did, and I think, in my treacherous, pain-ridden mind that we aren't different at all, us Autobots and them Decepticons. Or was it the other way around?

I continue to wander.

The carnage is miles long, and as I go, my steps slow. My breaths come harder, my mind is lighter.

I am fading.

I am a nameless, rankless soldier now. I am too dizzy to think of who I might have been once; a flash of memory surfaces as I glance at my wrist. Blue paint still clings to it. I was once one of the very people the Decepticons rose up against, but I did not cause this war. This is a war of zealots, of hatred, of pointless pride.

With a jolt, I am on my knees.

I have fallen, tripped by a rogue corpse. I do not have the strength to get up again. When I look up at it, the sky is clear. Funny, it seemed so dark before, but now…

I can see the suns.

I close my optics as the light beats down on me, soaking into me. I am not in darkness anymore. I can feel my life leaving me, and it is strange, though not unpleasant.

I am fading, and it's all right. I am through being someone else's pawn. I was born into this war, and I will die in it.

A rattling intake shakes the silence and I snap back, the sky wavering between stormy, hazy grey and bright blue. With effort, I turn my head to the left and see that I had tripped over Megatron, who is struggling to breathe, each one raspier than the last. He swings his helm to me, and for a moment, twenty feet from one another, we lock optics.

His offline first, and the stillness returns.

Can it be…?

This war is... over...?

Are they happy? The nobles; the lower class. Are they all happy now, Optimus? Is there peace on this destroyed planet? Are the thousand who died happy?

I slip away slowly in the company of everyone, comrades and foes alike, who gave their lives for this gossamer game of bloodshed. I have not the strength to lift a finger. A breath that sounds like the wind rattling dead metal against a building pours over the silence in the clearing, and it takes me time to realize that it comes from me. My breathing grows rough, grows harsh, and leaves me, my chest heaving for a split second before-

I am gone.

...

...

...

… But it is not as I thought…

There is not nothing here. There is light, and warmth, and I can see all. Suddenly, I know all, and I am all, but yet I am still myself, contained within my spark but bonded to every other one in the company of- No.

Surely it cannot be.

The light brightens until it should be blinding, until I should have to shy away, but I do not. A being that is made of all sparks, a being that each small thread of light is drawn to, walks to me and opens its arms.

Primus.

'It is over,' his voice echoes around me, through me, and my body slips away as if shredded. There is no pain. There is another presence. Someone whispers my name; I know their voice. His voice, whispering my name. My name, I have a name.

I smile.

I close my optics, and step forward, and someone's arms, his, much smaller than Primus', close around me, and then-

I am.

I am…