The battlefield was riddled with fissures and craters, the gray sky hung low, as if pressing down from above. Smoke, soot, and fine sparks filled the air, mixing with the rain that poured down the tattered armor, driving nails and stitches into the cracks. All around lay the wreckage of those who had never risen; the silence between explosions seemed louder than any scream. You stood at the edge — Elite One: your armor dented, your sensors flashing warnings, your optics flickering, but you still held on.

Optimus approaches slowly. He stares at you longer than usual — the ruins reflected in his optics, and in that reflection, something breaks. He places a hand on your shoulder — a heavy palm, hard from battle and from power, but in this moment, gentle. His voice, when he speaks, will sound simple: "I..," and in each "I" is the entire world you knew.

The enemy is near — the last Decepticons rush toward you, but there's no longer the same fury as before; now they're only phantoms of a threat, because all eyes are on you. You know you've protected many, that your role is to be at the forefront, to be a shield. But the shield is cracking. An unexpected attack from the flank: the energy that passed through the armor freezes and tastes bitter — the power circuits are on strike, the harnesses are sparking. The system warns in red, but you disable the warnings with your hand — an internal code of will.

Optimus, without hesitation, throws the enemy back, his optics brighten, his movements are quick and precise. He grabs you by the side, lifts you, trying to pull you out of the line of fire. But the further you move, the more you feel something dying inside: the spark fades, the power drains, the algorithms, trying to hold on, signal a fatal failure. Your armor is warm from recent blows, but it's not the warmth of victory — it's the warmth of the end.

You press yourself against Optimus's body, trying to regain control with some gesture. You whisper — shortly, clearly, and the voice, for the first time, comes out of you right now.

"I... won't give up. Not today."

Optimus hears this and answers as only he can, with simplicity and immense weight.

"I won't let you fall alone."

He drops to one knee on the broken asphalt, holding you tightly. Optimus supports you with his entire weight, placing his hand under your body to keep you from sliding further onto the cold stone. His fingers pinch the edges of the panels, holding you steady, as if he's afraid that if he lets go even a millimeter, you'll be lost.

Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Ironhide fight around you, pushing the remaining opponents away. Their movements cut through the air; you feel the vibration of every blow in your joints. But every glance, every movement of the equipment, returns to you. You hear a muffled scream in the distance — not because they're afraid, but because they understand that not only a combat unit is dying, but also part of their family.

Your systems are failing. The panels on your chest flicker — the same purple light that usually glows you fades. You feel Optimus's warmth transfer through the plates, as if he's trying to warm not just the metal but also the memory within you. You try to smile — a crooked, broken smile, addressed not to the world, but to the one holding you.

"I'm... proud of you," — you say because it's true and you want him to hear it.

"Don't... Pity me."

Optimus squeezes your hand, and his answer is not commanding, only personal.

"I will keep you in my memory. I promise."

Internal indicators whisper the end: your temperature is rising, your regeneration isn't keeping up, your energy is draining. You know there are only a few moments left, and instead of panic, you're filled with a surprising calm: you've done what you had to do. Your thought is brief, like a glimmer of light through a fading window.

"I say... Goodbye."

Optimus leans closer, his optics meeting your dimming lights. He presses your body to himself as if he could transform energy with his hands.

"I love you... I'm sorry."