The smell of smoke won't go away no matter how hard you try and will it away. Neither will the screams that keep replaying in your audials, no matter how softly Megatron shushes you. The ache in your frame simply won't ease, even as he gently hides you from the world. The looks on the faceplates of your friends and comrades won't go away when you close your optics, but you refuse to keep them open and stare at the purple Decepticon marking on his chassis.

Worst of all, the slip of Energon beneath your digits won't stop making your tanks churn, and some morbid part of your processor wonders which of your friends each little splash has come from.

Maybe that's not the worst thing. Maybe the worst part is the fact that the mech responsible for their deaths, for all this carnage and destruction and the whole war in the first place, is holding you in his arms just a bit too tightly, like he's afraid that you'll turn to smoke or sand and run through his digits.

Megatron's servos are completely coated in the neon Energon from your friend's frames, and it makes his slow stroking of the back of your helm and rubbing of your back as he presses your helm against his chassis glide more easily, and stains your paintjob in unnatural colours.

You think you're screaming and crying and fighting; you know you want to, but you feel too disconnected and all too chained down by your own frame weight at the same time to know for sure if you're just sitting there defeated, or fighting him like you want so badly.

"They can't hurt you anymore, dear spark. Nobody will ever hurt you again, not while my spark flickers and burns." Megatron is murmuring in your audials, but you don't hear it.

Regret crushes your spark as he rocks you gently, and some part of you wonders if he's truly insane enough to believe that he's actually protecting you.

Megatron doesn't ease his grip, he doesn't stop whispering, he doesn't stop rocking you, he just won't stop, seemingly until you run out of energy.