The End of the World
Title: The End of the World
Continuity: IDW/Bayverse, Reign of Starscream
Characters: Arcee/Elita-1
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Reign of Starscream 5, Defiance 1& 2, violence, character death
Written for weekly request "IDW Arcee/Elita-1 'celebrating victories'"
Arcee forced herself still, aware that the others were watching her as she stared at the smoldering twisted mass that had once been Trypticon. The temple of Simfur was annihilated, unrecognizable. Where it all started, where they’d found the mysterious glyphs…now where it seemed everything had ended.
This is what the end of the world looks like, Arcee thought. This is what it feels like-as though someone has carved out your spark chamber, scorching and crushing it slowly, so slowly. Elita was…somewhere under that mass. Elita, who had been there from the beginning, who was the only one who dared defy Starscream to his face. Strapped to the reconstructed Allspark, helpless, she had still met him optic-to-optic, head held high. Unable to be silenced. She was braver than any of the mechs there, bold and starkly beautiful in her defiance.
It was too much to ask, too much to think, that she hadn’t died in agony.
If only, Arcee thought, I hadn’t hesitated. Elita knew what was going to happen; I did not. I hesitated, and…it was too late. A few kliks earlier and I could have saved her. I could have saved all of them. If only I’d been smarter.
But no. She’d thought of tactics, putting strategy before instinct. She’d thought of things like objectives and mission windows and tactical advantage, all while Elita hung, suffering and brave. They’d waited, she’d waited, until the replica had failed, until the assembled mechs fell into chaos, Decepticon attacking Decepticon. Because the moment wasn’t right.
Right.
Arcee scuffed her toe into the charred, ashen dirt at the edge of the crater. This is what happens when you wait for the moment to be ‘right’. Elita, gone; Starscream…escaped. She knew it.
Somewhere, perhaps under all that smoking rubble, Elita’s remains lay. Blackened and brittle and twisted beyond recognition. She would not even have, Arcee thought bitterly, the hero’s burial she deserved. Perhaps some future archaeologist would excavate the site of horrors, puzzle over what this all might mean. Perhaps. No. The world would never go back to such innocent peace again.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Armorhide stepped up next to her. “Trypticon’s fallen. The Decepticons have no stronghold here.”
“Yes,” she said, numbly. Her fingers stroked her crossbow idly, nervously, a tic she’d developed over the years. When had a weapon become more comforting to touch than a lover’s dermal plating? But no, she wasn’t admiring. She was thinking of all that had been lost: Elita, the precious archeological site, all those lives. Herself.
Arcee tried to stretch her mind back that far, to who she was, how she was, back then. She’d felt…safe. Trusted the Protector, filling her head with science and myth. Living entirely, it seemed, in her cortex and the past. With the pure intensity of the young, of those who do not realize how short and precious innocence was. How much had changed-she’d become a creature of body now, and the present, her cortex stuffed with battle plans, her once-innocent heart calloused from the deaths she’d witnessed, the violence she’d done. Her hands were not clean, her spark unclean as well. And the past seemed so, so far away.
The generator that had held the spark energy was only a symbol, the fake Allspark was only a symbol for what they’d been trying to do-reanimate the cold, dead heart of Cybertron by feeding it with their life energy.
And I will never touch you again, she thought, her fingers clenching over her weapon. And I will never hear your voice again. We’ve won, but…won what?
Oh, Elita, her spark cried, looking at the greasy black smoke that skirled its way up through the cold atmosphere. It took your death to show me this. It took your death to show me that I have lost sight of life. That we all have. Perhaps it is fitting that it ended where it began.
Continuity: IDW/Bayverse, Reign of Starscream
Characters: Arcee/Elita-1
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Reign of Starscream 5, Defiance 1& 2, violence, character death
Written for weekly request "IDW Arcee/Elita-1 'celebrating victories'"
Arcee forced herself still, aware that the others were watching her as she stared at the smoldering twisted mass that had once been Trypticon. The temple of Simfur was annihilated, unrecognizable. Where it all started, where they’d found the mysterious glyphs…now where it seemed everything had ended.
This is what the end of the world looks like, Arcee thought. This is what it feels like-as though someone has carved out your spark chamber, scorching and crushing it slowly, so slowly. Elita was…somewhere under that mass. Elita, who had been there from the beginning, who was the only one who dared defy Starscream to his face. Strapped to the reconstructed Allspark, helpless, she had still met him optic-to-optic, head held high. Unable to be silenced. She was braver than any of the mechs there, bold and starkly beautiful in her defiance.
It was too much to ask, too much to think, that she hadn’t died in agony.
If only, Arcee thought, I hadn’t hesitated. Elita knew what was going to happen; I did not. I hesitated, and…it was too late. A few kliks earlier and I could have saved her. I could have saved all of them. If only I’d been smarter.
But no. She’d thought of tactics, putting strategy before instinct. She’d thought of things like objectives and mission windows and tactical advantage, all while Elita hung, suffering and brave. They’d waited, she’d waited, until the replica had failed, until the assembled mechs fell into chaos, Decepticon attacking Decepticon. Because the moment wasn’t right.
Right.
Arcee scuffed her toe into the charred, ashen dirt at the edge of the crater. This is what happens when you wait for the moment to be ‘right’. Elita, gone; Starscream…escaped. She knew it.
Somewhere, perhaps under all that smoking rubble, Elita’s remains lay. Blackened and brittle and twisted beyond recognition. She would not even have, Arcee thought bitterly, the hero’s burial she deserved. Perhaps some future archaeologist would excavate the site of horrors, puzzle over what this all might mean. Perhaps. No. The world would never go back to such innocent peace again.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Armorhide stepped up next to her. “Trypticon’s fallen. The Decepticons have no stronghold here.”
“Yes,” she said, numbly. Her fingers stroked her crossbow idly, nervously, a tic she’d developed over the years. When had a weapon become more comforting to touch than a lover’s dermal plating? But no, she wasn’t admiring. She was thinking of all that had been lost: Elita, the precious archeological site, all those lives. Herself.
Arcee tried to stretch her mind back that far, to who she was, how she was, back then. She’d felt…safe. Trusted the Protector, filling her head with science and myth. Living entirely, it seemed, in her cortex and the past. With the pure intensity of the young, of those who do not realize how short and precious innocence was. How much had changed-she’d become a creature of body now, and the present, her cortex stuffed with battle plans, her once-innocent heart calloused from the deaths she’d witnessed, the violence she’d done. Her hands were not clean, her spark unclean as well. And the past seemed so, so far away.
The generator that had held the spark energy was only a symbol, the fake Allspark was only a symbol for what they’d been trying to do-reanimate the cold, dead heart of Cybertron by feeding it with their life energy.
And I will never touch you again, she thought, her fingers clenching over her weapon. And I will never hear your voice again. We’ve won, but…won what?
Oh, Elita, her spark cried, looking at the greasy black smoke that skirled its way up through the cold atmosphere. It took your death to show me this. It took your death to show me that I have lost sight of life. That we all have. Perhaps it is fitting that it ended where it began.