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The headstone is on Earth, in the makeshift cemetery near Little Cybertron where all of the victims have been laid to rest. He would have hated it, Windblade knows. His contempt for this planet and its primary sentient lifeform, humans, has never been anything approaching subtle. His feelings about the stone itself—simple, understated, nothing flashy, almost indistinguishable from every other surrounding it—would be somewhat similar, she suspects. She can just imagine the haughty curl of his upper lip, the condescending shape of his features. She can hear his low mutterings of disgust. Not even close to being fit for the former ruler of Cybertron.
Then again, this plot of land isn't exactly a proper grave. It's not really much more than a memorial. There was, after all, nothing left of him to bury.
Windblade extends a hand and gently skims it across the lines chiseled deep in the polished stone. This is an Earth custom, she's discovered; Camiens tend to inter their dead with inscriptions engraved on their spark casings. She's still learning Cybertronian traditions, but they seem to vary rather widely. By now, she understands enough about their war—and has seen for herself the multitude of branching religions they practice—that she supposes it makes sense. Slowly, she traces one fingertip along the glyphs that form his name.
Starscream the First of Cybertron, she thinks with a wry twist of the mouth. Starscream the Chosen One.
But the plain writing says only Starscream.
The day is beginning to trudge towards evening, and the shadows of the headstones are growing long on the neatly-manicured lawn. This, too, is something she'll have to adapt to: this planet is positively overflowing with organic life. It's strange—even jarring—though it's certainly not unwelcome. She's grown so spark-crushingly weary of desolation and ruin and death.
Behind her chestplate is an ache like a hand wrapped tight around her fuel pump. It's been there since the fall of Unicron, though there are times when it's worse, its grip harder and more wrenching. Now is one of those times.
What would he make of her grief? she wonders. Windblade isn't sure what to make of it herself. What was Starscream to her? What were they to each other? It's a question without an answer and it feels impossibly complicated to sort out. She thinks back to what Arcee shared with her in the aftermath of it all, when things had calmed down enough that they could manage a few moments for a private chat. Her armor pings softly in the cooling air as she remembers the final message the Autobot conveyed.
"Tell Windblade to take good care of Earth, will you? Aw, who am I kidding? She probably won't even try to conquer the place."
The ache is building into something stronger and steadier, as if her torso is being relentlessly squeezed. She opens her vents wider to draw in more air, her wings and shoulders tensing.
Most everyone, upon hearing the details of Starscream's fate, has expressed a fairly similar sentiment: the degrees of surprise vary, but each of them has focused on his sacrifice and how utterly implausible and uncharacteristic it seems. Some have outright refused to believe it, while others have offered something like a bewildered shrug and remarked, "Huh. Who knew?"
Windblade knew. She's known for a long time now. Yes, he could—very frequently—be an infuriating spawn of a glitch who made her want to throttle him, but regardless, despite it all, in the deepest parts of her spark she's never doubted what he was capable of and who he could be. After all, she's been inside his mind. She's seen his true form. No, his courage and dignity at the end are things she can accept, things she can comprehend; what she can't stop turning around among the bereaved pangs of her exhausted brain module is why the last thing out of his mouth before he went on his way to join the Allspark was intended for her.
A little distance off to her right, two bots she doesn't recognize conclude their visit to the cemetery and turn to leave. A few others still remain, lingering in their private sorrow, but it's much less populated than when she arrived. Earth's sun is low in the pale sky, beginning to sink out of sight as spreading tendrils of vibrant color stain the horizon. She should go soon, she knows. There's still so much to do, to plan, to negotiate. So many left to mourn. The survivors of her entire race are depending on her not to fail them, and she really needs to get back to work.
Windblade continues to stand before the grave, unmoving and silent. The hurt in her is opening up now, unfolding to reveal its chaotic, messy innards. The stab of anger she finds there surprises her. Cautiously, she prods at it, investigating, seeking out its source as she feels the glowing heat of it swell in her frame.
He left me behind.
The nonsensical thought flits across her awareness, bright and fierce. An irrational pulse of resentment reverberates through her, and she senses her wings lifting, her plating flaring. Yes, he's given his life for the greater good—but in an odd way, it's still easy, selfish. He doesn't have to deal with what comes next, doesn't have to move forward carrying the anguish of survival. He won't have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and endure with a part of him shattered. Yet again, he's managed to shirk the hard, miserable, thankless work of living, leaning instead into his flair for the dramatic. And, of course, he's neatly avoided having to face up to any sort of consequences, any of what his choices might do to those who have to keep going without him. Typical.
A sudden erratic instability tugs at her, accompanied by a raw, unfathomable emptiness, as if all her wires and components have been scooped out and she's no more than a hollow shell. Clenching both hands at her sides, she lets her optics dim, and, for a moment, simply forces herself to listen to the thudding rush of energon running through her fuel lines.
Her feelings about—for—Starscream have always been muddied, challenging to define. She recalls the searing pain, like nothing she'd ever known, as she'd screamed her anguish at his cruel torture. She also remembers his touch, arms protectively encircling her, as he pulled her free of the Titan Chela's burning, dying form. She thinks about him standing tall before all of Cybertron to publicly confess each and every one of his crimes—some more appalling than she'd even suspected—and she thinks about the vulnerability and abject terror she witnessed as Vigilem's attention turned on him inside her own mindspace.
The Cityspeaker resists the urge to outwardly react—to shout, to sob, to drag a hand across her face, to topple the headstone with a frustrated and impulsive and in all honesty fully deserved kick. Nothing with Starscream can ever be simple, but in this one instant of howling, immeasurable grief, Windblade finally understands that she loves him. The nature and shape of that love, what it means, what either of them would have wanted, whether her feelings more closely resemble the affection shared between amicas or conjunxes or something else entirely: these are things she doesn't know and now she probably never will. Somehow, the rusted bolt-brain has succeeded in going to his eternal rest a hero while she's stuck here foolishly struggling to grasp how to plot a course forward without him. It's infuriating and it's unfair and it's embarrassing.
Consciously, she makes her hands relax, releasing her fists, and expels a long, steadying vent from her intakes. With effort, she slows her racing processor, wrestles herself back down to reality and reason. A twinge of guilt and shame join the low background roar of her emotions as she does her best to push down and safely shut away her outburst of resentment and hurt and despair. She needs to pull herself together. Her optical sensors automatically reboot and reconfigure themselves at the abrupt sound of soft footsteps behind her on the close-cut grass.
She turns to watch Bumblebee approach. She still doesn't know him very well, but so far she's found him to be friendly, straightforward, and unhesitatingly kind. She interprets his expression as sympathetic and perhaps a little bit sad. He acknowledges her with a brief, amicable nod, then indicates the modest marker set before them.
"Two Autobots standing around his grave?" The small mech offers her a sly, conspiratorial smile. "Oh, he'd have hated this."
She can't help the minute twitch of her lips, the beginnings of amusement gathering at the corners of her optics. Her gaze shifts back to the headstone; the other remains beside her. "You knew him well, didn't you?"
She catches Bumblebee's shrug in her peripheral vision. "In some ways, maybe," he says. "In other ways, I'm not so sure. If there's one thing Starscream most definitely wasn't, it's uncomplicated."
An aborted laugh escapes her, a harsh snort that seems inappropriate and not at all suited for such a solemn place. Windblade tucks her wings against her body and glances up at the darkening sky, the brilliant colors of the sunset now giving way to the greying onset of twilight. A mild breeze stirs the branches of the nearest tree, a sturdy little bit of flora nearly tall enough to reach her shoulders. "He certainly left a lot of unanswered questions," she says in reply. "A lot of things unfinished and lot of uncertainties."
"That he did," Bumblebee agrees. In front of him, his hands twist in what looks like a remembered, habitual gesture, as if he's grasping for an object that's no longer there. "It never really gets easier, you know. Losing people. We all coped or numbed ourselves in various ways during the war, because we had to, but it's different now. You should do what you need to do and take whatever time you need to mourn."
"Thank you," Windblade says with a genuine surge of gratitude that catches her somewhat off balance. Her spark feels like it's wobbling slightly under the weight of her melancholy and regret, returned now to a dull ache, tender and sore beneath her plating. "I appreciate it. I'll be all right, though. It's just…"
Bumblebee waits patiently as she attempts to untangle what she's trying to express. Finally, she blurts out, "There's just so much left open and unresolved. So much of the future that will be different now. It feels ridiculous to say, but I wasn't ready for this. I thought there would be more time. I thought we would have more time." Her voice dips to a low murmur, fading as if stifled by a thick blanket of helpless sadness. "This is a new beginning for us all, something huge and historic and momentous, and it's something that I wish he could be part of, that he could see. And I really wish I had the chance to tell him all the things I never said."
For one short, strange moment, Bumblebee's attention appears to shift to the side, his head subtly but noticeably inclined like he's listening to a sound only he can hear. Then, he refocuses on her with a calm warmth in his blue optics, and he speaks in a tone that's confident and clear and more than a little bit cryptic. "Yeah. I understand. And I get why it hurts, why it's so hard, I absolutely do. But, you know something, Windblade? I'm pretty sure he knows."