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The cloth squeaked as Swerve continued to polish the already-clean glass. All the glasses were clean, but he desperately needed something to occupy his hands after the stupid false lead in Pharma's notes, so, cleaning glasses it was.
It just... It wasn't fair. First Pipes and Rewind had been killed by Overlord, and now Tailgate was in the medibay, dying. Less than four days ago, all four of them had hung out at the oil reservoir and made increasingly wilder suggestions for what Rung's alt-mode could be, blissfully unaware of the tragedy looming over them.
Sure, the minibot squad had been small in number, but it had been theirs. Getting together, hanging off each other, giving piggy-back rides, being able to look each other in the optics without having to crane their necks back like usual... It had been fun. It had been comfortable.
And now Swerve was the only one left.
There wouldn't be another minibot-only-movie night where Rewind would show the most ridiculous old advertisements. No more evenings where Pipes would get drunk and start waxing poetry about boat-formers. No more days where Tailgate would carefully tap one of the squad on the shoulder and ask for clarification on something that'd happened in the six million years he'd missed. No more hours where they would just sit together, and the other three would let Swerve fill the space with words without interruption.
... No more need for Swerve to keep a selection of smaller cubes that a minibot could hold without having to use both hands.
The glass shattered in his hands.
And when Swerve reached for the broom, he felt as if it was his spark on the floor.