A/n: Yes, Prowl is in this... in some form.

The night fell swiftly, covering the Autobot City in darkness. Its walls glimmered under the scarce light of a waxing moon, providing quite the sight for anyone that happened to pass by. Most of the mechs had already retired to their quarters, and the corridors seemed abandoned and empty. In fact, the city was almost quiet now, as if the hell that was unleashed more than a month ago when the Decepticons made their surprise attack never came to pass.

Still, the hell had left its mark. The lone figure that walked in a small corridor on the eastern parts of the city knew that only too well.

The lights were out where he was, but Bluestreak didn't care. He knew the way like the back of his hand by now. He had to go up and down that corridor too many times while helping half-heartedly in a most grim task.

Besides, he didn't want anyone to know he was there. What he wanted to do didn't require an audience.

Footsteps still echoing hollowly, he turned to his right and stepped out into the launch site. He walked up to the large platform, where a black space-shuttle towered ominously over him, as though ready to crash him at the next moment and so send him to his death.

The irony was cruel.

He looked around to make sure that the place was empty. Feeling a bit relieved that he wasalone, he then walked up to the shuttle. Its door was wide open, something that made things easier for him. Without so much as a second thought, he passed the threshold and headed for the main room.

When he encountered the light energy veil, Bluestreak could only stare at it for a few moments as though mesmerized; for he knew that that thin parapet was the only thing that separated the land of the living from the land of the dead.

And now he was about to cross that line.

There was a time, not too long ago, that he would have dreaded that notion. That he wouldn't want to be here not even for a second. That he would have fled as fast as his legs would carry him, just as he had done all those years ago after his city was destroyed.

But he knew he was expected. And he didn't want to keep Prowl waiting.

And so he walked in.

At the next moment, he was surrounded with familiar forms that seemed to be just resting, for the lids hadn't been placed on the tombs just yet. It was so tempting for Bluestreak to believe that he was back at the Ark; that no time had passed since the Autobots had landed on Earth.

And yet he could not turn a blind optic on the gaping holes on their bodies. Or even Ironhide's…

Bluestreak's spark wrenched violently. There was no denying the truth.

They were all gone, never to return.

He quickly remembered himself. Bowing his head slightly at each lying mech in gentle respect, Bluestreak walked down the hall until he finally reached the last tomb.

The one where Prowl was.

"Hey, Prowl." Bluestreak's voice was soft, barely audible to his audio receptors, as though not wishing to break the silence that surrounded him. "I'm here."

He paused for a moment, looking at the expressionless face-plate. He didn't think it was possible, but he smiled; for he could almost hear Prowl's calm – yet evident reprimand – within his processor.

You're late.

"I know, I'm sorry," Bluestreak said, his smile still tugged on his lip components. At the next moment though, he sobered and looked at the lying mech sadly. "I wanted to come to terms with it first."

I understand.

"I was hoping you might." Bluestreak looked at the floor in thought. "Is it okay if I sit?" He didn't expect a verbal answer this time though. Whenever that question came up, Prowl always settled with a simple motion of his hand in a "Go ahead" gesture.

It was with that mental image that the living mech complied. He rested his back and head against the tomb, whereas he kept his legs close to his chest-plate, his arms wrapped around them. And when his processor created the image of a very much alive Prowl settling right next to him in the same position, Bluestreak just played along.

What's the matter?

Bluestreak actually glared at the phantom of his imagination.

"For starters, you're dead."

My apologies.

But Bluestreak waved his hand dismissively. "It wasn't your fault; you were caught by surprise. The Decepticons already paid for it." However, his voice became harsher. "What really bothers me is this – the mausoleum."

Why?

"Because they'll launch it to outer space first thing tomorrow, while I was hoping I'd be able to visit you and talk to you some more. Now I'll have to say everything at once and hope I won't forget anything."

There are other Autobots you can talk to. The twins, Jazz…

"Of course there are others," Bluestreak said. "But some things… just some things… I can only say to you. I want to say only to you."

Such as?

Bluestreak bowed his head, keeping his optics locked on the floor. "Like a 'Thank you' for everything you've done for me; for not seeing in me a pathetic, cowardly excuse of a mech upon our first meeting; for giving me hope when I had none left." He paused and turned his head at the direction of the tomb. "For believing I was worth saving."

The spectre smiled slightly, much like the real Prowl did when he was alive.

"Yet if I'm really grateful for something," Bluestreak continued, "It is for the love you showed me. You always guided me in the right direction, either with a kind word or a saddened rebuke. You always watched my back in a wish to make sure no one would hurt me; and if I did get hurt, you were watching over me while I was healing in Ratchet's repair-bay.

"But, then again… you weren't watching over me just at the repair-bay, were you?"

What do you mean?

Bluestreak smirked. "I still remember your touch on my head. The touch you saved for whenever you thought I was in too deep a recharge to notice anything. A light caress and then a soft: 'Goodnight'."

You knew about that? The imaginary Prowl certainly sounded surprised.

Bluestreak nodded. "I knew from day one. I just didn't say anything because then you would have stopped doing it, and I needed that touch. It was a sign that you were there for me.

"In some ways, I still need it even now."

But I'm not here.

Bluestreak shook his head. His lower lip was trembling violently now, but he still wanted to answer.

"No… no, you're not."

He knew that tears started flowing uncontrollably, but Bluestreak didn't wipe them away. He merely buried his face-plate in his arms and let go. He cried for a very long time, no sound coming out of his vocaliser. Just like when he allowed himself to break down in front of an injured mech, who simply held him closely and comforted him in that calm voice Bluestreak had come to learn so well in the years to follow.

So well, in fact, that he could hear it even now.

It's all right, Bluestreak. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

"You always said that!" the living mech said amid his sobs. "But I don't want to be stronger, Prowl! I want to be with you! I want Optimus back! I want to see Ironhide's face again! I want to hear Ratchet shouting at the twins to stop getting injured all the time! I want Wheeljack to make some crazy invention that will go off in his face! I want Brawn, Windcharger and Huffer alive and logic can be damned, because I don't care if that's impossible! I just… want things to be the way they used to… somehow…"

He stopped, for his words had gotten too jumbled as he tried to say everything at once. He tried to force himself to keep talking to release all the anger, all the sorrow and exasperation that tormented his spark… but he couldn't. In the end he just gave up and started taking deep breaths in an attempt to compose himself once more.

The spectre sighed, a melancholic expression settling on its features.

I know.

Bluestreak slowly lifted his head and rested it against the tomb. He kept his optics closed, as though opening them would prove too straining a task.

"I know you do. Unfortunately, so does everyone else," he murmured tiredly. "They took my gun away, Prowl; the very one you gave me when I first joined the Autobots. They think I'm going to try and kill myself."

Are you?

Bluestreak didn't answer at once. When he did though, he was honest about it.

"The thought crossed my mind."

He cringed when he imagined Prowl's frowning expression directed to him.

Bluestreak--

"I don't plan on going through with it. There has been enough death and mourning already," the living mech interrupted. "And besides that… it… it wouldn't be fair to you to see me throw away my life when you made such an effort to make sure I had a life in the first place."

The spectre calmed down, relieved at those words. Good.

Bluestreak smiled. "As long as it is in my hands, I'll live for both of us. And maybe… just maybe… I'll live long enough to see a new golden age on Cybertron."

You might.

In spite of his growing fatigue, the living mech felt his smile broadening and his spark warming at the prospect. "And… if that happens… I'll let you know how beautiful it is."

You know where to find me.

"Yeah…"Bluestreak now knew that there was no point in fighting back his need for recharge. And so, he just relaxed, slowly shutting down all but his vital circuitries. The last thing he breathed out as the sweet oblivion of sleep claimed him was:

"See you in my dreams, Prowl."

And then there was the caress on his head.

Goodnight, Bluestreak.

The End