Chapter Text
Tailgate trailed one hand along the wall as he passed through the hall, the grooves a well-memorized length. The corridor was all hustle and bustle, mechs rushing this way and that to get to wherever they where needed. Things never slowed down in Adaptica.
"Commander Tailgate!" said a familiar voice, and Tailgate tilted his helm back.
"Hey, Howlback," Tailgate answered, pausing, "What's up?"
"You are running behind," Howlback informed him, the catformer's claws clicking against the floor as she approached. Tailgate knew she usually was silent when she walked, but made an effort to make noise around him, which he appreciated, "I came to find you, and ask if you wanted help."
"Mm…" Tailgate hummed in thought, and then tapped his hand against the wall, dropping it to his side, "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you." He reached out and she butted into his hand, and he grabbed her shoulder, heaving himself into her back.
"Where's your lantern?" she asked.
"I already gave it to Anode."
"Oh, good," she was quiet again while she walked, until Tailgate heard the front doors of the complex open and he knew they were outside. They passed through stalls, the smell of cesium boiling and beryllium frying floated around him, tempting and indulgent.
"Adaptica is getting crowded," Tailgate commented, "I suppose that's a good thing."
"The more refugees, the better, yes?" Howlback responded, "Can you imagine a future where we outnumber them?"
"Maybe they'll recall every alt-mode but their own," he chuckled, "wouldn't that be fun?"
"Do not put it past them," she mumbled, "Excuse me! Pardon me- no, I- I am trying to reach the backstage, please. Thank you."
"Ah, are we there already?" he asked, sitting up straight.
"Stairs," she said, and he tightened his grip with his legs just before she bounded up the steps, "Yes. You may get down now."
"Thank you for the ride," he said, sliding down off her back and onto the ground.
"Hey, Teeg!" Anode called to him, and he could hear her wings flapping, "You're late."
"Some of us are literally blind," he reminded her, setting his hands on his hips, "You could have started without me."
"I'd have a riot on my hands if I tried."
"People don't like my speech that much," he snorted, "Where's my lantern?"
"Here," she said, handing him the lantern he'd made, "No, they'd be just as happy if you just quoted Whirl a few times and said nothing else. But it still has to be you. Come on."
Tailgate ran his hands across the breadth of the lantern, rememorizing its shape. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was blue- he'd driven Anode near mad describing the paper colours so he could pick the right one. He sighed and ran his thumb over the engraving he'd carved into the wire frame. Birdy.
He followed her out past the curtain onto the stage and heard the din of the crowd begin to hush as he did.
"Good evening, fellow rebel scum!" Anode spoke, her voice carrying over the speakers so it could be heard by everyone who had come, and a titter of laughter passed between them, "Every year, my spark is filled with joy to see so many new faces at the Festival of Lost Light, so many saved from the crushing fist of Functionist Rule. At the same time, it is broken, to see so many lanterns held by those new faces. We have all known too much suffering. We have all loved and lost.
"This week we have celebrated our dead by remembering their lives, as we hope ours will be remembered and celebrated in turn. Tonight, however, we indulge in our own grief, and we mourn."
Tailgate twitched when she laid a hand on his shoulder. "This year is the fiftieth since Adaptica was founded, the fiftieth since Nine-of-Twelve renounced the Council and joined our number. Without the sacrifice of Whirl of Polyhex, we would not be here today. His Conjunx Endura has prepared a few words."
It was a lie, one that hurt every time it was told. They had missed the first step, never spoken about it, never had the chance. It wasn't real. But when someone's last words on international television are "I love you," people have a tendency to assume, and he grew weary and heartbroken of explaining how they weren't, how they might have been, but they weren't. He hoped Whirl wouldn't mind.
Tailgate connected to the speaker system and stepped forward, lantern held against his chest, over his spark.
"Every year I try to say something," he began, "But I always start by thinking how shocked Whirl would be that so many people cared. He spent so much of his life regretting his choices, trying to make amends for the mistakes he had made. He died believing that it was the only way to find absolution, that he didn't deserve to keep living. He was wrong.
"Whirl had a difficult life, and made a lot of difficult decisions. At the end of his days he found himself regretting most of them, and more than anything, he wanted to offset the harm he had done. He wanted to do something good in the world. If he had lived longer, he could have done more good. I believe that. It was one of the last things he said- 'don't spend so much time surviving you never get to live. It doesn't matter what you turn into, you are valuable, you matter, you can change everything. It doesn't matter if you're a council member, a bodyguard, a watchmaker, or a janitor. You matter more than anything else to someone.'
"He's not here today," Tailgate said gently, "He doesn't know the impact he had. He's never seen the graffiti of his face on the Senate floor. He's never heard a riot chat 'no God given right to greatness.' As far as he knew, he died despised. Don't underestimate the impact you can have on the world and people around you. There's always a chance to change, to do and be better than you thought you could."
Tailgate touched his opaque black visor, pausing to recycle a vent, "You're worth more than your use. We all are. We can't let the Functionist Council take our world from us and convince each other that we are our own enemies. We're all Cybertronians, we're all on the same planet, born from the same sentio metallica as everyone else. We have to take care of each other. We're all we've got."
He sighed and shifted position, holding the lantern out and flipping open a match to light the copper chloride wick at the center of his lantern. "We won't give up, until everyone is free, to choose how they live, and how they die. In his last words, 'give 'em hell.'"
The crowd gave a cheer that quickly morphed into the haunting, atonal chorus of the Hymn for the Missing, always sung when the lanterns went up. He pressed a gentle mask kiss to the side of his lantern, and disconnected from the speaker system.
"Bye bye, Birdy," he whispered, "I miss you."
Tailgate released the lantern, and let it ride gently into the sky. He couldn't see it, nor could he see the thousands of other lanterns the joined it, a rainbow of lights that blotted out the stars and drifted into the distance, but he knew it was there.
He took a deep breath, and then joined the rest of his people in singing their mourning song.