TF Music Meme - totally cheated

[quidamling]

Yeah, I just replayed the song until I hit an end point.  Breaking the rules.... blah blah.  Why there are only 3 until the muse ran away.

I have the Touch – Peter Gabriel

He was such a tactile mech.  Not the same sensory net as Jazz, to avoid being detected behind enemy lines.  Nor the sensitive panels flanking his back like Prowl and Bumblebee were equipped with, picking up vibrations, pressure, treble, bass, and wind motion to gather as much information for either retrieval or analysis.

No.  The sensitive pads were much more localized, and for less common but significantly more urgent matters. 

Ratchet’s hands. 

Letting the medic find and repair damage, touch deftly over injury to determine the cause of pain and fix it.  Ironhide loved those hands.  He always found comfort in them, the way those strong, lean digits could move over his frame.  After a battle, those hands had brought him back time and time again.  Flipping forth the required tools to clamp off an energon line as ‘Hide’s fuel drained away, coaxing an abused joint back into place, smoothing over injuries.  The frontliner had slipped into the uneasy recharge post-op with the CMO’s hand resting on his shoulder more times than he cared to count.  It always soothed his spark.

Now as those hands roamed over his faceplates, tracing the scrapes and finding their way to his lip components, shaking with delightful tremors from the attention Ironhide’s own hands were giving to the medic’s back and aft above him, the weapons specialist growled appreciatively.  He reveled in the other reason that he loved those hands.  Taking a single slim finger into his mouth and pressing it gently between his dental plates, the low mewl that escaped from Ratchet nearly made ‘Hide’s spark pulse hard enough to leap from his chamber.
 

The Impossible Dream (finale) – Man of La Mancha

The Prime had to keep positive, cling to the hope that someday Cybertronians would be a united species once again.  There was no real difference between an Autobot and a Decepticon, he was determined.  The Decepticon’s armor and weaponry modifications were to their frames, not their sparks.  It was not truly core programming.  Individuals changed factions, two sparklings of the same creators would sometimes choose opposing sides of the war.  So it came down to individual choices.  On some level they choose to never end the war.  Someday there would either be no one left to fight it, or they would choose to end it. 

He chose the latter.  That impossible positive determination was all he was.  After all, this Prime’s designation was Optimus.

 

How I Go - Yellowcard

Sometimes it was hard being the oldest remaining.  He should have been able to see so many come into being.  Instead, the images of all those he had failed to protect marched through his processors. Final stories told to flickering optics of the once-glories of Iacon, the theater and art in Kaon before it degraded to the bastardization drama of life and death in the gladiatorial arena, the wide metallic plains where radiation from the nearby star was converted to energon while turbofoxes hunted petrorabbits throughout the landscape.

He screamed.  Energon pouring out of a mangled chassis and onto the alien landscape.  He could have seen this planet’s sun coalesce, watched the planet cool from a ball of fire to an earthen sphere nearly covered by water.  Systems crashed, starved for their own life-giving liquid.  The fuel pump buried in his chassis kicked and fluttered, unknowing that there was nothing left to let flow through his energon lines.  Shockwave’s charred frame smoldered nearby, small consolation that he’d sent the fragger to the Matrix ahead of him.

No.  This isn’t it.  Can’t be how it ends.  He’d let them down.  For each that he had held in his arms as their spark slipped away he’d renewed a promise – to see the end of this war.  For each of them.  There was a promise to see their home rebuilt, and life returned.  He moaned, crying out a final time for his comrades.  He’d told the stories again and again to what seemed like deaf audios because every story he told was part of him, their history.  If he was gone, there was no one that truly remembered.  But every story was now a part of them. 

Sorry.  I’m leaving you and there is so much more to do…

The last he heard was a cracking vocalizer screaming, “Ironhide-!"