The Weight of the Spark

A Reflection by Optimus Prime

I. They look to me as if I do not bend. As if the metal holds without groan, without fatigue.

But I have cracked in places they cannot see. Not in body— in will.

II. War makes statues out of the unwilling. And then forgets they once had voices.

I speak now because I must. Not because the words still come easily.

Peace is not a command. It is a plea, spoken into the teeth of chaos.

III. Sometimes I envy them— those who fell early. Their story ended before it became a burden.

But I remain. Because I must. Because they asked me to.

Because someone must carry the shape of hope, even when it cuts deeper than any blade.

IV. What is leadership if not sacrifice without complaint?

I have made choices. Not all of them just. But all of them mine.

And still— they see the mask, the voice, the code of honor etched in steel.

They do not see the question beneath it:

How long can a symbol stand before it forgets it was ever a soul?

V. But I remember Cybertron. Not the war. The sky. Before it burned.

And I remember names— not ranks. Not sides. Friends.

I carry them too.

So I walk. I fight. I speak.

Not for glory. Not even for victory.

But so that, perhaps, those who come after will never have to ask what it cost to keep believing.