Busy. Catching up with everything I've missed since I died. Deal with it.

In the undersea Decepticon base known as Terradessa-1, room C-136 lies empty and still, like many other rooms along this corridor. The whole of the base is more deserted than inhabited, and this room, like it's neighbor C-135, though technically assigned, usually stands empty.

Then again, what need have ghosts for mortal considerations like rooms to rest in? Particularly since the occupant of C-136, at least, has several other locations to choose from to return to for rest, including the marker built for him in the Crypt by the Autobot responsible for his death. Curiously enough, C-135's occupant has a memorial in the Crypt designed for him by his killer, too.

Tonight, however, Blackstar does not feel like returning to the Crypt, and Strata is, no doubt, still busy dealing with Photon. After answering Frostbite's questions, having said... probably more than he'd intended, he returns to C-136 to order his unsettled thoughts once more.

Blackstar waits invisibly in the corridor beyond Frostbite's office, out of sight, out of range, until the little mech that assists her steps out for a bit. It's not the first time he's hovered out here invisibly, waiting; he's slipped in once already when Frostbite had left to hide in odd nooks and crannies about her office some of the red rocks he'd brought back from the planet they'd flown together.

He wonders if she's found any of them yet, and what she's made of them. After returning from their flight together, the temptation to play had just been too strong to resist. He hasn't had that much fun in a Very Long Time.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to stash them everywhere in her office. There had been one room that had been thoroughly warded against his intrusion. Not his specifically, but against the prying of wayward spirits, of which, he definitely qualifies.

Blackstar smirks smugly to himself as the little assistant bustles off down the corridor and vanishes around a corner. Safe enough.

He's quite visible, if a bit transparent, when he leans down, upside down, out of the ceiling above her desk.

"I still say you need a window in here, Frostbite. This view sucks, even for a car."

Having left Auspex's Sanctuary somewhat abruptly, Blackstar drifts aimlessly in the spirit world for a time, lost as much in his thoughts as he was between the worlds. Eventually, however, shock wears off, and stubborn refusal sets in again. He doesn't want to think about this anymore for a while.

Didn't Shifter mention once assigning him a room back in the Undersea Base? Not that he really needs a room, but it wouldn't hurt to at least check it out... Besides, it might be a good place to leave stuff he... appropriates from that mishmashed heap in Shifter's storage room. Too much cool stuff there to go unlooked-through.

With a little mental twist, Blackstar shifts between the worlds and steps into physical reality in a familiar corridor. C-134. He turns and strides down the corridor, passing C-135 - Duskwing's room, supposedly - before coming to his own assigned C-136.

Passing through the locked and secured door, he is unsurprised to find it as nondescript and as utilitarian as any other in a number of bland Decepticon quarters he'd been assigned when he'd still been alive. He'd never bothered doing much with those quarters, either.

With a shrug, he centers himself in the room and sets a sort of... anchor for himself. Absently, he finds himself wondering how Squirmy is faring. Been a while since he'd last seen the little thing.

Other ghosts have walked these corridors. Blackstar can almost feel them, the faint echoes of their passing as he explores the orange tinted hallways and rooms of the old Autobot base.

He'd followed her this far, and even watched through the long, curious talk with the cheerful, if troubled, Autobot who called himself Hound. He'd hovered nearby as both Seekers had rushed through a tour of the places they had spoken excitedly about on the flight there. When they had tracked down the other femme, however, he had slipped away for a while.

That task deserved privacy, and, quite frankly, he wasn't sure he could make it through such a discussion without slipping and leaving some hint of his own presence. He's still not quite ready for that meeting, though, not quite sure what he wants to say, and what he needs to say.

This place... This place is half across the Veil as it is. It lies heavy with the weight of the spirits who came before. It makes him wonder if those few living mechs who remain feel the same weight. If, perhaps, that is part of why they cling to this damaged, and dying old ship.

This war, he is quickly learning, is a hungry beast the snaps up anything that gets in its way. A pair of lovelorn Seekers have not been the only victims to fall to its hungry jaws.

He'd settled his accounts with the mechs he'd killed over the years when he'd first arrived at the Allspark. He'd thought he had, at any rate. Why is it, then, that it is only now as he slowly drifts through these empty, echoing corridors that he finally understands the gravity of his life?

With a soft sigh, he sends himself drifting up through the rock and earth that entombs the old ship until his spectral form breaks free into open air again. Habit has him carefully arrange himself into a comfortable sprawl just above the yawning exit where Strata will have to pass as she leaves. Alone with his thoughts, he waits.

Blackstar pays little mind to which direction he's pointed when he lifts away from the ocean's surface above the Decepticon base. He just wants to fly, and direction doesn't matter to him any more. Whatever sensors or radars or satellites these humans have, none of them would be able to pick him up now anyway, except for possibly as a blurry image on a dark and blurry photograph. Especially as fast as he is going now, no longer bound by the earthly constraints of physics and drag.

Above, the stars beckon, reminding him of lightless days and depthless night spinning out amoung the cold embrace of space.

She'd looked... good.

He was still having a tough time wrapping his processor around the whole "born organic" thing, though. Soon. Soon he'll find a way to get her alone and reveal himself to her so they can talk. Just not quite yet. He still isn't quite sure what he wants to say. Except for asking about that organic thing.

Overhead, the stars continue to sing their siren's song at him, so he sideslips into a lazy roll that slowly vectors up, arrowing for the comforting clasp of the dark heavens. Around him, the air begins to distort and flicker and glow with the soft fire of electrical discharge.

Regret.

None of them really appreciated their deaths, really, but one spark in particular seemed to wallow in regret more than the others. Which was odd, because he didn't remember feeling regret like this when he was still alive. Most moments could find him fluttering about the edges of the Place they were in - except this Place had no edges, though it did have a name.

The Others called it the Allspark.

He wasn't so sure, though, because he'd always assumed that the Allspark would be... well... nicer. He was discontent. You weren't supposed to be discontent in the Allspark, were you?

He sighed and flickered along in his way.

And quite suddenly, without knowing how, found himself not in the Place. Beyond the boundaries of the Place with no boundaries. Beyond the Allspark.


Free.