Chapter Seven
Mirage

"Now I'm in your room and I'm in your bed
And I'm in your life and I'm in your head
Like the CIA or the FBI
You'll never get close never take me alive"
—Queen, The Invisible Man

Something shattered within Switchblade at the moment Dusk collapsed. Perhaps it was the proximity to the computer that gave him life – and bestowed upon him his curse – but as he reflected later in life, he could not pinpoint the exact cause. Pushing past the rusted old red-purple relic that had held him back, the elitist reached Dusk. She had fallen at the rim of Vector Sigma’s hold, part of her upper torso dangling over the precipice. Gazing into the bowels of eternity, Switchblade could not make hide or hair of the computer. It was as if it had vanished, dissolving into the very air. Certainly, it felt that way – supercharged.

Reaching down, the mech dug his hands under Dusk’s arms, lifted her, and in one awkward motion, swung her over his shoulder. Her crested head clanked against his high-arching strut and bounced off the tire that was embedded there.

“Where are you going?”

Switchblade spun to face Alpha Trion. The older mech was trying to get around the elitist in order to observe Dusk’s facial features. “Away from this cursed place,” he responded, dramatically rethinking his plans for the spark Dusk carried. If there could be a way to create sparks that did not involve Vector Sigma …

“I have to look at her!” Alpha Trion exclaimed, trying to keep up with the black and silver’s longer strides. “I’ve never seen anything like this before –”

Switchblade ground to a halt, swinging about with such force that Dusk’s head clacked on his strut. Lubricant dribbled from her lips and splattered onto the mech’s shiny armor, drawing a snarl of disgust. “You know, that’s what I hate about shells like you,” he spat, towering above Alpha Trion. “Always poking, prodding, trying to figure out what makes things tick. I made slaggin’ sure that they couldn’t get to me, and I’m slaggin’ not going to let you get at her. Damn me to the Pit if you want because I don’t follow your squeaky clean pattern – but it ends here!”

A flurry of emotions flittered over the older mech’s face: fury, indignity, pity. His shoulders relaxed, slumping at a defeated angle. “So be it,” he pronounced sadly. “But where will you take her? She is holding Beta’s spark.”

Switchblade grunted. “You heard her. This is her spark – to do with as she wishes. I’m getting this out of her, and then we’re leaving. No Beta, no university, no self-righteous fools spouting philosophies with their heads up their exit ports.”

Against his shoulder, Dusk moaned. Through his thick plating and her own, Switchblade could feel the beat of the second spark. Shifting her weight, Switchblade left the chamber and his personal demons behind.

He carried her out of the temple and into the parking lot. As he had predicted, another citation from the protectorate lay plastered on his windshield. Crushing that one with his heel, Switchblade manhandled the hatch and unceremoniously shoved Dusk into the passenger seat. Drool slathered her cheeks and neck guard, her optics dim and shutters fluttering. Gritting his dental plates in disgust, Switchblade managed to wipe most of it off with a small rag he’d dug out of subspace; he’d burn it later, and possibly reupholster the interior. Not to mention get a long, hard waxing at the Tower massage parlor. And an Energon bath complete with ionized salts.

“Uhgn …”

Switchblade arched his brow ridges. “Strap yourself in, girl. We’re taking off.”

Dusk’s head lolled around on its pivot and her hands scrabbled at her torso plates. Dull optics flared to life and she doubled over with a hiss of pain. Growling in irritation and impatience, Switchblade shoved her back into the seat and with one hand, strapped her in himself. With the femme safely contained and looking as if she were going to blow her ration of Energon all over the cockpit, he powered up the hopper. Glancing around to make sure he was clear, Switchblade spotted Alpha Trion standing at the temple entrance, flanked by the Guardians. Biting his lip, Switchblade watched them over the increasing roar of the engines.

Neither Guardian moved.

Counting himself insanely lucky, Switchblade threw the hopper’s throttle wide, rocketing upwards with a spray of debris.

“I don’t feel good …”

Grumbling under his vocalizer, Switchblade cast Dusk a look out of the corner of his optic. “Well, I don’t think I would either. You’re carrying a second spark. That stupid computer implanted you.”

Something other than nausea crossed Dusk’s simple face. “I – what?”

“That’s why your tank’s bothering you. You have two sparks, girl.”

Slowly uncurling, Dusk spread her hands as if she was amazed that the spark wasn’t cradled within. All that met her questioning gaze were two soft blue palms, empty.

Silence stretched between them for so long that Switchblade was starting to regain the ability to process higher thoughts when she spoke: “Are we going back?”

Those high-standing struts lifted with a shuddering sigh. “No.” How could someone so highly programmed think so simply sometimes?

“I have to,” Dusk whispered, touching her torso gently. “I promised Mother.”

The fact that he was flying instead of rolling on the ground kept Switchblade’s hands steady. “Don’t you get it, girl? She’s using you like she used me! Count yourself lucky that I’m feeling generous enough to save your sorry skidplate!”

Dusk whirled to face him, only to come up short against the straps. “What do you know? You’re a rebel, a defector. You play with me one minute and then the next, you’re acting as if you’re my savior!”

Ire welled up inside the mech’s spark. “Why is it I only see fire in you when you’re angry?” he retorted. “Just – Primus damn your blasted, Pit-fired cortex! You’ll thank me later. First, let’s get that spark out of you.”

Silence met his words once more – well, as much silence as there could be, what with Dusk moaning and whimpering every few nanoclicks. Glaring at her, Switchblade turned his attention to the airways before them. He hated the way he was acting – a mix between his programmed “instincts” and his chosen way of behaving. Long ago, when he had learned about his experimentations, he’d tried to get that residual programming removed – but the medics said that it was too embedded into his core consciousness and that to destroy it would mean destroying him in entirety.

Sighing, Switchblade slammed his foot on the gas and accelerated.

“So … he took her away. Where? Where did he take Dusk and my spark?”

“I planted a transmitter in a fake protectorate citation, mistress. He’s currently flying over Iacon Central. Projected trajectory has them arriving at Iacon Medical in half a cycle.”

There was a distinct pause. Beta turned her head away, fingering the lines that kept her fading spark from escaping its hold. Hedge waited respectfully until the silence dragged on. “Mistress?” she prompted. “What are my orders?”

Silence; then: “Remove every scrap of belongings from scholar Dusk’s quarters, Hedge. Keep all her research material, however. I want everything else on the front steps. Revoke her Library pass, her credits, deactivate her ID. Dusk has made her choice – she has run with the Elite and now does not belong with us any longer. May Primus forgive me …” She paused, drawing a deep breath into her failing intakes, trying to cool a system far too taxed. “Hedge.” The mottled femme bent respectively low. Beta fiddled with an old port in her thigh, brushing her fingers against the worn and rusted clamp that once held her bow. “Take this. A mech will be born tonight – or tomorrow. Some day. And when it is, you shall finish what I started. It shall be done.”

Hedge bowed again, taking the object Beta held out to her. “Indeed.”

The pain was so intense that it burned her cortex with its tongues of fire. How can organics do this? she wondered in a short-lived moment of relief. What on Cybertron had cursed her with curiosity about creatures of flesh? Enough to accept the challenge?

Through optics shot with black and white lines, the femme watched Switchblade raise the hatch, climb out and walk to her side. He unstrapped her and picked her up, holding her in both of his arms this time. Briefly, she considered how it felt, pressed against his chestplate, safe and secure. And then the pain came back, licking all of her neuros with its intensity.

“What is going on here?” a voice issued from above her.

Switchblade quickly replied. “She’s got two sparks in her. We were at Vector Sigma –”

“Two sparks!?” the mech medic exclaimed. “No one goes to Vector Sigma without a shell! What were you thinking? Where’s the shell?”

Mentally, Dusk groaned. Fortunately, Switchblade was there to answer for her – which could be good or bad, depending. “There is no shell. We haven’t built it yet.”

“WE”?

The chief medic snorted in disbelief. “Get her on the stretcher. We’ll have to put her into stasis lock for the time being. There’s no way of telling how two sparks can affect a living metal body.” There was a pause, and Dusk had the impression that though the medic was shorter, he was perfectly capable of staring Switchblade down. “And you – get that body built as fast as you can.”

Hands that were unfamiliar, cold and determined, slipped under her back and began to tear her away from Switchblade. Fear more palatable than the fiery pain that coursed through her lines entered her cortex. Determined, she raised her head, forcing her errant, grainy optics to comply.

“Don’t … leave … me …”

Something – someone – swam into view. Her internal schematics flickered by, threatening to overwhelm her senses – which, at this moment, weren’t that difficult. And then she was lifted, taken away; placed on a gurney that was, surprisingly, soft. Her arm was lifted, a plate peeled away; lines hooked up, slowly dimming her view of the world.

“What do you want?”

It was Switchblade’s voice, but not resonating in her external audios; rather, it echoed about inside her cortex. Dusk’s lips moved. “W-want?” More lines were being fed into her system; she could feel the medics taking over, easing her body into darkness, stasis.

“Tell me – this way – think to me. What do you want him to look like?”

Her grainy optics rolled towards the feeling she was getting towards her right. Like … you … she managed to think as another wave, though duller, hit her in the Energon tank.

Dusk’s last conscious thought before stasis lock shut her away was of a hand much larger, but almost as delicate as her own, lacing fingers with hers.

Switchblade pulled away and left. Like me? he thought angrily. Do you even know who I am, really? I told you what I am and you still want that? Foolish, naïve little femme.

Stalking down the hallway, he paused to scrub the hand that had held Dusk’s against the wall in some vain effort to wipe away the trust and hope she had inadvertently smeared on his cold spark. Perhaps, years ago, when he had still held the femmes of Beta’s university in high regard, he would have understood the full meaning of Dusk’s words, the sensitivity and depth of this mission. But now? Now, he didn’t know who he was anymore.

Pausing at the exit, he leaned up against the door well to collect his scattered and broken thoughts. He’d never built a new Cybertronian before, never been in the company of someone undertaking that grand and responsible feat. He could, out of spite for Beta, make a fully-functioning adult body, but Dusk was expecting a form akin to that of an organic alien child. Small, rounded, stubby.

You took her on, his old university self chided. You took her and you owe her.

Owe her what? the Elitist scoffed, staring at the clenched fist that rested on the door well. For aches in my cortex? For disrupting my easy life? For putting me back on Beta’s slag-list after all this time? I could walk right out and never look back!

But, she needs you.

No, she doesn’t.

“Sir, you’re blocking the entranceway.” With a sneer, Switchblade aimed a glare at the nurse-bot who hovered at thigh-level. The silver-white ’bot spun on its axis, waving its little stick arms with two pinchers apiece in consternation. “Sir –”

The black and silver mech lifted his foot and kicked out at the nurse-bot, feeding all of his fear, frustration and confusion into the blow. Crying out in a high, thin warble, the little spheroid spun out and crashed “head first” into the main nursing desk. The two femmes on duty jumped up, one running around the counter to try and pry the ’bot out, while the other stood with a shocked expression on her pale silver face.

“Sir!” the femme-nurse who was trying to extract the spheroid shouted. “If you have concluded your business, I suggest you leave, lest I call the protectorate!”

Setting his foot down, Switchblade shrugged. “Good luck trying to get an official who hasn’t dealt with me or my credit card!”

The nurses glared at him, the nurse-bot peeped despondently, and Switchblade left in grand style: his head held high and shoulder struts erect as befit an Elite. I may have needed people before, but I don’t need them now. I’m better than that, he tried to convince himself as he crossed the parking lot, sweeping the rows of hoppers and personal craft for his own. Somehow, in the moments between entering and leaving, some slag-eating personnel had decided that they weren’t going to allow him to illegally park at the entrance and took it upon themselves to move it – and not tell him where.

Really? Could the day get any worse?

He stomped around the lot for a good half-cycle, cursing himself and the dealer for not giving him a means of finding the craft. Well, he’d fix that one when he got home. A new hopper, more expensive and elaborate than before. A one-seater …

Impatience finally got the best of him, and he threw himself into altmode, burning exclusive rubber on the Iacon Medical grounds. Without the benefit of the hopper’s storage, he’d have to rent a unit or risk overtaxing valuable subspace. In the end, he had to ask himself – and be willing to answer truthfully – if it was all worth it.

And it wasn’t something he was comfortable dealing with at the moment.

After a cycle, he pulled into a café and slipped in for a brief check of the interweb to find the best body-builder around. As he was going through the short listing, the owner of the café turned up the late evening newsnet report.

“With the shutdown of the Arenas in Iacon, similar actions have begun to take place all over Cybertron. City elders are calling on Sentinel Prime to help deal with their Arena problems, while protests in Iacon continue to grow. Reports from the dark city-state of Kaon indicate that they are willing to take any warriors into their fold. Sentinel Prime warns combatants to stand down and to resist temptation. In a statement issued today, the Prime said: ‘There are other ways of entertainment. The Arenas have become less of a showcase of talent and more of a bloodbath as the years go on. Thus, we wish to restructure the Arenas and to govern them more than closely in the past.’ …”

Finding what he needed, Switchblade scribbled the address of the body shop on a napkin, stuffed it into subspace and left the café before the newsnet report concluded. Unfortunate for him, the body shop was in the science district, a block down from Beta’s university. And there was no other way of getting to it except down the street that ran before the front entrance. The mech stuffed his pride into his ankle joint, transformed, and sped down the quieting Iacon streets.

The lights were coming into full brightness as he passed the university. With the intent of speeding by and possibly blowing a cloud of exhaust into the open doors above, Switchblade was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a load of belongings dropped with careless abandon on the front steps. He pulled to the curb, transformed, and stalked over to the pile, poking and prodding with his toe. A story pad rolled over, bearing the glyph for “Dusk”.

Fury overtook the mech at the intended abandonment. Just like you, he snarled mentally. Just like you to do this, you bronze slab-sided whore. Planting his hands on his buffed hip plates, Switchblade stared up and into the darkened windows. True to form, no answering silhouette met his fiery gaze. Turning about, the mech looked at the sad pile. At least when he had left, it had been under his own terms and after weeks of fighting. No one had kicked him out, scattering his worldly effects on the street side. Pulling a small comm unit from subspace, he called his Tower valet and ordered the drone to the university with a trailer.

She needs you … Indeed, he thought wryly, angrily. Another thing he didn’t need: a femme with no purpose other than research intruding on his life. Living with him. That would put a damper on his excursions.

Slag.

Casting an optic over the mound of Dusk’s brief life, Switchblade transformed and went on his way to the body shop.

And as he left, a shadow detached itself and followed.

Dreams.

Dreams of sweet breezes, cool grass and an endless ocean. She accepted this, knowing that Cybertron had nothing to rival this beauty. It was natural, evolving, not cold and lifeless, though the cities gleamed in bright colors and reflected the sun and moons splendidly.

In the distance, a turbofox gallivanted. It jumped on its hind legs, rail-thin tail whipping at the long blades of grass as it tried to snap at the grey shadow that hovered before it.

Dusk smiled. Whatever it was, it was playing with the ’fox. Or, maybe, they were playing together.

The turbofox gave a happy yip, its silver ears tipping backwards. The grey shadow fanned its wings, cupping them and perching on its companion’s back. Dusk eagerly leaned forward, intent on capturing this odd, elegant pair, filing it away for a future report.

Perhaps it was her motion, but they stopped and turned towards her. The turbofox’s blue optics, cut in a diamond-shaped manner, focused intently on her. The grey ghost on its back lifted its head, tilted it, and for a moment, Dusk caught a flash of gold.

And then they were gone, fading away in the bright sunlight, merely a mirage …

“Sh – mi – ut … atch – er – lin – zzz …”

Just as she had left the conscious world in shades of black and white, so she was thrust back into the ways of things. Audio came first, followed quickly by touch and taste. Scent and sight were the last to return to full function, and that was probably for the best. She didn’t quite want to know where she was, or look at the chronometer on the wall.

Unfortunately, that feeling passed rather quickly, and Dusk became agitated. Hands were set into her shoulder struts, keeping her level with firm, gentle pressure. She felt a plate in the back of her head being popped open, felt her optics being tweaked. It was one of the most uncomfortable and intrusive procedures that she had ever undergone. It was almost vile, but it helped.

Her vision cleared: grainy became crystal clear. With her sight came her memories, all flooding back and jockeying for her immediate attention.

“What is your name?”

Turning her head, Dusk rolled her optics and locked on the source: a pale gold mech with the red sigils of the Cybertronian medics on his shoulders. Cracking her lips, the sky-colored femme searched inside her throat, feeling for her voice box with her mind. “D-usk.” It came out as a hiss, a spit of a word. As dead as she felt at the moment.

The medic nodded and slipped a hand under her back, encouraging her to sit up so that he could press a flask of Energon into her hands. As she rose, it occurred to Dusk that she no longer felt pain – the reason behind her forced stasis was apparently gone. Opening her mouth, she tried to speak, only to find the medic pressing the Energon to her lip components instead. Complying, she drained the flask, feeling the rest of her life coming back as her body eagerly grabbed at the fuel.

A quick scan of the immediate area revealed that she was in a pale orange room with a monitor, the medic, a gurney with a covered sheet over it, a cradle … and … Switchblade. The Elitist uncrossed his arms and rested them on his knees.

“Welcome to the land of the living, girl.”

Same old cadence, same old sneer underlying his words.

The medic took the flask and set it aside. “We were successful in removing the spark from your circuitry, Dusk,” he began. “However, we were unable to remove it completely.”

Dusk’s optics widened and her brow ridge flew up to tap against her crest. The medic held up a hand; Switchblade merely threw his hands behind his head, apparently having heard this all before.

“There was some residual energy that your own spark absorbed, and, it seems, energy was also passed onto the extra spark. A transfer, if you will. We don’t think this has negatively affected the second spark, however.” The medic paused, looking over at Switchblade with a jaundiced optic. “Your friend here insisted that we do the transfer with you present, though I told him it could wait until you were able to move around on your own.”

A child, she thought, using the medic for leverage and peering around him to the gurney. MY child … “I want to see him. I want to see him, Switchblade.” The words tumbled freely from her mouth this time, no static.

The black and silver mech gave a wry twist of his lip components. “You better like it. I spent a good chunk of money on his parts.” Cracking his joints, he stood up and walked over to the sheet-covered gurney. Looking at her, then the medic, he reached down, grabbed the sheet, and pulled it away.

There, on a bed of white, was a small, rounded body. The new Cybertronian was primarily white, more pristine and pure than the cloth upon which he lay; a blue helm like Switchblade’s surrounded his face, which was a softer blue – like the sky of the trader world. Black hands, blue lower legs … tiny, stubby little fingers. Dusk reached out and touched them, daring them to vanish. But they did not. Cold metal met her questing fingertips.

With a soft moan of joy, an emotion that bubbled up from some unknown part of her spark, Dusk looked up into Switchblade’s face. He looked back down at her from that lofty position, down that regal nasal ridge. Something … odd … twisted his facial planes before he screwed them back into his bored mien. “Get on with it,” he snarled at the medic. The gold physician frowned, but said nothing. He walked over to the cradle and wheeled it close to the gurney. As Dusk watched, he drew back the cover, revealing the blue and white spark spinning slowly within. Pulling a clamp-like device from underneath the cradle, the medic opened the child’s torso plate. Looking once at Switchblade, then down at Dusk, he pulled the hatch down from the cradle, deftly catching the spark in the clamp before it could dart back into Dusk.

In one smooth motion, the medic lifted the spark and swung it down and into the child’s receiving port.

Light flared briefly in the room as spark met metal, bonding, fusing, growing warm and filling with life. The body on the gurney jerked upon moment of impact; the whine of pumps, lines and other mechanics seemed to roar in the silence of the room as existence began.

A cry, a call, whistled from the activated voice box. Something within Dusk called out in response; she touched the child’s face, still trying to assure herself of his reality. Optics as blue as the sky in the hours of the afternoon flashed and focused on her. The face twitched, twisted. A hand fluttered against the cloth.

Slowly, Dusk lowered her face to the child’s. As if in a dream, she spoke: “Welcome … Mirage.”