Chapter Nine

See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,
With joy and love triumphing.
Paradise Lost. Book iii. Line 337.

No branch rustled, no leaf stirred both on the ground and above. Yet, there was a visitor in the deep solitude of the forest.

Mirage walked slowly, invisibly. It was the only way he could ever properly express his grief. Why did you leave me, Alina? He paused in a pool of light, looking up through the spaces between the great branches, covering his face with slim black, invisible palms, cortex overwhelmed with grief. We promised to win this war together, to return to Cybertron victorious.

Yes, the thoughts of Cybertron, of its gleaming towers and sparkling cities had come back. It was as if Solarflare’s presence had kept the homesickness at bay. And if he spent a little time reflecting on that phenomenon, he would have agreed with the analysis.

Left alone, his cortex turned in ever-increasing circles. What about the plans they’d made? How they would go back to Cybertron and rebuild the Towers? The summer house in Monte Carlo? (Okay, those were his ideas, but she’d agreed to them eagerly enough. So he revised his proposal; Primus, if she were still here, he’d make sure that they gave Grapple and Hoist enough credits to build a beach house in Santa Monaco. He’d buy all of California if necessary.)

Images twirled, swirled in complex patterns. How he longed to return triumphant to Cybertron with his wild avian femme on his arm. Oh, how she would be the talk of the upper echelon! Her exotic features, bold manner, vibrant personality; more interesting company than any of those slim, protoform femmes he had prowled around with when he was younger.

Alinaflaresolarflarealinaflarealinaalina …

He thought of his creator – what would have she thought of Solarflare? She had always gently chastised him for never bringing home a femme (or mech, she didn’t care which way her baby boy swung as long as he was happy) for her to fawn over. Mirage had never found her body, nor that of the mech who lived with them as her bondmate in the ruins of the Towers. Thoughts of them nearly pushed him off the edge; old wounds mixing with the bleeding fresh. Solarflare would have loved Dusk, and she in turn, he thought miserably. They were very much alike, subdued in color, intelligent, with a penchant for picking the pretty boys and making full-grown mechs out of them.

Mirage quirked a grin before his face fell back into its sorrowful hollow. Dusk always commented on how he took after Switchblade, no more noble a mech had lived – nor arrogant one. And yet, Dusk loved him; just as Solarflare had loved … loves … Mirage. Two halves of a whole; complementing each other. Mirage remembered how Switchblade would affect the airs only outside of Dusk’s presence, how he gave everything of himself to her at home. As a younger mech, Mirage had scoffed at those silly platitudes; now, wiser, bereft, he understood.

Life among the Towers had accustomed him to privilege; it also made him aware of the benefits of family. And here, on Earth, it was even more so.

Primus … all I ask is that we meet again in the Matrix.

And so he walked; to what ends, he would never know, for the next few steps brought him upon the Decepticons. And Megatron held Solarflare’s spark in his hand.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Megatron and his merry band of aft-heads,” Sunstreaker called out, circling to one side of the small clearing, Sideswipe taking the other. “I thought you were beyond pretty baubles, slagger.”

The smirk on Megatron’s face never wavered. He raised the unusual spark, turning it so that the light hit it full on the top. “This one amuses me. However, I’m not beyond acquiring another.” His hand curled around the casing, slowly increasing the pressure on it. The action was well-rewarded – the Twins came to a halt, their weapons pointed at his head.

Not far behind came Trailbreaker, Hound, Jazz and Prowl, their determined faces swiftly changing to grim battlemasks.

“With this, the she-bot lives, does she not, Prowl?” Megatron continued, his fingertips biting into the spark.

Prowl’s lip curled, betraying his emotions. He lifted his hand and gestured; Trailbreaker and Hound joined Sideswipe while Jazz moved towards Sunstreaker. At the back of the clearing, Decepticons shifted: not all that he’d thought there’d be. Starscream and Scrapper, plus Soundwave and Ravage. The second-in-command’s lip curled again, this time in a flicker of amusement. Starscream appeared to have been wrung through an old-fashioned human washing machine.

Megatron did not like the cruiser’s refusal to reply. As much as he wanted to keep the unique spark, to torture and to gain information from, it wasn’t that valuable. “Say goodbye to the female, Prowl.” To the Autobots’ horror, he placed the spark into the muzzle of his arm cannon and lifted it to the sky.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker loosed identical battle cries and bolted forward. They need not have had to.

A wild howl tore through the heavy air; Megatron’s cannon was ripped from his arm and thrown backwards by invisible hands. The Decepticon grunted and stumbled, tripping over ancient roots as a hole the size of an Autobot’s fist suddenly blossomed along his lower torso.

“Go!” Mirage’s voice exploded as Decepticon fire erupted around the clearing. “I’ll cover you!” His body ripped into the visible spectrum, one hand on his shoulder-mounted cannon.

Jazz sprang forward, diving under an onslaught of energy bursts to grab Megatron’s cannon and shake the spark free from the barrel. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe flanked him, white-hot death flaring from the muzzles of their own guns. Quickly, the saboteur stuffed the spark into a safe subspace compartment and transformed, ramming through the tree cover with absolute disregard for nature and himself.

“Hound! Trailbreaker! Go!” Prowl ordered, dodging energy bolts to let off a few of his own. The cruiser was pleased to see Soundwave go down; Scrapper remained pinned by the second’s own fire. Starscream, at some point, had retreated, melting into the shadows like a haunt. That left Mirage and Megatron: the spy and Decepticon were tangled up on the floor, the smaller mech vainly trying to keep his advantage. Sorely, he was losing – and quick.

“Mirage!”

With a massive right hook to the jaw, Megatron smashed Mirage to the ground and kicked the spy in the side as he fell, throwing him into Prowl. The black and white cruiser went down in a sprawl with the Ligier, only Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s cover saving them both. Megatron ran forward, grabbed his cannon and in a torrent of flames, was gone. Beyond, Scrapper and Soundwave picked themselves up and ran for it. Ravage glared at them before he, too, melted into the darkness.

Gasping, Prowl gingerly lifted his head; Mirage lay face down over his back, idle smoke curling from a large wound on his shoulder. The Twins were sniffing around the perimeter, actually skulking in the face of a short battle. Finding nothing more in the shadows, they returned to Prowl and Mirage.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Invisible Man,” Sunstreaker called out, reaching down and grabbing the white-blue Ligier by one arm and hauling him upright. “Yanno, you’re crazy.”

Mirage’s head lolled back, inky stains spread along his blue helm. “Did …?”

Sideswipe nudged him in the upper torso, none-too-gently – but that was the way of the Twins. They hurt you even if they liked you. “Yeah, Jazz got her out.” He paused. “Well, part of her. Her spark, yanno.”

Prowl levered himself up without any help and surreptitiously brushed dirt off his chrome. “Let’s head home, men. Mirage, can you transform?”

The spy lifted his head and merely looked at Prowl. “As if I’m built for this,” he sighed. “I think I’ll walk, anyway. At least until the road.” Slipping out of the Twins’ grasp, the spy wobbled a moment before righting himself. Thus he returned to the woods, not even bothering to cloak himself, as it would have been a futile attempt, what with the holes in his armor.

Sideswipe threw Sunstreaker a look. “You’re right, bro, he is nuts.”

Prowl sighed and rolled his optics, making his way to the path Jazz had cut into the forest growth.

Ironhide stood next to Optimus, shading his optics against the light of the dying sun. A cool wind blew through the mountains and swirled the dirt about the old veteran’s blocky feet. Off to the right was Ratchet, impatiently tapping his foot and checking the time on his chronometer. “Where are they?”

“Ah, cool yer jets, Ratch,” Ironhide drawled, not even bothering to call over his shoulder at the CMO.

“I would if I knew that I had unlimited time in which to put an extracted spark back into its body! But I don’t! It could be for nothing …”

“Peace, Ratchet,” Prime murmured, turning slightly and lifting his hand in a calming motion. The medic huffed and went on tapping his foot. “There they are.”

Jazz roared into view, flanked by Hound and Trailbreaker, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe; Prowl brought up the rear, ever-cautious. The Porsche threw himself into robotmode and presented a stricken CMO with his prize. “Special delivery!”

“SLAG!” Ratchet roared and snatched the spark from the saboteur’s hand, leaving Jazz gape-mouthed.

“Do I smell?” he asked, watching Ratchet pound his way back into the Ark. Jazz lifted his arm and sniffed experimentally. “Nope.”

With a keen optic, Optimus scanned the returnees. “Prowl, where’s Mirage?” Upon leaving the woods, Prowl had made contact with the Ark, informing Prime of what occurred.

Transforming, the second-in-command saluted. “Walking.”

“Walking?” Ironhide repeated incredulously. “Why?”

Optimus’ brow ridge drew down. “Is he all right?”

Prowl looked to Hound. The tracker stared blankly back. “I suppose so,” Prowl said. “He took a hit to the shoulder in the melee, but he seemed fine. He should be back – when … I don’t know.”

“I am back,” a voice from the air replied. A shadow on a boulder shifted and resolved itself into the Ligier spy, small sparks rising from the hole in his shoulder – one that he had concealed by melding with the rock’s natural curves and bumps.

“I thought you were walking,” Sunstreaker said, folding his arms.

Mirage shrugged, biting back a mewl of pain from straining his shoulder. “I did. Then I rolled when I hit the highway.” A small smirk of Tower arrogance lit the spy’s face. “You’re not the fastest one on the road, you know, Sunny.”

The huge yellow Autobot stalked up to the wounded Ligier and put a big, fat finger in his face. “You’re lucky Flare likes your face the way it is,” he barked, “otherwise I might turn you into a Picasso.”

“Didn’t Ratchet use that one already?” Jazz quipped, grinning, the dying sun reflecting off his blue visor. Sunstreaker flipped Jazz the bird and stomped into the Ark, followed closely by his brother.

“Mirage.” Prime’s voice cut through to the spy and his smirk slipped back into grim neutrality.

“Aye, Chief?”

Prime drew close; around, the others shifted, shuffled, and finally decided that it would be best if they left the two alone. Optimus reached out and put a large blue hand on the Ligier’s working shoulder. “How are you?”

The large Autobot was paternal almost to a fault. Mirage bent his head and considered what his reply should be. His line of work did not call for complete and total honesty, and he was not above slipping a white lie into what he said now and then. But not this. This questioning cut him to the quick. “A mess.” With the admission, his shoulders dipped and he swayed on his feet, clutching his ruined arm. Instantly, Optimus’ hand tightened, giving him stability.

“Do you want me to take you to the bay?”

Mirage looked up. “No.” The word surprised him. No, he couldn’t see her; he couldn’t be there if it was beyond hope. “Just … take me to Grapple.”

Prime knew better than to question. He tightened his grip, then the two began their slow trek inside.

Dying wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The moment of extraction, she’d fallen into what seemed to be sleep; her vision took on that blurred quality, and she felt buoyant, light, airy. A green-green meadow, impeccable in its upkeep, spread out before her and she floated along, completely at ease.

So, this is Heaven … the Matrix? To which did she belong?

**To whichever you choose.**

She spun, taken aback by the calm, clear voice that spoke directly above her right ear. Great golden eyes, ringed with fire and wisdom, regarded her steadily. Beyond, the meadow receded into warm darkness. **Not yet, though, I am afraid. I told your mate you were mine, but not yet. That is … of course … if you wish to join me?**

“I … have a choice?” Her voice sounded hollow, distant.

**Everyone has a choice.**

She turned her head. “What place is there for me – back there? I’m only a burden.”

**Friends and lovers do not fight for burdens,** the resonant voice continued, drifting back slightly. She saw a curve of jaw, black-furred; a sharp-cut nose, two pricked ears layered with gold on the inside. His name … His name …

In the center of the shade’s chest, an image formed. She leaned forward, her blurry vision making it difficult to pick out the details. She wanted to see, desperately.

Warm breath passed over her face and the image and the creature faded into blissful blackness.

Ratchet thumped Solarflare’s chest, hard; the errant ventilator wheezed and kicked into action. A soft whir, almost inaudible, wafted up from the depths of her frame. Satisfied, the CMO picked up his handheld scanner and fanned it over her body, checking the efficiency of her coolant and fuel lines. As he worked, Ratchet mused over a nickname Spike had given Solarflare once: the Phoenix. Though she’d been based off a Harpy Eagle, the human legend seemed apropos: a creature rising from its own death to live again.

Damn luck, the medic grumbled, preferring to stay in reality. Yes, pure, unadulterated luck was what allowed them to take her much-abused spark and reinsert it into her cold grey husk. But not after checking the shell for breakage. If so much as a wisp of soul escaped, she wouldn’t function properly, wouldn’t be Solarflare. And one by one, her dead system’s parts came back online, her body became once more infused with color – or brighter, as she was essentially, colorless.

“Cortex analysis.”

“Functional,” First Aid reported.

“Efficiency?”

“One hundred percent – maximum.”

Good, good. She wasn’t offline long enough for decay to set in. “Bring her out – again.”

The low hum that permeated the medbay slowly wound down into silence as First Aid turned off the life support and unblocked the barriers that were keeping Solarflare in stasis. They waited a moment, then two – slowly, with the intensity of street lamps turning on, her optics went from bronze to bright gold. Solarflare gasped, coughed and sat bolt upright, clutching at her chest.

Ratchet let her hack a few moments more, punishment for putting him and so many others through the wringer, before slapping her smartly between her shoulder struts. Slowly, her head turned, optics focusing on his chevron before slipping down his chest to the floor.

“Welcome back … again.”

“Why …” she rasped, bending her head, wings limp.

“That’s my question for you, missy.” He reached down and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her head up to look him in the optics. “We just repaired you. Why did you leave?”

Flare looked to the side, embarrassed, depressed, degraded. They wouldn’t understand, not ever. “I had to,” she whispered low, the words almost unintelligible as fresh tears leaked from the edges of her optics and spilled down her sharp-planed cheeks.

With a half-snarl, half-sigh, Ratchet let go of her chin and knelt on the floor, placing his hands on either side of her thighs. “Why?” he repeated.

Some answer burbled out from her quavering lips. Ratchet gripped her thighs, forcing her to look at him. “Bur … den.”

Ratchet exhaled noisily, shaking his head. “Never.”

Emotions still raw, still burning deep within her spark, caused her shoulders to shake uncontrollably. First Aid watched nervously from the side, completely bereft of ideas for what to do.

“I – always – have to – be – saved,” she hiccupped. “Why – why else – would – Red watch – watch me? Be-cause … I’m trouble.”

Blasted paranoid bastard! Ratchet fumed. “Four years you’ve been with us, Flare. Never once have I heard anyone complain that you have been anything but a help, a blessing. You do your share and more. That doesn’t constitute a burden in my book.”

“Red …”

“Slag Red!” he roared, gripping her thighs with more force than he intended. Flare squawked, talons sliding out. “I mean,” Ratchet began more quietly, “Red can go shove his opinions up his squeaky clean tailpipe for all I care. You have two people to please: Prime and Prowl – plus yourself. That’s it. Anyone else can eat slag.”

Solarflare sighed, reaching up to draw her shaking fingers across her face to clear the liquid from her cheeks. Ratchet signaled Aid, who surreptitiously slid his master a rag. Ratchet lifted the rag and delicately began drying the fluid from her face. “Now, I know you’re overwhelmed, but we do need you.” Flare looked over the edges of the rag, trying to find some glimmer of artificial sympathy, but all she found was truth. “Everyone has their place here, even those blasted, prancing flowers you call your friends.”

Slowly, the shaking stopped and she nodded, words still beyond her. “Now, who are you?”

The grey avian femme sitting perched on the table top drew a long, quivering breath through her intakes. “Solarflare.”

“What do you do?”

“Communications.”

“What are you?”

“Autobot.”

“What are you?”

“A warrior.”

Daughter, the CMO tacked on silently. “Good girl. Now get that feathered aft off my table. I don’t want to see you here for a long, long time.”

Light-infused golden optics widened in surprise. “I … you don’t want me here?”

“For what?” Ratchet retorted, getting up off his knees, the gruff exterior back in place. “You’re fixed, aren’t you? Go find that pretty boy of yours. I don’t know where he is, but he’s around.” He observed as her face almost crumpled with the realization that she’d hurt someone else with her actions; out of the corner of his optic, he watched as she dug her talons into the palms of her hands, steeling her resolution before leaping off the table. He had a hand out in case she tripped again, but she steadied herself, spine straight, wings curved over her shoulders, the pinions slick against her back.

Her walk was a bit jittery, but she managed to bring herself to the door without problems. As it shut behind her, Ratchet turned to First Aid. “And that is what we do.”

The junior medic nodded. There was still a lot he had to learn – about medicine and people in general. “What now?” he ventured. “Is she all right?”

Ratchet shrugged. “Don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. Now, help me clean this mess up.”