Chapter Two

Vain wisdom all and false philosophy.
Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 565.

The femme was a better shot than he’d anticipated. Smoke and sparks trailed over his shoulder, down along his chest. The metal on his fantastic frame was charred, smoke-blackened along the edges where Solarflare’s lucky blasts had made contact. Starscream’s lip curled – first in distaste, then in triumph. He might be sporting the scars of battle, but these were successful scars. By now, if things were going according to plan, the femme’s comrades would be hauling her timebomb of a carcass back to the Ark. And if all went well – no reason why it shouldn’t – he, Starscream, would witness might Megatron leading a charge against the Ark.

And perish when he discovered that the virus that had been implanted into Solarflare had not corrupted all the Autobots.

A little lie to save a little hide, that was all. Though Megatron was a grand tactician and warlord, he was a little slow in the scientific portion of society. This was the precise reason why he’d brought the Constructicons from Cybertron in the first place, under the pretense of needing a combiner team as reinforcements. Megatron might conceive ostentatious plans, but he was incapable of putting them together himself. Thus, it was so easy to fool the grey warrior into thinking that Solarflare was the vessel who would bring the Autobots to their knees; Megatron might have some notion of viruses, but he could not properly interpret the codes Starscream had inserted into the program.

A month, Starscream had told the Decepticon leader; one month, for it was a time-release virus. Why arouse the Autobots’ suspicions with Solarflare’s quick execution? That would only bring them upon their base en-force. Begrudgingly, Megatron accepted this term, noting that Starscream would lead the charge on the Ark, as it was only fitting. At that moment, Starscream felt a tendril of the unknown worm into his spark – had it been approval? Had it been an acknowledgement of Starscream’s obvious cortexal superiority? Whatever it was, he liked it.

Lost in his thoughts, the Seeker nearly bypassed the entrance tube as it rushed up through the deep blue-green waves of the Pacific Ocean. Water broke off the top and sides of the giant elevator, sloshing over purple spires and ledges that served no tactical purpose. Starscream flipped in midair, thrusting his feet forward and turning up the burn; pain shot up his left shoulder, down across his chest and spread along his back. The Air Commander snarled; he’d forgotten about Powerglide’s pointed head ramming him in the back. Perhaps that small inconvenience had cost him more than he’d thought.

With the top flap of his left wing flickering merrily in the wind, Starscream landed. Flame billowed out from under his heels, licking the blue paint of his toes and creating small black circles on the ramp. Not that they’d be noticed – hundreds of the same spheres dotted the ramp, with only the wind and rain to clean them up. Starscream sniffed; maybe he’d order Rumble and Frenzy up here to clean it. Sulfur and ozone did not mix well with the scents of the ocean. Slaggin’ organic mud ball.

Glad to put this mission behind him, the Seeker stepped down and began walking to the elevator that would take him into the bowels of the ship. As he strolled along, one shadow disengaged itself from its brethren. Caught unawares, Starscream stepped back, calling out, “Autobot spy!”

Harsh, cold laughter filtered back to him. “Really, Starscream, did you think that Solarflare’s oft-heralded toy would get here so fast?” Ice-red optics danced in the darkness – and not through mirth. “Or did your plan not go as you predicted? Are you being followed? Did the spy take wind of this adventure?” Each question brought Megatron closer until he was standing over Starscream, the barrel of his canon pointed conveniently at the Seeker’s chest.

Thinking fast, Starscream coughed and stuck his chest out proudly. “Of course not, Mighty Megatron. Everything went perfectly.”

A vice closed around his throat as Megatron pulled Starscream towards him. “Really. You are damaged. That does not speak of ‘perfection’.”

“Mere trivialities, Megatron,” Starscream squawked, realizing that his feet were dangling inches off the floor, arms flailing uselessly by his sides. “Solarflare has been implanted. And within the month, we shall march victorious upon the Ark.”

“With you leading,” the Decepticon leader snarled quietly, increasing the pressure on Starscream’s throat and taking little amusement from how the Seeker’s optics danced in his face. “You do remember that part, don’t you, Starscream?”

The Seeker vainly tried to hold back a cough; he failed. “Yes, yes,” he prattled, feet swinging. “Lead the charge and pave the way for your glorious entrance.”

“You have such a pretty way with words when your spark hangs in the balance,” Megatron mused, his optics never leaving his lackey’s. “Perhaps you should have been an entertainer instead of a scientist.” He held the Seeker there a moment more, savoring the knowledge that Starscream was well aware he could terminate his life whenever he chose. It was delicious fare. Alas; he threw the Seeker down and began to melt back into the darkness. “Get up off your aft, Starscream; there are plans to be made.”

“Yes, Megatron.” Starscream looked up, intense hatred etched into every line of his facial plates. No one, not even Optimus Prime, could abhor Megatron any more than he. “It will be as you say …” … until later, he finished, picking himself up. There were repairs to be made and he didn’t fancy pestering Scrapper.

Powerglide was not looking forward to the moment Mirage walked through the door. The red jet lay on his back in the main med bay, his damaged arm in a sling attached to the ceiling and impromptu soldering around the cracks in his head – souvenirs from his little brawl with Starscream. He didn’t mind being left to wait; his injuries were severely minimal compared to the brutal damage the Seeker had inflicted upon the grey avian femme. And he’d been there with her; he was supposed to have backed her up.

No, Powerglide did not fancy a meeting with the white-blue spy. He kept his head turned towards the door, a million and one explanations, excuses and escape plans running through his cortex.

When the doors sluiced open, Powerglide opened his vocalizer to offer acute apologizes – to prostrate himself on the floor if necessary – and noticed that there were two Transformers entering. Hound was with Mirage, the green tracker’s arm draped over the spy’s shoulder. Hound was talking low and fast to his friend; the spy nodded once or twice, never speaking. As they drew closer, Powerglide caught wind of their conversation.

“Don’t take it so hard, Raj,” Hound was saying; and from his tone, he’d oft-repeated the phrase. “You heard Prime; Ratchet told him she’d be fine. Battered, banged, but alive.”

“You don’t understand, Hound,” the spy finally said, easily slipping out of Hound’s grasp and walking over to the wide Plexiglas window that overlooked the operating theatre.

“What don’t I understand?” Hound stayed back, hands clasped behind him. There was a touch of pain in his vocalizer, perhaps at being told that this was not a situation he was familiar with. “Tell me, Raj.”

Mirage sighed and leaned forward, placing both hands on the glass. “What she means to me,” he said at last. “I failed her once; I don’t want to fail her again.”

“Fail? How on Cybertron did you fail her?”

“I allowed her to die. If it had been me that day, she wouldn’t have fallen to Ravage’s attack. She would have remained human.”

Acute doubt was in Hound’s reply. “You’re telling me that you don’t appreciate what she is now? You know very well that you could never be together if she’d still been human.”

“There are ways, I’m sure,” he said after a long pause. “Seaspray and Powerglide seem to do well enough.”

Powerglide’s head lifted at that. What the slag did Mirage think went on between he and Astoria!? But the jet wished to remain in one piece, so he kept his vocalizer shut.

“Be realistic, Mirage,” Hound snapped. “That’s your self-doubt talking. Do you really think Flare would turn human and give up what she has? I don’t think so. She loves you, she loves what she is.”

“What she is was caused by this damned war,” the spy spat furiously, hands clenching along the glass. “This is no place for her; she should be surrounded by luxury, lauded as a queen …”

Hound stepped up just then and laid a hand on Mirage’s shoulder. His fingers dug into the other’s plating, enough to make the spy’s head lift from its bow. “Continue to fight and we’ll win this. And then you can take her back to Cybertron and make her the queen of the Towers.” When the spy’s head lifted further, and the light of sanity returned to his sky blue optics, Hound hauled back and soundly clapped Mirage on the back. “See! Wheeljack is giving us the thumbs’ up. Told ya.” And jabbed Mirage again with his elbow.

Powerglide twisted around, but his arm kept him back. Grumbling, the jet tugged a little harder. Almost there … And fell off the platform.

Green tracker and white-blue spy turned their heads, seemingly unaware of his presence before the clatter. “Uh, hello, Hound, Mirage,” Powerglide lamely announced, his battered arm flopping uselessly at his side as he tried to right himself. To his surprise, both of them walked over, lifted the jet and then jury-rigged him into the sling. “Uh, you’re not going to slag me, are you?”

Mirage paused in looping the extra length of chain around the pin that held the sling. “What do you mean?”

Powerglide’s optics blinked furiously. Apparently he had just miscalculated; perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to say, to remind the boyfriend that he was part of the mission that caused the girlfriend to be slagged. “Never mind.”

Mirage’s brow ridges drew down over his blue optics as he looked across to Hound. “I do not hold you accountable for what happened, Powerglide,” he said at last. Slowly, he lifted his hand and patted the red jet on his good shoulder. “Rest up; we’ll talk later.”

And Powerglide nearly died and became one with the Matrix.

Let no one tell you that becoming conscious is like rising from a warm bath. Consciousness was sharp, painful and it brought back dark memories. Only once before had she woken up to reality in this manner – the moment she had been resurrected as a Transformer. The sensory messages her cortex was sending her varied little from that first time. Primary awareness focused immediately on the pump that beat in her chest, one that pushed processed Energon throughout her system, as well as regulated the amount of coolant, lubricant and other miscellaneous fluids her metallic body needed to function. It was a comforting feeling, one that soothed the influx of panic. This was immediately followed by the knowledge that her ventilator was working smoothly, bringing air through her intakes and back again.

Static flickered across her optics; a self-diagnostic scan flipped up in the upper right-hand corner of her right optic – power: maximum / systems: optimal. Pie-charts, graphs and other lines rolled by too quickly for her to discern what they meant. She was too busy remembering what fingers and toes (she only had two, really) and wingtips felt like to care. A low moan passed her sticky lips; her taste sensor registered stale lubricant and coolant coating the inside of her mouth. Her chest compressing, Solarflare coughed, vile revulsion straining her new digestive chamber as she sought to rid herself of the foulness.

Work roughened metallic hands turned her head; a tube was inserted, water forced through it to clean her from the inside out. Flare coughed again but had enough presence of cortex to spit when she’d finished rolling the liquid around. “Th …nk … oo,” she whispered.

Grey lines streaked her vision, growing fainter by the moment. As she lifted her head, a face came into view. Autobot … Ratchet. Chief Medical Officer …

“Flex,” a strong, no-nonsense voice commanded. Her arm was lifted up, not of her own volition; Solarflare groaned again – yet, instead of it coming out low, her herald of pain exited her vocalizer as a thin, high keen. “Flex,” Ratchet urged. And she complied, willing the hydraulics and the joints and the metal to obey.

First one arm, then the other, then each of her legs in turn. With the CMO’s aid, she sat up, another sharp keen dribbling from her charcoal lips. As she sat upon the medical table, pyramidal legs dangling over the edge, Ratchet recounted her injuries and what parts of her they’d had to completely replace.

“How’s Powerglide?”

Ratchet shifted on his stool. “Functional,” he replied succinctly. “Busted shoulder, cracked helm … extremely minimal compared to you.”

“Only because I’m Starscream’s favorite dartboard,” she groused in return, twisting her wrists to improve range of motion. “It’s only 20 to 124, though; I’m not worried.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked up, feeling the trifold crest on her helm respond to her emotions. “Oh.” The crest dipped low upon her brow. “I …”

“You keep score, don’t you?” Ratchet frowned. “I would have thought better of you, Flare. I told you, stay away from the Twins! They’re a bad influence on you.”

Flare flicked her optics away and began running her fingers along her side, talons finding the thin lines of repair in her armor. “Yes, Father.”

Ratchet gave a snort of derision and turned away. “Well, I’d best call your other half. I’m surprised he hasn’t torn down my door already …” Rising from his seat, the boxy medic crossed the surgical theatre to stop before a small comm station. Solarflare watched him walk away, noting the hitch in his gait. She hadn’t had the chance to ask how long she’d been under, but judging from Ratchet’s stance, he’d been on his feet for a long time. Her optics flicked up to his hips, scrutinizing how he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he spoke to Mirage. As she was running calculations through her cortex, she stopped herself cold. What on Earth was she thinking about? Puzzled, she chalked it up to battle fatigue and time in stasis. She tended to lose track of her surroundings for a few minutes after being repaired.

Yet, when the doors to the surgery sluiced wide, it was not Mirage who walked through, but Optimus Prime and Prowl, the later holding a data pad in his left hand. Inwardly, Flare groaned. She didn’t exactly feel like remembering anything right now. Couldn’t they talk with Carly and Spike? They were conscious during the event.

Prowl retrieved a stool for Optimus, who lowered his considerable bulk onto the spindly piece of furniture. “Flare, you look well,” he began. “Well enough to tell us what happened?”

Solarflare’s crest twitched, laid down flush against the smooth curve of her helm. Inside, she felt snarky, but this was Optimus Prime – not someone who would easily be denied. And there was always the fact that he had sanctioned her revival all those years ago. So she answered quietly, “Yes,” and in that self-same tone, recounted everything she and Powerglide had seen, heard, and acted upon.

During her account, Prime tapped his chin, Prowl tapped his pad and Ratchet drummed his fingers on the counter, anxious to get on with his day. Finally, the Autobot commander nodded and she stopped, wings twitching in an effort to be out. “Prowl?”

The black and white cruiser looked up from his typing and slipped the pad under his arm. “I hardly believe this to be an isolated incident, Prime. We all know that Starscream has issues with Solarflare; that he focused the brunt of his attack on her, rather than both she and Powerglide, is indicative of it.”

“True,” Prime mused, stroking his faceplate rhythmically. “Flare?”

She looked up, having spent the past minute studying a crack in the wall. “Yes?”

Behind Optimus, Prowl frowned. She could care less about his opinion. “Do you believe this was a personal attack?” Optimus asked.

She shrugged. “It could be; he did make a prop of Mirage, and he did set up the jamming station.”

“I’m going to talk with Red Alert about stepping up surveillance on the outer rim,” Prowl said, crossing his arms and tapping the pad against his side. “Starscream knew that Solarflare and Powerglide were going out and he knew exactly where they were headed.”

“Do we have enough material?”

“No, not yet. I’ll send Bumblebee out sometime this evening.”

Optimus rubbed the back of his head. “Indeed. We’ll go over plans immediately. Ratchet, call Wheeljack, Grapple and Hoist. Tell them to meet me in the conference room as soon as possible.” Prime stood up, levering his red-white-and-blue bulk well over thirty feet in the air. Solarflare, though sitting on a high table, still had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “Rest up, Flare. We’ll see you at briefing tomorrow morning.”

“Aye, Optimus,” she whispered back, sketching a quick salute when Prowl frowned again. When they’d gone, she turned her head to look at Ratchet. “Can I go back up to my room? I’m tired.”

Ratchet looked at her over his shoulder. “No. I want you here for observation purposes. You can use the recharging bed in the other room.”

Flare blinked, golden optics winking. “That thing? Ratch … it’s enclosed!”

A large black, boxy finger waved in her face. “No backtalk, missy. You’ll do as I say, or I’ll shut you down.”

Grumbling, Solarflare slipped down from the table – and fell on her aft. Ratchet was at her side, levering her up. “Dammit, Solarflare! I just put you back together; tell me next time.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, feeling her equilibrium swing into place. “I’m okay, really,” she told the medic as she attempted to wave off his viselike grip on her upper arm. Ratchet snorted and let her go, watching as she swayed momentarily before her gyroscope righted her out.

And he watched her as she staggered to the door; watched until it closed behind her.

“She’ll be all right, you know that,” Ratchet spoke to the air.

Mirage came forth, his lean frame appearing from nowhere slowly, subtly. “You’re getting good.”

“You let me hear you.”

Mirage’s lips quirked slightly. “Perhaps.” He leaned up against the table, hands behind his back. “I’m about this close to taking Starscream out for good.”

“Unadvisable, you know that.”

“On my own, yes, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it on the battlefield.”

Ratchet sighed under his breath. “Mirage, this is war.”

“So I noticed.”

“Mirage,” the medic began again, so very weary, “don’t let your relationship effect your efforts. I tell you this not as a medic, but as your friend – as Flare’s friend.”

“And de-facto father.”

Ratchet did not reply to that. His face was smooth, almost as impassive as the spy’s.

“Don’t worry, Ratch,” Mirage said. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll take Starscream out in battle – if possible and under the right circumstances. I know my limits and I know the rules.”

“You don’t always heed them.”

Mirage’s right optic lifted in sardonic humor. “Who does? As you said, Ratch, this is war. You kill the enemy before they can kill you.” He rubbed the back of his helm idly before pushing off the table. “I’ll see you later; thank you.”

As he faded, Ratchet turned around, cleaning up his work area. Thank you? For what? For giving you a few more precious moments with your bondmate? That is all I can do – extend time until it can’t be extended any more. Only Primus knows. Only Primus can keep her safe.

Rachet paused, looking about at the pools of fluid; at the froth from the coolant lining the tiles. Solarflare.

My … daughter …?

Maybe. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about right now. Too complicated. Familial thoughts were safest in peacetime. Ratchet sighed and shoved his hands under the ionizer.