Chapter Three

Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 16.

The recharging chamber was not pretty; it was almost rhomboid in shape and built to contain the tallest Autobots the Ark possessed: namely Prime and Grimlock. (Of course, when Omega Supreme needed to recharge, they hooked him up to a nuclear reactor in Russia – he glowed green for two days, which was slightly amusing.) Solarflare eyed the chamber forlornly; it was something she tried to avoid at all costs. It was too enclosed, made her feel trapped. Perhaps it was due to her form, perhaps some squirreled away human phobia, but she preferred to be out in the open, to be free.

She reached out and fiddled with the control panel, identifying herself so that the chamber wouldn’t give her the same amount of energy it would give Bumblebee or, Primus forefend, Grimlock. She’d seen that happen once, when it was rainy and the Twins were bored. Poor Windcharger with his magnetism … it took the whole day to pry him off the wall.

While she waited for the chamber to power-up, Flare studied her talons. A simple thought and a flexing of cables brought the sharp claws out from their recess in her fingertips. In and out, in and out … my, it was fascinating what she could do. The chamber chimed, snapping her out of her small reverie; the hatch lifted with a low hydraulic whine and Flare sighed. Fishing a step stool out from the cabinet underneath the recharging station, she mounted it and clambered into the bowels. For someone with her design, it was roomy, but Flare could not help but feel a shudder of fear run through her new cables as the hatch slowly lowered. Not a coffin, not a coffin … No, she’d escaped that fate, once. Well, her mind had, in any case.

Through the scratched Plexiglas lid, Flare saw a grey face framed by a blue helm peer down. A slim black hand rested gently on the cover; with a faint smile, Solarflare reached up and mirrored her palm against Mirage’s. Thus comforted, she allowed herself to fall into a deep trance, into a deep sleep. “Outside, I can’t protect you, Alina,” he whispered, though she could not hear him, “but here, I shall be your guardian.”

Flashes of days gone by, of memories oft forgotten.
“Alina! Hurry, we’re going to miss the show!”
The beach … golden sand and sun. Alina laughs, tosses a ball to her cousin; it ends up hitting him in the side of his head. Instead of getting angry, Ryan laughs along with her, complains that he needs glasses – or she needs better aim.
“Alina! Watch out! It’s Ravage!”
Pain, pain, considerable pain. Why can’t I remember? Who am I? Why am I alive? “Behold, Solarflare! The newest member of our team!”
“Tell me, teach me how to love you,” she pleads. He laughs low, running his finger over her cheek. “Perhaps,” he says so soft and gentle, “you should be the one to teach me.”
The wind, it beckons me … calls to me. The drafts, the thermals, lovely rising winds. Call to me my high-flying lover, dazzle me, drifting in and out. The voice, harsh and high, wild, untamed and unfettered … unchained.
Trapped! Trapped!
Kee-keekkkeeee-eee! Keeraaakkkeee!

Pieces of the white sniper’s rifle clattered to the ground, scattering to all corners of the floor. Mirage stood up so fast, he tangled himself up in the stool; arms whirling, the spy twisted his torso so that his front was facing his back and grabbed onto the hatch of the recharging chamber. “FLARE!”

Inside the darkness, her fists pounded, her claws scraped and her voice howled. Mirage hauled back and punched the control panel; his fist came away with bits of wire and metal clinging to his armor. The chamber hissed, spat and the hatch obediently popped open.

“Tra-keeeekeeeekkkk! Keeekkeee-akk-pped!”

“Flare!” the spy bellowed, reaching in and attempting to grab her by the wrists. “Wake up!”

The grey femme got up – and raked her bondmate full across the face with all five digits. Mirage fell back, the delicate plating of his face neatly cut into fifths, each line oozing sparks and liquid. Optics blinking on and off furiously, the spy watched as Solarflare lifted herself from a prone position, her taloned hands punching ten neat holes in the side of the chamber. And there she effectively perched, crest back, head flicking right and left. Coolant flowed down the side of Mirage’s face, down into the crevices of his neck joints. Confused, the spy lifted his hand and wiped the trickle away, never taking his optics from Solarflare.

“What the high-flying slag is going on?”

Mirage’s head turned – and so did Flare’s. Ratchet stalked into the recharging area, fists clenched into tight balls by his white sides. “Get up!” the medic ordered fiercely, clamping one hand viselike on Mirage’s shoulder. Lifted through fury, the spy’s legs dangled momentarily before he remembered who he was; breaking free of Ratchet’s grasp he landed catlike on the floor before straightening.

“She had a nightmare …” the spy began, hoping to Primus that’s what it was.

“I can see that,” Ratchet snapped. He stalked over to where Flare perched on the edge of the recharging chamber – and slapped her. Lubricant from her mouth arced in a thin stream to splatter on the wall. Her head snapped back readily enough and she gasped from the pain, sanity returning to her glazed optics.

“You see that, miss?” Ratchet growled, grabbing her by the back of her neck like a dog and forcing her to look at Mirage’s deformed facial structure. “Why did you do that?”

“I … didn’t!” she whispered, horrified. “Oh, God, what did I do?”

“You just ordered your boyfriend several hours in my medbay to repair that damage.”

Mirage wiped away more of the liquid that welled up from his cuts with the back of his hand. “Enough,” he stated firmly in his most noble tone. “That’s enough, Ratchet. I told you, she had a nightmare. You know she doesn’t like the chamber.”

The medic rumbled low in his vocalizer and dropped his hold on Solarflare. “You’ll do your best not to question my judgment, Mirage. I told her to come in here because she needed it; a few hours hooked up to your bed upstairs wasn’t going to do any good. She needed the concentrated Energon only this chamber can provide. Comprendé?”

Mirage’s upper lip twitched in an act of defiance that would have made the Twins proud. “Understood.”

“Good,” the medic grunted, hands on hips. “Now, you, missy, get out and go report to Prime.”

Head bowed, crest flat, Flare whispered, “Yes, Ratchet.” Dragging her large black feet over the top of the chamber, she slunk out of the room, wings drooping with the tips scraping the floor.

Once she was out of sight and aural range, Ratchet turned to Mirage. “Let me see your face.” The spy’s head turned back from where he had been watching Solarflare skulk away. Setting his jaw, he stuck his neck out; Ratchet fingered the slashes. They were clean and thankfully, shallow. The fluid lines she’d cut were minor; already Mirage’s internal repair system, much like a human’s, was clogging the leaks. “A few minutes, at the most,” the big boxy white mech declared.

Mirage’s brow ridge drew down over his sky blue optics. “Really.”

Ratchet let go, not even favoring the other mech with a glance. “Let’s go, spyboy.”

“Solarflare to Optimus.”

“Prime here.”

“Ratchet said you wished to see me?”

“Come to the conference room, Solarflare.” There was a pause, very distinct. “How do you feel?”

Solarflare paused in the hallway; she lifted her hands to her face, claws still extended. Little droplets of blue clung to the razor-sharp edges. Loathing, deep and black, filled her spark. How could she have done that? How could she have allowed her dreams use her to such an awful degree?

“Solarflare?” Prime prompted.

Shaking her head so that her crest rattled, Flare jammed her talons back into their recesses. “Here, sir. I’m doing all right. I’ll be up shortly.” It was rude, incredibly so, to cut the connection on Optimus Prime, but that’s what she did. Wisely, the Autobot commander did not page her for an explanation; she would give him one, maybe, when she saw him. At the moment, she couldn’t wrap her cortex around what she’d done. Nightmares were part of a sentient being’s brain, whatever passed for one; she’d had her share, she’d seen Mirage have some, too. But she’d never hurt him – or anyone, for that matter – before. Out, damned spot, she quoted wryly, her pyramidal feet quickly carrying her to the elevator.

Then again, Ratchet seemed more pissed than Mirage had been. She’d apologize to her bondmate when this was over, whenever he was done getting his face repaired. She’d apologize to Ratchet … some time soon.

Battle-nerves, she told herself. She had still been wired from her encounter with Starscream, that’s all – and the nightmare only made it worse. Nodding to no one in particular, Solarflare stepped up to the elevator and waited for it to arrive at her level. When it chimed, she entered and rode it up to the command area. The wait was enough for her to compose herself and convince her quelling spark that it was as she’d thought: nerves. Indeed, she had once heard of Sideswipe blowing a hole in the repair bay moments after waking up after being stomped on by Menasor.

And Sunstreaker breaking a table in half when he woke up after catching the business end of Blitzwing’s fist in his throat. (And missile in his lower torso.)

Okay, so those were the twins. Less explosive behavior had been seen in even little Bumblebee, who staggered around for an hour after a day of surgery. So, really, she wasn’t the exception, only part of the collective. Yes, she thought, satisfied – and convinced at last. And it brought a smile to her charcoal lips.

It was with that small smile of hope that she entered the conference room. Heads lifted and turned when she buzzed and was admitted: Wheeljack, Grapple and Hoist stood at the far end with a holo projector, outlining various points on the outskirts of Ark territory. Seated at the head of the table was Prime; ringing the edges were Hound, Trailbreaker, Windcharger, Huffer, Brawn, Prowl, Red Alert, Jazz and Ironhide. Standing in the corner, his large arms crossed in front of his barrel chest, was Grimlock; a lack of mouth did not hinder his ability to display his displeasure at being present.

“Well,” the large Dinobot grunted in his stunted speech, “birdgirl finally decide to get up off dead-aft and join. Me, Grimlock, getting tired of waiting.”

The metal around her cheeks warmed up in embarrassment. Solarflare inclined her head in respect and edged around the door as it sluiced shut behind her. As fond as she was of Grimlock, she wasn’t about to play games with the Dinobot when he was in a foul mood.

“Sit, Solarflare,” Optimus said, gesturing to the only empty seat. She skirted behind the large Autobot and plunked herself down next to Windcharger, completely evading Red Alert’s piercing glare. The Minibot made a signal to her under the table by her thigh; she flicked her crest in assent and replied in kind. With a smile, Windcharger turned to face the three in the front.

Fit to burst with excitement, Wheeljack launched into a resounding explanation of what they had planned for the new Ark surveillance system. Solarflare leaned forward, trying very hard to listen carefully to the inventor’s detailed report; but she soon found her attention wandering. From what snatches she caught, they were going to dig up several miles of pure rock, lay out even thousands more miles of cable and embed hundreds of sensor arrays. Not to mention the hidden cameras, laser trip-wires and energy traps. Tapping on her chin with a sheathed forefinger, Solarflare idly mused, And all we need is MacGuyver and a toothpick.

“And how do you expect us to pay for all of this, hmm?” Red Alert shoe-horned in when Wheeljack paused for breath. “Call in favors? I’m sure the humans would love us even more!”

Ironhide pushed back his chair. “As much as it pains me,” he drawled, “I agree with Red here.”

“Favors could work,” Hound hazarded. “How many of us have human friends with connections?”

Red snorted. “Right. Tracks with his hooligans, Powerglide with that airhead and Jazz with his potheads.”

“Hey!” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s low, man.”

“It’s the truth,” the security director shot back. “None of us have influential connections. Even Spike, Sparkplug, Carly and Chip can do little to garner supplies.”

Prowl frowned. “What about Dr. Fujiyama, Prime?”

Silent through the whole ordeal, Prime leaned back in his chair. “I doubt the good doctor would allow us access to his technology, especially after the Nightbird ordeal.”

“Yes,” Prowl argued, “but that was four years ago.”

Red made a rude noise and his horns flickered blue. “Fine, don’t listen to me.”

Optimus made a calming gesture with his right hand. “At ease, Red. I’m not dismissing your complaint. Let’s hear more opinions. Solarflare, what do you think?”

Having listened with half her aural tract, Flare’s head shot up. Coughing to temporize, she straightened her spinal column, not expecting to have to speak. “I’m in agreement with Hound, Optimus. Though not high, we all have human connections. While they might not be the most savory –” and here she glanced over Windcharger’s chest at the white and red mech “—of individuals, they are connections nonetheless. I say give them a chance.”

“You only say that because you were human,” Red sneered.

“ENOUGH!” Prime pounded the table as chaos threatened to erupt over that comment. “Red, sit down and apologize to Solarflare.”

Red Alert mumbled something that could be interpreted as an apology – if someone knew how to translate Polish. The Autobot commander looked to the others. “As I told Prowl the other day, I sent Bumblebee out scouting for supplies. As you well conceived, our requests were not met favorably. However, if we do use these connections of ours, however low,” he glanced at Red, “we should be better off. Wheeljack, Grapple, Hoist – your plans are elaborate and well-planned. Yet, we simply cannot afford a ten mile radius of protection.”

“Understood,” the chorused.

“But Prime,” Grapple interjected, “might we scale it down? Based on the supplies our human friends bring to the table?”

“Yes, you may scale it down,” Prime replied. “However, let us see what our friends can do.” No one, not even Red, missed the slight stress on the word “friends”. “Tonight, I want each and every one of you to call the humans you know, no matter what they do for a living, and explain our situation. I need not remind you to do so on a tight connection. The Decepticons found out our surveillance plans once, they can certainly do so again.” And so, Optimus rose, laying his hands on the table; in response, they rose as well. “Dismissed.” “Stay a moment, Flare.”

The grey avian femme was about to walk out with Windcharger when Prime called to her on a tight commlink. “I’ll see you later, Charger.” The Minibot patted her on the arm and waved, leaving with the rest of them.

When all but she and Prime remained, the large Autobot closed the door, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the Ark and giving them privacy. She stood there, hands linked as far as they would go behind her back and waited for Prime to speak.

“Sit, Solarflare.” So she sat – rather, perched – on the nearest chair. Optimus lowered his bulk into his own chair and folded his hands before him. “Ratchet conveyed to me not long ago that you had a nightmare in the recharging chamber?”

Well, there went those good feelings. Crest and shoulder struts flat, Solarflare rubbed the back of her neck. “Yes.” She paused, then decided it was in her best interest to come clean, because she was sure Ratchet had already divulged everything. “I slashed Mirage’s face, too.”

Optimus nodded. “I see. Are you alright, though? I noticed that you were a little distracted tonight.”

Oh, shit, he’d seen. It was easy to forget that Optimus was a shrewd individual when necessary. Well, come clean again … “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still feeling the effects of having my innards retooled.”

“Understandable.” There was something rueful in the taller Autobot’s tone that put Flare at ease, something that told her he had been there before. That common bond lowered the tension in her crest and shoulder struts. “You are dismissed, Flare; have a good night.”

Flare stood and saluted, indeed feeling better. She left Optimus leaning back in his chair; what she did not see was the way he passed his hand over his face, how he slumped and succumbed to the stress of the moment. Walking out into the hall, she checked her chronometer. Eight o’clock; she should head on down to the medbay and see how Mirage’s repairs were going. Turning her wrist over, she keyed in a low pulse; if he answered in kind, she’d open up a tight link.

The tiny LED light in her wrist blinked back positive. “Mirage?”

“Yes?”

“How’re repairs?” Yes, she sounded as unsure as she felt.

“All done, little one. Come upstairs.”

All done? “Done? Ratchet said it’d take hours …”

A low, cultured chuckle flowed out from the commlink. “I know. I thought so, too, but it only took an hour.”

Flare leaned up against the wall, relieved. “Mirage, I’m sorry …”

He cut her off efficiently. “Flare, I know. It’s okay. I’m hardly disfigured. Remember that time Thundercracker shot my legs off? This is barely worth it.”

Despite herself, she laughed quietly. “Yes, I remember. I tore him a new afterburner.”

“That’s right. Now, come up here; I want your stamp of approval.”

So easily, so very easily, he forgave her. The realization stuck painfully in her crop and she worried at it for no apparent reason until she reached their bunk on the soldiers’ floor of the Ark. She found the spy sitting on their short couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, a reader of Cybertronian poetry in one hand, a thin flute of high-grade in the other. She paused in the doorway, just looking him over – all twenty feet of perfection. She admired his clean lines, the Egyptian shape of his helm, the way his grey lips were pursed as he read.

“Like what you see?” he murmured, head still down.

Primus! Her Energon pump did a flip-flop before it started racing. “Yes,” she whispered, easing away from the door and hitting the button to seal it. Mirage turned his head slightly so that the light caught the noble angle of his face.

“Care to examine the good doctor’s handiwork?” He took a sip of high-grade and smiled.

Flare all but purred; he was good, that spy of hers. She slipped to his side and plopped down on the couch. Mirage tossed the reader to the side and slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close; she rested her head on his chest, listening to the solid thrum of his pump and the subtle whirr of his ventilator system. Like the rest of him, Mirage’s system was keyed for silence, and only this close could you actually hear it working.

“How did the meeting go?”

“All right,” she replied, reaching up and tracing lines that did not exist on his face. Yes, Ratchet was good; not a smidgen of what she’d done remained. Quickly, she filled him in on the day’s events. “Everyone agreed to consult their human friends for supplies.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, all but Red. Grimlock didn’t say much.”

“Mm.” Clearly interested, but not, Mirage set the glass down and gathered his grey avian femme closer with both arms. “ ‘And the lights / Shining deeply from the Heart of Cybertron / Did not match the radiance / Emanating from the pure glass of her optics’,” he quoted.

“Gallantus, dawn of the first Golden Age?” she asked. When he nodded in pleasure, she thought of something similar, one from her college days. “ ‘Come live with me, and be my love; / And we will all the pleasures prove / That hills and valleys, dales and fields, / Woods or steepy mountain yields’,” she returned.

He smiled. “Christopher Marlowe, English poet.” His head lowered and his lips brushed the topmost feather on her crest.

Again, her talons slipped out, but this time, they were completely gentle. “I love you, Mirage.”

The spy reached around and tipped her chin up. “I love you, too, Alina.” Disengaging his left hand for a moment, Mirage stretched out to flick the lights off. And this time, the darkness held no horrors ...