Chapter Six

Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 330.

In a considerably rare move, Megatron hung back from the field with Soundwave, casually observing the battle. With cold, narrowed optics, he watched the movements, the reactions, of the Autobots as they engaged his troops. And what he witnessed did not improve his icy disposition one iota.

Though taken by complete surprise, the Autobots did not fall and scatter as Starscream promised they would have. There was no difference in they way they returned fire, the way they ducked, ran, scrambled, for better position and coverage. Megatron could not perceive any change at all!

“Soundwave.”

There was no need for clarification. “Scanners indicate Autobots at optimal capacity,” the boxy blue mech intoned. “Except …”

Megatron turned his head very slowly. Soundwave never hesitated. “What is it?” His words hung chill in the warmth of the atmosphere.

“Except … for the female.”

Megatron followed the straight point of Soundwave’s finger, followed it through the criss-cross of laser-fire and bullets. There, a glaring splotch of storm cover over the cloudless blue sky was the Autobot femme, Solarflare. At least here, the virus created by Starscream worked as he had said it would. Though not one to observe wildlife unless it was scraping it off his heel, Megatron could not say for certain that the movements she made were those of a feral thing, one of a pure, avian-minded creature. What he did note was the inconsistencies in her flight pattern, one figured out over long battles and skirmishes. She darted, spun, twisted and dove as one with an addled cortex, a drone. She flew neither offensively, nor defensively, merely trying to get herself out of the madness upon which she had thrust herself.

The curve of Megatron’s lip only deepened. “Call them back, Soundwave. This has been a futile, expensive demonstration of Starscream’s utter stupidity. I should have known the incomprehensible fool would have followed his own path.”

The stolid blue sentinel nodded once, barely. He reached around the box of his chest to depend a button upraised on the opposite shoulder. “Decepticons: retreat.”

This time, it was planned. Still, Starscream did not back off; he pulled his nose high in the air, dancing against the attentive laser fire of Powerglide and a wounded Skyfire, who streaked Energon and gasses throughout the heavens.

“Megatron …,” came the hesitant voice of Rumble.

“Leave him to his destruction,” their leader replied, already igniting the boosters in his heels. “If the Autobots unplug his laser core, it is a better fate than the one he has waiting for him.”

And they scattered, all but Starscream, who, though sporting a wide range of bullet holes in his armor, still plunged after the metallic bird. Solarflare, witless and utterly devoid of cognizant thought, screamed and pitched to the side, beating her wings though it did her no good. Down and down she dove, the only notion in her head being that of safety. Down still she flew, talons out, and locked them with metal-puncturing power onto the right arm of Grimlock. The Dinobot leader was thrown off-balance by the sudden lighting; his trigger finger clenched and the muzzle of his gun blossomed with deadly fire, hitting Starscream square in the nose. With a shriek worthy of Solarflare’s vocalizer, the Decepticon jet spun nosecone over aft, trailing smoke as he went.

He would have rolled straight into the nearest mountain had Skywarp not teleported a few feet above and latched two strong cables onto the Air Commander’s plating. And in the next instant, they were both gone, the only remnants of their passing being smoke and the slight odor of ozone.

Grimlock sat up and ruefully considered his torn arm. “Me, Grimlock, would prefer pretty canary, but no, me, Grimlock get crazy cuckoobird.” Flare flopped frantically to the side, but she could no longer recall how to activate her boosters. While the others gathered around, clutching themselves and each other, the Dinobot grabbed Solarflare by the legs and held her upside down so that her head lolled by his lower torso. “Me see this on Discovery Channel.” He paused, considering. “’cept, they pull feathers and eat carcass.”

“GET HER INSIDE – NOW!” blared for all to hear over the Tyrannosaur’s comm. Grimlock snorted and stood up, Flare still hanging upside down. “Yeah, yeah, Ratch-bot heard.” And he lumbered with intentionally-slow steps towards the belly of the Ark.

Ratchet sighed. The signs were not good. He barely had to glance at Wheeljack to confirm what his own internal medical equipment told him.

“Should we let him in?” the inventor asked, tilting his head towards the bay doors. The sounds of the struggle were still audible, even through the thick plating. Ratchet knew that come morning, he’d be out there with a large hammer and laser gun, repairing the damage that Mirage was wrecking on the doors.

“Absolutely not!” Perceptor slammed his fist down on the nearest tray, causing its contents to fly in every direction. “He’s unstable. I will not have him in this facility until he has calmed down.”

Ratchet pursed his lips; clearly the scientist was remembering all those years ago when they had first worked on Solarflare’s human body, how Mirage, in a fit of emotional distress, had lifted Perceptor five feet off the floor – by his neck. “Fine,” the CMO decreed. “We’ll let him in later.”

“Thank you.” Perceptor inclined his head curtly before turning and picking up the tools he’d scattered.

“LET ME IN!”

Wheeljack’s sidelights blinked in confusion as he glanced at Ratchet. “What in the Matrix …?”

“HIT THE DECK!”

BOOM!

Two feet of prime Cybertronian steel caved in, the blown-away tip of a silver rocket protruding from the middle like a deformed worm. A second later, the rocket clattered to the floor, shoved through the steel by a sleek black fist, which immediately began ripping through the plating like paper.

“For the love of Primus!” Ratchet howled. “Let him in! I won’t have my bay turned into a WWE arena!” Poor Perceptor, all ready harried, slipped on the floor, his feet rolling out from under him on a screwdriver. He went down, taking Wheeljack with him; Ratchet jumped to the side as the inventor slammed face-plate-first into the orange tile. On the examination table, Solarflare’s readings spiked, her body arching upwards as she fought the induced stasis-lock.

“OPEN THOSE SLAGGIN DOORS!” Ratchet roared, throwing himself out of harm’s way as a second rocket hit.

With a painful whine, the bay doors were wrenched open and Mirage stalked in, face blackened by smoke, blue and white paint scratched and dented by several well-meaning hands. Behind him were Hound, Trailbreaker and Brawn. A foot twitched just out of sight, hidden by the wall; Ratchet caught only a glimpse, but he swore that was Skyfire’s. He’d forgotten how deadly Mirage could be – especially when Solarflare was in danger. There was a crazed indifference to the spy’s facial features, one that melted almost immediately as he made contact with his bondmate’s arm.

Ratchet stood to the side, observing this strange occurrence. Under the table, Perceptor and Wheeljack were just levering themselves to their feet. “Why you …” Perceptor began, his hands outstretched.

“Stand down,” Ratchet ordered, baring the scientist’s way with a thick, boxy arm.

“You have got to be joking!” Perceptor was appalled.

Ratchet drew his arm around the beleaguered mech and drew him to the back of the bay, motioning Wheeljack to join them. “What’s up?” the inventor quipped, rubbing the back of his helm and grimacing as his fingers came away spotted with paint chips.

Looping his free arm around Wheeljack’s shoulder, Ratchet turned them both to face the scene at the examination table. “Look, what do you see?”

“A mech who should have his cortex defragged,” Perceptor snarled with uncharacteristic anger.

“No. Look at him.”

Wheeljack peered hard but turned to Ratchet, shrugging. “You’ll have to tell us, Ratch, because I don’t see a darned thing.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Ratchet let go of the two, folding his arms over his boxy chest. “We witnessed a scene similar to this not too long ago – but with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”

Instant understanding lit Perceptor’s narrowed optics. “You are inferring that Mirage and Solarflare share a bond similar to that of the twins. That is preposterous. They share no programming; they are completely unrelated in terms of circuitry.”

Wheeljack tapped his faceplate contemplatively, watching as Mirage got down on his knees, pressing his cheek against Solarflare’s cold black hands. “Not totally incorrect, Perceptor.” The scientist turned a rather disgusted look upon the inventor, who merely shrugged. Wheeljack continued, “We never would have thought to account for any stray energy that might have leaked from her artificial spark. Mirage did spend a lot of time next to the cradle; he might have become infected that way.”

Slowly, the anger faded from Perceptor’s face as he pieced the puzzle together. “Well, it is not completely illogical. Transformer sparks and human souls are not wholly different, but changing one into another could possibly have adverse effects on someone exposed to them for long periods of time.” Arms folded, he studied Mirage for a good few moments. “Yes, yes, it could create a bond like that of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”

Wheeljack rubbed his chin more thoughtfully. “But why only Mirage? Why doesn’t Flare exhibit these symptoms?”

Ratchet had the answer: “Because she’s the originator. She’s the cause of the infection, if you will. Of course she wouldn’t feel any different.” In Ratchet’s mind, Solarflare and Mirage’s love only made the bond stronger, but he had a feeling that if nothing had come between them, Mirage would still exhibit symptoms.

Wheeljack chuckled quietly; Ratchet shot him a look. “You weren’t here when Flare shot Thundercracker and Thrust new exhaust ports,” the Lancia recounted. Ratchet tilted his head to the side, clearly not recalling having been told this particular tale. Wheeljack was only happy to oblige, giving Mirage more time alone with Solarflare before they would have to toss him into stasis just to remove him from the bay. “You were in Portland, working with some of the human doctors at a conference.” Ratchet nodded, urging him on. “Well, Megs decided to make a move down in Monte Carlo, where Flare and Mirage just happened to be, watching the Formula-1 races. Suffice to say, when Megs sent Thundercracker and Thrust in to grab some super doohickey engine that the humans were testing out, they blasted Mirage a good one. From what I hear, Flare when psycho – that’s a human term,” he said, looking to Perceptor.

“I know what that is,” he sniffed.

Wheeljack was not fazed. “So, yeah, I think it swings both ways. More in Mirage’s ‘favor’, if you will, but definitely not limited to him.”

Perceptor shrugged. “Well, I for one, am glad that Solarflare isn’t a target every other day. This is getting on my neuros.”

Ratchet managed a smirk. “It only gets better.”

“Wonderful.” Perceptor sighed. “Well, can we get on with it? As much as the scene is touching, mind,” he added when Mirage suddenly looked up.

“I’m staying here,” the spy announced, looking around and finding a rather well worm stool propped up in the corner.

“No, you’re not,” Ratchet stated unequivocally, walking forward and clamping a firm hand on the spy’s shoulder, being careful to stay to the side of his rocket launcher. “You’re going to wait outside like a good little husband and wait for us to call you.”

Mirage’s blue helm drew down over his optic ridges. “What –”

“We don’t know what’s wrong yet,” Ratchet interrupted, turning him from the table and walking him towards where Skyfire and the rest waited, the giant jet standing with one leg angled improperly, blackened from the knee down. “She could have a time-release virus in her that could affect everyone within range. If so,” he said quickly, watching Mirage’s optics grow larger and larger, his fists clenching tighter with every step, “we want to have it contained properly.” Passing the spy to Skyfire, he called after them: “We’ll ring you when we know more!”

The look the spy shot the CMO was a mixture of disgust and pain – at being duped into leaving quietly and the agony of not knowing what had happened to Flare.

Once the group was out of range, Ratchet slammed the auxiliary bay doors down. With hands on hips, he surveyed the damage Mirage had caused: oh, Primus, it would take a few days of good, hard labor to clean this up. And nothing could be started without first making sure Flare was okay.

“Call First Aid,” Ratchet said without turning around. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Starscream staggered backwards, clutching the gaping hole where his left arm used to hang. Before him Megatron stood, casually flicking the thin Energon blade back and forth. The Air Commander bit back a groan of pain; Energon trickled out between his clenched fingers, pooled around his feet.

“You lied to me, Starscream,” came that cold, deadly voice. Around the Decepticon warlord ringed the jet’s comrades, their faces made of steel. Every single one of them were supremely glad not to be in his position. “You promised that the femme would be the vessel, instead she turned out to be the lone subject of your vengeance.”

Optics wide, Starscream’s mouth moved up and down, but his vocalizer refused to obey. Megatron stepped carelessly on his fallen arm, grinding the heel of his right foot into the black palm, crushing it to slag. “Let this be a lesson, Starscream, that no one shall elevate their petty concerns above my own.”

And the blade flashed down.

First Aid sat perched above the examination table, keeping tabs on the monitor set into the head. Behind him, Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor worked frantically on repairing the scanner with parts donated by the Autobots from the security system. Prime stood quietly, a red-white-and-blue statue, his hands clasped behind his back, face impassive as he stared at Solarflare’s slack features.

“How could we have known?” he remarked softly, reaching around and touching the femme’s limp black hand.

“We couldn’t,” Aid offered up just as low.

Prime lowered his hand and looked around for a stool to sit on; he grabbed one in the corner and lowered his considerable bulk upon it. “What is it, then?”

“A virus,” the junior medic answered. “That much is certain. Cursory scans indicate it was time-released, but where and what it is exactly, we won’t know until a deep-scan is performed.” He paused. “I think she tried to fight it, but not knowing what it was, we all assumed she was battle-addled.”

“And the time in the tank only allowed it to do its work unhindered,” Perceptor noted, soldering wires. Next to him, Ratchet’s shoulders hunched in blame.

“So, there is hope of undoing this damage?” Prime rubbed the back of his neck.

“Any virus can be destroyed,” Wheeljack returned, “it’s just a matter of how much of the original program can be … saved.”

There was silence in the medbay, with the only sounds being the hiss and click of tools. An hour passed, then two; after thirty minutes into the third hour, the scanner was functional. Wheeljack and Perceptor hooked it up to the mobile arm in the ceiling and Ratchet guided it over to Solarflare’s prone body. First Aid stepped back, adjusting the machine so that it covered her from head to toe.

Behind the junior medic, a picture appeared on the screen: of green, pink, blue, white and red lines. The white outlined Flare’s body, the green, blue and pink were her “skeletal” system as well as fuel and coolant lines.

“Point of entry,” Wheeljack murmured, gesturing to a bright red splotch that stretched along the back of the femme’s spine.

“Exactly where I pulled those missile shards from her encounter with Starscream,” Ratchet mused, the weight of his guilt easing but a little in the face of medicine. “The warhead must’ve been the virus. Look, it traveled straight up her spinal column and into her cortex.”

“But not her spark,” Prime noted.

Ratchet folded his arms, glancing back and forth from the screen to the body on the table. “No,” he said at last, “it doesn’t seem to have effected her in that manner, Primus be praised.”

“Then I’m assuming you can create an antivirus.”

“That’s gonna be my priority,” Wheeljack pronounced. “Aid, hook that line into Flare’s frontal plate.” The junior medic picked up a thin white chord and pressed a spot on Solarflare’s helm; the seamless button rose up and he flicked it to reveal a port. Feeding the line through, First Aid nodded. “Line’s in.”

“I’m gonna run the virus’ attributes through Teletraan, so it’ll take a while,” Wheeljack told Prime, watching as a herd of Cybertronian text flew by.

“Very well,” the commander said, rising from his seat. “Good luck.” And then he was gone.

All four looked at each other. First Aid spoke the words on all their cortexes: “We’re going to need it.”

Perceptor huffed. “Really. How intricate of a program can Starscream create?”

“A very good one,” Wheeljack replied. “It fooled all of us.”

Perceptor frowned. “I shall concede to that fact, but we are far superior in intellect compared to that cretin.”

“History has long been testament to those with less technology beating those with more,” First Aid pointed out.

“You’ve been reading Earth books again, haven’t you?” the scientist said over his shoulder, leaning over the console and taking notes on what was flying by on the screen.

A small smile touched the junior’s optics. “Listening to Hound, mostly.”

Ratchet sighed. “Aid’s right. We have to look in both directions – low and high – in order to combat it. The simplest method could be the key.”

“Won’t know for a while,” Wheeljack repeated.

“Aid, keep her under. I don’t want her running around and breaking things again,” Ratchet ordered. He grabbed the stool Prime had vacated and sat down by Wheeljack and Perceptor. “We wait.”