Chapter Seven

The strongest and the fiercest spirit
That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 44.

Mirage leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, his cleaning tools scattered around him, pieces of his sniper’s rifle lying in his lap. He always cleaned his rifle when he was stressed-out; it calmed him, forced him to focus his energies. It kept him from tearing Starscream a new aft. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been able to do that during the short skirmish. Hound lounged nearby, hands behind his head, talking to himself about the stars and the moon and the sun … foolish nonsense.

The spy heard, but did not react to, the polite cough that sounded over his left shoulder. He kept his optics focused on the task he has set for himself: making sure the rifle’s chamber was cleaner than a newly-processed spark. His lips pursed as he studied the interior; an adjustment might have to be made later on. He’d heard too much of an explosion when it was fired today. Not good, not for one in his line of work.

“Mirage?”

Concentration broken, the spy set aside his tools and slowly turned to look over his shoulder. Hovering nervously by the side of the tree was First Aid. “What?”

“Promise not to slag me?”

Hound broke off from his self-lecture and looked up, brow ridge draw. “What gave you that idea?” the tracker replied in disbelief.

First Aid ducked his head. “They sent me out here because ‘you’re the one least likely to get slagged’.”

Mirage leaned back on one hand, fingering the pieces of his rifle with the other. He turned his head and Hound and the spy locked optics for a moment; Hound merely shrugged. “Hrmph,” he snorted. “What’s up?”

First Aid inched around the tree; he respected the spy for his courage and talents, as well as feared him for those same talents. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve identified the virus.” When neither Mirage nor Hound said anything, the medic continued, “It’s not something any of us have dealt with, only because of its nature. Starscream programmed it specifically to target the latent animal instincts in Solarflare’s cortex. Over time, it is supposed to completely wipe all cognizant thought from her brain, leaving the eagle behind.”

Mirage leaned forward. “Have you destroyed it then?”

“We’ve … tried. Starscream was pretty intricate in his design. We found we couldn’t go straight through her cortex – we had to start at the base and maneuver through her spine. Once we reached the neuros to her cortex, we got stuck.” Mirage’s brow ridge lowered, his frown deepening. “The center of the virus is a tiny node, less than a millimeter in diameter. Very, very small. From scans, we’ve determined that it’s hooked into her cortex by a series of small lines; however, the antivirus doesn’t work on the tentacles. Ratchet and Perceptor have each tried introducing the antivirus, but they can’t get a clear shot.”

Hound sat up. “What do you mean?”

First Aid shuffled. “I mean, it moves. The center of the virus is constantly moving. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Mirage leaned forward, draping his arms over his knees. “So, if you shoot the antivirus into the center, it’s gone?”

“Simulation has shown such.”

The spy glanced at the pile of pieces in his lap. “I guess I’ll have to,” he said, somewhat resigned.

First Aid’s optics widened. “Well … that’s why I was coming out to tell you. They wanted me to ask if you’d submit to an experiment.”

Mirage frowned again. “What?”

“When they found out that they couldn’t attack from outside, Perceptor proposed a move like the one he, Bumblebee and Brawn attempted with Megatron and the Heart of Cybertron.”

“They want to shrink me?”

“Not exactly. More like download the antivirus into your body and then upload your conscious into Flare.”

“Primus!” Hound exclaimed, leaning back against his own tree. “Well, Raj, there you have it, you and Flare will be one.”

The spy grimaced slightly. “Not what I had in mind for a romantic encounter.” He stood up, pocketing the pieces of his rifle into subspace. “Well, Aid, let’s see what the mad scientists have in store for me.”

First Aid eyed the tall, lean mech before turning on his heel and walking back up the slope to the Ark. Hound followed by the spy’s side, intent on seeing how this would be played out.

“Is he calm?” came Perceptor’s voice from the other side of the closed bay. Mirage rolled his optics, looking up and down at the damage he’d inflicted not long ago. “Yes,” he replied, perturbed.

The auxiliary doors slid open and the three trooped in. First Aid led them to the back where they’d relocated operations. Solarflare was laid stretched out on a table, several cords and wires attached to various points on her sleek grey frame. An identical table was rolled up beside her. Perceptor stood behind the first table, a slim data card in his hand. “I take it First Aid briefed you on our dilemma?”

Mirage paced around to the other side, causing the scientist to skitter around to the head, out of reach. Laying his hand on Flare’s cheek, he looked up at Perceptor. “Yes. You want to download the program into me and then put me into Flare.”

Perceptor nodded and coughed, trying to regain his professional mien. “Quaint, but yes, that’s what we intend to do. However, I need to show you how to use it. If you’ll follow me …”

Hound watched the two walk off into a secluded corner of the bay before leaning his elbows on the table nearest him. “So, how’s it going?”

“Going,” Ratchet replied succinctly, busy staring at the screen. Wheeljack took pity on the tracker and pointed out what they were doing.

“See, we didn’t count on this happening,” he admitted. “Starscream might have been a scientist, but he sure as heck wasn’t a good one, from what Skyfire says. He could make bombs and such, but viruses? Took too much of his time. But, I guess we underestimated his tenacity.” He pulled a datapad from his thigh. “See?” He powered up the program and showed Hound a holo of Solarflare’s system. “Here’s the point of entry, and here’s how we’ve figured out how to kill it.” As Hound watched, the holo zoomed through Flare’s torso and then shot up her spine, passing through the hollow chamber filled with wires and cables. “Here, here’s the problem.” Wheeljack tapped the pad’s screen and the image above the pad changed to that of a Decepticon logo, with thin filaments wrapped around various nodes in Flare’s cortex. A glowing orb floated around the confines of the logo, never staying in one place, nor having a discernable pattern to its motion. “None of us has the steady hand to hit it. And all the beams we’ve tried are just too large.”

“So this is what Mirage’ll have to deal with?”

“I dunno,” the inventor replied, shrugging. “It might be different for him, being actual data in her body …” He trailed off and shrugged to fill in the silence.

“Is there no other way?” Hound asked, trailing his fingers along the table edge.

“Like what?” Ratchet barked, his chevron riding low on his brow. First Aid reached out to touch his mentor’s arm, but the CMO flicked it away. “We’ve gone over every thing possible, Hound. This is IT.”

“Easy, easy, Ratch,” Wheeljack soothed. The medic huffed and turned away, staring up at the screen and watched a simulation play out again.

Hound blinked. “Is it me, or is he taking this hard?”

“Hard,” the inventor agreed, bobbing his head.

Not shortly thereafter, Mirage and Perceptor returned from their talk. The spy’s face was grim-set and he kept clenching the fingers on his right hand, miming what he was to do. He was the best there was, he reminded himself; no better shot, nor more accurate riflemech lived on Cybertron. All those long hours of turbo-fox hunting on the Plains, all those credits put into building his rifle … Still, it was hard to deal with the fact that he would, essentially, be shooting a gun off in his bondmate’s head.

“Let’s get on with it.”

“Up on the table, if you please,” Perceptor said, indicating the second orange slab. Lithely, the spy hopped on and stretched himself out. “I’ll insert the card and give you a moment to assimilate it. Remember what I told you: the antivirus will be a part of you – you will be the antidote. If you need to imagine a gun, do so.”

Mirage looked up and back, caught Hound’s optic. The tracker gave a friendly salute and stepped back to allow Perceptor room. The spy felt the scientist peel back the cover on his helm, felt the card slide into its slot. A rush of information filled him, and his body gave an involuntary jerk. Suddenly, it was clear. Reaching out, he found Solarflare’s cold black hand and ran his fingers over her palm.

“How do you feel?”

Mirage turned his head slightly. “Clean,” he whispered up at Perceptor. The scientist pursed his lips.

“Interesting description,” he murmured, half to himself. “All right. Cable, First Aid, if you please.” Mirage flicked his optics to the side and watched as the junior medic fitted a thin black cable into a port in Solarflare’s head; beyond, Wheeljack and Ratchet monitored the situation on the wide screen. Perceptor took the other end of the cable himself. He bent low to Mirage’s audios. “Good luck,” the scientist murmured. “Bring both of you back … safe.”

And that was all he knew.

Time, sound, light, consciousness … it all coalesced into one long, thin tunnel. Mirage felt himself being pulled through, no weight tangible in his mind. He was light, airy … pure thought and data. There was no time at all to consider how dizzy this was making him; the tunnel opened up and unceremoniously dropped him before the entrance to a blood red thoroughfare.

Where am I?

It took a moment, a little longer than he was comfortable with, before he was able to gather his scattered thoughts into recognizable cognizance. The essence that was Mirage remembered then what he was supposed to do and who he was. Looking about, he noticed that he had no discernable body; Perceptor’s words came back clearly: You must think and it will be done. I cannot elaborate any further, because it is truly hypothesis.

Think.

The spy paused, gathering all his memories about what his body looked like, felt like, moved like. A bright shimmer lit the hall and resolved itself into Mirage’s form. He looked down and smiled, pleased that he had been able to perform the task so easily. However, something was missing. Looking down at his right hand, Mirage shuttered his “optics” and willed into being a perfect replica of his hunting rifle. This he “stored” in its customary subspaced niche along his back and turned his gaze forward, towards the long arching tunnel. I’m coming, Alina.

Though he assumed he could move just as quickly by “thinking” his way along her spinal column, it was more from habit and comfort that Mirage transformed. And so a bright white and blue Ligier Formula-1 racecar sped down the terrorized neurological system of a female Autobot, the walls cracked and sparking with the passage of the virus. Keepings his senses on high alert, Mirage swept every curve, every turn, ready to spring into action.

I caution against frivolous use of the antivirus, came Perceptor’s words once more. There is only so long we can keep you connected, and only so much power in the chip. Use your shots wisely, and only when you are completely sure.

I never miss, Mirage assured him with more than a spark of his old highborn arrogance.

Perceptor had slid him a low glance, as if he was calling the spy’s bluff. Hrmph, he had coughed. I could calculate the probability of that actually happening, but we have not the time.

Mirage rode low on his axels, rounding yet another curve before slamming to a halt. The red swath of the virus spread all about him, leading up to a shimmering, opalescent veil. Hastily, he threw himself back into his robotmode, “pulling” the rifle and clutching it tightly in his hand. What is this? he wondered, mouth slightly agape, looking up and down. At the end of the hall was a low dais with three golden steps leading up to a round portal, wrought-iron filigree arching up and over the circle that was the veil.

Flare’s … mind?

It had to be; there was no where else to go. A carpet of red blossoms ran up the stairs only to vanish into the veil.

Pursing his lips and setting his face into a grim, determined mask, Mirage lifted his foot and set it upon the first of the stairs. When nothing came of it, he placed his other foot; resolutely, he ascended and took his first up-close look at the veil. Tiny iron birds with long feathers circled the portal, their wings arching up and over their heads, obscuring their faces, save for the crests that flowed over the tops of their beaks. The tip of the tail connected with the beak of the bird behind, all in a circle. Mirage reached out and ran his finger experimentally over the crest of the bird nearest him. He jumped back, rifle at the ready, when the bird’s wing moved and the iron head turned to look at him with one bright, diamond-shaped eye.

Slowly, deliberately, the bird winked.

Mirage blinked, astonished, confounded. When he looked again, all was as it had been. Taking it as a good sign – even if it wasn’t, he had to press forward – the spy steeled his courage and walked straight through the veil.

Electricity ran lightning-quick over his body, thrummed him to his very spark. So great was the intensity that he stood, riveted to the spot on the other side of the veil. Whatever it had been, it passed and Mirage sighed. I don’t want to do that again, he thought, running a hand over his face in a rare show of fatigue.

As he looked up, the vision that greeted him was like nothing he had ever seen before: the carpet of red blossoms stretched out, draping the walls of some great domed enclosure, threatening to choke the very essence from its victim. Thorns as large, or larger, than his own head pierced deep, thin trickles of blue and gold weeping from the puncture wounds. Beyond, a golden pyramid sat, its color nearly indiscernible through the roses that spun around and around. What had once been a river, or a moat, was overrun with the crimson virus.

Mirage made a mental note never to give Solarflare roses ever again.

A soft breeze whispered by, touching the spy’s cheek with a gentle caress. It came from the pyramid. Squaring his shoulders, Mirage stepped on, trying to avoid touching the roses whenever he could. To his surprise, they neither moved, nor reacted to his presence. So, Starscream never thought that we would try this maneuver, did he? Such arrogance would cost him and Solarflare’s life, so Mirage shut the thought away tightly and pressed forth.

Stealthily, the spy crossed the bed of roses and reached the steps of the pyramid. Self-same birds covered the entranceway, though this time, not one moved. Crimson death dared not touch them, but ran in tiny buds between the cracks and continued unhindered through the short hall. Mirage paused but for a moment and thanked the birds, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

And with one more step, he saw her …

She was Solarflare.

… a magnificent grey-feathered raptor.

… a sweet-faced human with impossible green eyes.

Mirage’s finger tightened ever so slightly on the antiviral gun he carried. The journey to the center of his bondmate’s mind had been easy – too easy. But that was how Decepticons worked; as their name implied, they let their victims believe that they had the upper hand and then brought forth a crushing attack that drove the unsuspecting fools to the ground. Yet, as he crossed the threshold into the pyramid, he let his guard slip ever so slightly.

“Flare,” he whispered. The tri-faced figure huddled in the corner did not so much as glance his way. “… Alina.” Gauging the situation, Mirage stepped forward, placing one blue foot onto the gleaming gold tiles that covered the floor in a spiral pattern. Here and there were splotches of roses, but not in abundance as it was on the outside.

**She can’t hear you, Robot Mirage.**

Too tightly trained, it took all Mirage had not to fire a pellet into the shadow that broke away from the wall and floated above the floor towards him. It had a vaguely canine appearance, tipped ears and ethereally-glowing golden eyes. Then, completely ignoring the spy’s dropped-mouth response, the shade turned and looked over at Solarflare. **The virus has stolen most of who she is,** it continued.

“Who are you?” the spy demanded, optics flashing about as he prepared for an attack.

**Names are unimportant; that, and I have many … none of which you’d be familiar with. You brave death yourself, coming here. See how it chokes? She will be gone soon.**

Bravado caused him to lift the gun and point it at the shadow. “I’ll not leave her,” he growled, finger inching closer to the trigger. “She ties me to this world and to our cause; without her I have no purpose.”

As the shade possessed no discernable head, Mirage was unable to ascertain if it was looking at him with contempt, pity, or a mixture of both. **She barely has ties to herself. See how she is split? Three souls for one individual is a large burden to bear.**

Mirage forced himself to look closely, deeply. The base was how she had looked as human; each movement she made was followed by an identical motion by the Harpy Eagle and robot form, transposed over the base. The stock of the gun dipped slightly as he considered the implications. Everyone knew, Flare included, that she had some avian instinct stuck in her mind; how that got in there, no one, not even the three mad scientists who built her in the first place, could explain it. The instincts weren’t in their blueprints, though Hound had gone scouting for images for them to base her body upon.

**Go back,** the shade insisted, drifting slightly towards the spy. **Save yourself. She was never meant to live in the first place. She belongs to me.**

“NO!” Mirage roared, swinging the antiviral gun around with sleek precision. “I’ll blast you, Decepticon construct, to slag and beyond if you touch her.”

The shadow appeared amused at the thought. On either side of its “head”, the two triangles pricked forward. **No sentient metal being created me, Mirage of the Towers. I have been here, as always.** It paused, considering. **Oh, very well. If you can pass this test, then I suppose you can have her. I take all things in the end.** And it was gone, completely and totally gone. Mirage’s optics blinked furiously, trying to understand what this whole conversation had been about. He stood over the threshold a moment more, trying to shake the afterimage imprinted on the sensors of his optics … and the howl in his audios.

Presently, he became aware that there was another object in the center of the pyramid: just as Perceptor had explained to him, there it was – a large Decepticon logo with over a dozen tendrils buried deep into the floor. Flickering, fluttering, in no discernable pattern, was a blue sphere, very tiny and very fast. Indeed, it was no larger upon the field of purple than the paperclips Mirage had been shooting at the day Carly had come to talk to him about Solarflare. Setting his mouth, Mirage studied the logo before turning back to Alina-Solarflare-Eagle.

She huddled in the corner furthest away from the logo and the encroaching viral-flowers. “Alina,” he whispered, getting down on one knee and holding out his hand to her. The human head hung low before turning up to face him; the raptor’s fierce round golden eyes narrowed and the robot appeared aloof.

“Mirage?” She looked at his hand, fear in her wide green eyes – eyes that he’d not seen for four years, not since Ravage had killed her body of flesh. The spy felt his Energon pump tighten, if it was but a phantom feeling. “Is it you?”

“It is,” he replied, breathing deep and slow. “I’ve come to take you home.” Beyond, the Autobot-Solarflare sniffed in derision. Mirage looked askance at the other side of his bondmate before turning his attention back to the coherent humanform. “Take my hand, Alina. All I have to do is hit that blue sphere and you will be free.”

The fear in her eyes clouded, replaced with a shadow of doubt, of … reluctance. “I’ve tried,” she murmured, looking away, clutching at her arms. “But it’s no good. You make one move towards it and she’ll attack.” Alina tipped her head back to where the Harpy Eagle eyed them both balefully, malevolently.

Old Tower arrogance surged through the spy. “I can do it.” Though she still had not taken his hand, he stood up and lifted the muzzle of his rifle. He had not even completed the sweep up when a bolt of grey-black-white struck him on the side of the head. Piercing eagle’s cries rang in his head as long, thick claws scraped down the side of his face. Mirage howled and struck out with his left hand, making contact with the bird’s chest.

Human and eagle’s screams commingled in the pyramid’s chamber. Shocked, Mirage lowered the stock of the rifle and the eagle backed away, flapping, fluttering, to the ground to remerge with its base. Alina was hunched over, rubbing her chest, breathing shallowly. Understanding dawning sharp and clear for the highbred spy. In order to destroy the virus, he had to deal with the Harpy Eagle; yet, a blow to it was a blow to her.

“Alina.”

Panting, she raised her head, liquid eyes pleading. Asking for what, he did not know. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and lifted the rifle once more. Again, the formel attacked, driving her talons into his shoulder, into the crevices of his plating. White-hot lightning lanced through his ethereal system; the muzzle wavered in its direction. Again and again Mirage batted at the bird, each hit eliciting a dual cry from base and avian. It was the most pump-wrenching thing he ever had to do, but it must be done.

With one optic and hand on the bird, he willed his mind to focus. The minute blue sphere flickered on: up, down, right, left, all around. Taking a deep breath, Mirage paused, sighting it. One shot, he thought, just one.

He was Mirage of Iacon Towers, the highborn son of a gleaming city, the best shot between the two warring factions, ever.

Scared, he fired.

Ratchet was dozing, one foot propped up on Mirage’s table, when the alarms went off. “What? What?” he spluttered, tipping off the stool and falling to the ground in a spread of white on orange. As he raised his head, he heard the sounds of metal clanging on metal. Scrambling to his feet, the CMO watched in horror as Solarflare’s body arched high and slammed back to the tabletop, again and again. Her taloned hands clawed rivets in the top, ribbons of steel peeling off and being flung back to land on the floor. “STATUS!” he barked hoarsely, running around to the other side.

“Massive activity in the cortex,” First Aid intoned, a quaver in his young vocalizer. “Spikes here and here.”

“And Mirage?”

“High activity as well.”

Ratchet’s fists curled, not from anger, but from the unknown. What is that pasty pretty boy doing? he thought frantically. “I want a scan. Fire it up.”

First Aid shoved himself away from the table, rolling backwards on a wheeled stool towards the computer. Quickly, his thin fingers fumbling on the switches, he got the scanner into motion. With a low thrum, the scanner lowered from the ceiling to position itself over Flare’s convulsing body. Just as Ratchet was settling it, she stopped moving. Horrified, the CMO reached out with a long arm and hauled poor First Aid along the floor to ram him up against the console set in Flare’s table. “STATUS!”

Optics wide, the junior medic did as he was ordered. Where there had been massive activity spikes, now there were none. “Status … normal,” he panted.

“And Mirage?”

“Normal.”

Storming over to the main computer, Ratchet punched the codes for the scanner activation program. After what seemed like an eternity, a picture resolved upon the screen. “Diagnostic.”

“Scanning …” Teletraan-1 intoned. “Scanning … complete. Diagnostic: subject Solarflare: clean.”

There was a clang as Ratchet’s jaw unhinged. The medic lifted limp hands and locked his lower jaw back into its sockets, staring up at the picture on the screen in disbelief. Where there had been angry swatches of red painting her system, there was nothing but the cool lines of a fully-functioning system.

Rubbing his face over and over, Ratchet could still not believe it. Presently, he became aware that First Aid was hailing him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that his apprentice was poised over the controls of Mirage’s table. “Bring him out, then ease her out of stasis.”

“Is it … is it done?”

All Ratchet could do was nod. He would have liked to whoop and holler, but he was too drained for such elation. “That son of a slag-heap did it. I’ll give him a goddamn medal for this!”

“Bringing Mirage out … now,” First Aid murmured, half to himself.

Confident that things were out of harm’s way, Ratchet leaned over the console and hailed Prime. After a moment, the Autobot commander’s head appeared on-screen. “Ratchet? Did something happen?” Prime’s face grew closer, the set of his brow ridges betraying his concern.

“Mirage deserved a goddamn commendation, that’s what! She’s completely clean, Optimus. We’re bringing them out right now.”

With a sigh, Prime leaned back. “Good, good. I’ll be down later. Prime: out.”

World-weary, Ratchet pushed himself away from the screen and walked stiff-legged towards the tables. Already, Mirage was moaning, faint rasps that might have been words spilling from his lips; his left hand clutched and scrabbled along the other table, searching for Flare. Behind him, First Aid was rolling up the cord that had connected the two with one hand, and with the other, pulling down the panel in the spy’s head to remove the chip. As he brought it up to study, his optics bulged: it was crisply black, of no use whatsoever. This he popped into Ratchet’s open palm.

Fried. Long hours of work utterly destroyed. But Ratchet only sighed. Such was the price to be paid to save a friend.

“She’s waking,” First Aid reported softly. And Ratchet turned to welcome another warrior safely home.