Chapter Eight

Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 73.

She could hear them talking about her as she lay on the medbay’s extra recharging bed, their voices low, yet flowing easily under the cracks in the door. The past few weeks were muzzy; she barely remembered anything save for a few snatches here and there. What had she done? What had she said? Insecurity gnawed at her spark with sharp, tiny teeth, making her feel so very cold inside. There was so much they were leaving out – protecting her. From what? Herself? She knew what she was guilty of: of striking Mirage, of nearly decapitating Sunstreaker. What other horrors were they holding back?

The virus, her conscious repeated, it was the virus.

But you let it, guilt responded. You let it happen, you let yourself be led into believing that all it was, was battle-stress. And they had to come for you … again.

A low sob burbled up from her throat, raw anguish flowing through her optics. Why couldn’t she protect herself? Why were they always coming for her?

Burden, you’re a burden, guilt waged. What a warrior you turned out to be!

Hot tears, borne of washer-fluid they might be, spilled over her cheeks, dripped to the floor: splot, splot, splot!

A burden from the day they dragged her bleeding body from the library. A choking, hollow cry rattled in her throat, the cables along her neck vibrating. Who was she? Human? Raptor? Robot? All and none? None but all? Questions pounded her vulnerable cortex, still smarting from the influence of the antivirus Mirage had administered.

Mirage. Thoughts of her bondmate caused her chest to seize, her ventilator to whistle and her pump to throb against her insides.

The grey avian femme rolled off the bunk and made for the door. Slow, slow, she thought to herself. If she bolted, they’d come after her en-masse and toss her into stasis again. Some air would clear her mind, ease her spark, that’s all. Dimly, she searched through the darkness to find the panel that would open the door; touching upon it, she pressed and stood back as it sluiced into its recess in the wall. Light assailed her optics and she winced, reaching up and shading them with one hand. Beyond, all conversation stopped: Optimus sat talking with Mirage, Ratchet, Perceptor, Hound, Prowl and Jazz.

She felt animal instinct creeping up on her again, pinned to the wall with their gazes, their pity. She managed a faint wave and tripping slightly over her big black pyramidal feet, she edged out of sight. They called her name, but she ignored them. Couldn’t they, for once, leave her alone?

“FLARE!”

With a shrug of her struts, she left them behind. As to who called, she could care less. She had no notion of the day, the time, the schedule. She prayed that she would meet no one in the halls, that no call would come over all-comm with the orders to subdue her. She feared she’d break right then and there, and their efforts would be for naught.

She did meet Windcharger, though. The lean Minibot merely watched her sidle on by, his serene features also bordering on pity. Other than that, she was clear; they must all be out on patrol, or in the rec room, she thought. When she reached the main hanger bay and punched her codes for access to the outside, not one came pounding up from behind to stop her. Not one alarm blew, nor did Red Alert’s shrill, accusing voice hail her from the loudspeakers. The pounding in her head eased but a little, and she stepped through the door into the bay. Wide Oregon desert spread out before her, the sun beating gloriously upon the plain, dull brown rocks. A little of the cold dispelled as she moved quickly towards the exit.

A walk; she’d take a walk, then submit to whatever it was they wanted. But for now, she wanted to be alone.

As she left the overhanging lip, a whine of cameras made her look up. The largest had its nose pointed directly at her. That did it. With a howl of pure anguish, Flare threw herself up into the sky, wrenching her battered body into flightmode.

Through a crack in the rocks, twin eyes watched. Where do you go, little flesh-turned-mech? Ravage sat low on his haunches, the cat in him finding skulking in the rocks like a primitive vole revolting. The professional in him only reminded himself that it was better to be outside than inside the rotten hulk of their ship, which was under more water than he cared to think about.

“Ravage to Soundwave.”

“Report.”

“The female lives. Starscream’s virus has been thwarted by Autobot ingenuity once more. I am following her.”

Silence on the other end. Ravage smiled to himself; Soundwave would not question his motives. He was free to do as he pleased, as long as he reported back in. The Cat pulled himself lithely, supplely from the crevice he was stuck in. Curving his head around, Ravage eyed the tilt of his twin proton bombs before loping off into the distance. It was time to reawaken an old friendship.

Instinct drove her, fueled her twin boosters with the intense need to be away from the great orange eyesore that was a spacecrusier. Instinct that had only a few days ago overpowered her cognizant abilities and reduced her to nothing more than a metallic animal. A glimmer of a tear made from washer fluid appeared at the corner of each golden optic, only to be snatched up by the wind and blown far from her body as if was never there in the first place. I’m sorry, Mirage, she sobbed in her cortex. I failed you, I failed Optimus, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor … I failed you all. You remade me, you gave me life and here I am … nothing but a girl in the body of a robot. Useless, a target. The coils inside her neck constricted, preventing her from vocalizing the cry in her head. It would only be stolen by the wind, anyway.

And so instinct pushed her on.

On and on until she lost track of where she was going, where she had been. When she looked down upon the landscape, there was not one scrap of familiarity among the trees, the rocks or the rivers that flowed through a gleaming valley. Amongst this alien territory, she decided to land. Sick in heart and mind, weary in spark, Solarflare pulled her wings up, cutting the power to her boosters by half and half again. Slowly, smoke trickled out from the cylinders, the fire extinguished so that she had to glide in. Deadly titanium talons sliced through the dew-covered grass so easily that she miscalculated – the first time ever – and skidded halfway across the valley and plunged head-first into the brook.

Water filled her nares and throat, flooded her system. With a cry, Solarflare shot up, blowing water mixed with silver fluid through her pipes. She transformed right there in the stream, wincing as the tiny particles in the flow ground into her circuits. A hiss and a spit sounded from her right flank; Solarflare turned her head, water dripping from her helm, to stare at the spot with a certain amount of disconnection. Was that her thigh that was sparking?

Memory tugged at her cortex, a voice she remembered as Ratchet’s berating her for getting his repair work messed up as soon as she’d hopped off the table. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the air. And the air replied: “For what?”

Training had her up on her big, black pyramidal feet, brook water sloshing over the tiny bank. The land soaked it up easily enough, satisfied. Sitting with perfect feline precision not a hundred yards from where she stood dripping was Ravage, his steel-fanged jaws hung low, gleaming yellow eyes regarding her steadily.

Memory tugged again, of a time long ago when she had been of flesh and blood; of pain and the snapping of bone and tearing of muscle. “I said,” the great jaws pronounced, “what are you sorry for?”

Too weary to recall one of Sunstreaker’s classic retorts, she remained as she was, limbs hanging awkwardly down, wings digging into the streambed. “Come, come, little Solarflare, let’s be civil here. I asked you a question. Do give me the courtesy of a reply.”

Swaying a little, Solarflare clenched her fists, feeling her talons slide forth from their sheaths and bite the less-protected palms of her hands. “Did you give me the courtesy of life, Ravage? I don’t seem to recall any mercy on your part at the library.”

The great Cat refrained from shrugging. “Neither here nor there, Solarflare. That is the past; let us deal with the present, shall we? Now, why are you sorry?”

Solarflare looked down at the rippling water, the intricate patterns it made as it swirled about her toes and wingtips. She glanced up and found Ravage to be now sitting on the bank; she didn’t even see him move! “Fine,” she hissed, reaching out with her hands and crawling up onto the bank. She didn’t even care if she put her vulnerable neck cables in line with Ravage’s jaws. “I’m … sorry that I’m such a burden to bear.”

“A burden?” the Cat replied thoughtfully, almost in friendly conversation. “How so? As far as I can recall, you’ve held your own against us. Quite mightily so.”

Solarflare looked down at her hands, at the talons that protruded from her fingertips. “You can say that, because you don’t see the home life.” She thought about all the times Red Alert had accused her of being the Ark pet, the favorite because she had been born human. Fresh fluid rolled down her sharp white cheeks to join their brethren in the swirling waters of the brook below. “I’m a burden because of who I am, of what I was.” Her vocalizer caught and she coughed, trying to dislodge the wad of lubricant that seemed to collect there.

“They carry you, compensate for you,” the Cat mused, bending his head to rub the side of his face with a paw. “You feel that they are better off without you to create trouble.”

“Yes,” she choked. The admission nearly cost what little of her sanity she’d been able to gather once she’d woken up. “Trouble follows me – look at what Starscream did.”

The Black Jaguar was silent for a moment. He tilted his head to the side, as if looking for something in the peaceful tranquility of the trees. “True,” he rumbled. “And it appears to me that you wish to end it.”

Actually, that never occurred to her; at the most, go far, far away and live in solitude for as long as her parts would function. “I could help you, you know,” Ravage continued, completely oblivious as cats were to mortal behavior.

She looked at him, crest flat. “How so?”

“Let me take your spark, and then it will be over.”

“And what would you do with it? Manipulate it?” Flare’s crest quirked, a bit of her old humor returning. “Turn me into some dark Decepticon Phoenix? No, go away, Ravage.”

The Cat regarded her impassively. “There is no ‘yes’ or ‘no’, pretty little Solarflare. Of your own volition you have chosen to remain by my side while Lord Megatron’s troops gather around. You have no wish to rejoin your comrades, so the safest possible course of action is to give up. Let go of that spark, little human-turned-mechanoid. Give unto Ravage that which I rightfully own.”

All things come to me in the end …

Solarflare’s optics blinked, cortex throbbing as she tried to remember some half-forgotten scrap of words from a face near to Ravage’s own. Only … only more canine. And gentle.

Ravage regarded her steadily, his cold yellow optics fixed on her golden ones. “Give it up, let it go,” he fairly crooned, an odd purr carrying along with his words. He moved forward, one step, than another, the proton bombs on his hips angling forward – more of an incentive to do what he bid.

“Let go …” she found herself replying thickly. Yes, she just wanted it to be over with; no more trouble. Her slim black fingers traveled upwards to her chest plate, towards the hidden, recessed latches that held it in place. Ravage watched as Decepticons gathered from the fringe. Solarflare pressed downwards and the plate popped; slowly, reverently, she lowered it down. Within a complex tangle of cables, nodes, gaskets and pins, a rainbow shimmered iridescently.

“Spark, extract,” she intoned in a voice not her own.

“Spark extraction not advisable,” chimed her system back at her.

“Override. Spark extraction.”

“Unadvisable.”

“OVERRIDE!”

“Spark extraction commencing; system shutdown eminent in T-minus ten, nine …”

Goodbye, my love … she whispered, and gave herself over to the darkness.

Hound found her curled on her side, fingers trailing idly in the stream, chest plate a few feet from her body.

Dead.

From head to toe, Solarflare was completely grey; not the flush grey vibrancy she normally wore, but the flat, lifeless grey of oblivion. The tracker was aghast, mortified and completely shattered. He slammed to his knees in the wet grass and gathered her body to his boxy chest, fluid poring down his face in unchecked streams, his own little rivers of sorrow. Tiny Solarflare, graceful Flare, generous, kind, loving, Ark darling … gone, all gone.

“What is it, Hound?” he heard Optimus say from behind. “What have you found?”

“Hey! That’s Flare’s chest plate!” exclaimed Brawn. “And her feet! Those Decepticons took her apart –”

Slowly, agedly, Hound stood up, Solarflare dangling from his green arms, a lurid splotch of grey against the pure pine green of his paint. Her innards flashed for everyone to see, bereft of spark.

“Primus!” Optimus hissed.

Trailbreaker pawed at the ground where Solarflare had been lying. When the big black Autobot turned his face to look Optimus in the optic, he was grim. “There’s no struggle, Prime” He lowered his head, shoulders sagging with the weight of discovery; how could she have done this? How could she have given up?

“What are you spewing, Breaker?” Sunstreaker spat. “Look around you! I can smell Con-stink all over this place.” He stalked over to Optimus, gun in hand. “I’ll take care of this, Prime. Let me loose.”

“No.”

“What?” Sunstreaker was aghast. For once he thought he had the all-set to tear some Decepticon aft – and Prime wanted to stand and gawk at the crime scene! “Prime!”

The tall warrior turned on his heel and stared down at the yellow melee soldier. “No,” he repeated firmly, his finger tightening on the trigger of his laser gun. “You and your brother will not go charging off on a suicide mission. Hound.”

The tracker’s head lifted slowly from where he was gazing into Solarflare’s dead face. “Aye, Prime?”

“Give Solarflare to Sunstreaker, Hound. Take some of the men and find out what happened here.”

Solemnly, resolutely, the green tracker passed his friend’s corpse to Sunstreaker, who was uncharacteristically subdued. Hound studied the warrior’s face but for a moment and saw something etched there that he hadn’t seen before. Whatever there was between the twins and Flare, he wasn’t sure; she’d often said they tolerated her, and she them, more than anything else. Perhaps she was wrong.

Loathe as he was, Hound turned his back to the corpse and motioned to Trailbreaker, Jazz, … and … saw Mirage. Groaning, the tracker watched as the spy crossed the valley, the muzzle of his hunting rifle dragging through the plush grass, soiling the tip and clogging it, effectively nullifying its killing ability. He walked as a mech would to the smelter, slowly, his optics shrouded by the crest of his helm. Sunstreaker turned around and wordlessly passed Solarflare’s body to the spy. Mirage paused long enough to take possession of her frame and kept walking, past the small contingent, over the brook and onto the other side of the serene valley.

As everyone watched – they didn’t really want to, but they couldn’t tear their sensors away – Mirage knelt down and pressed his forehead to Solarflare’s trifold crest. His arms went around her and he began rocking back and forth, never making one sound. Not even his plating creaked, nor did Solarflare’s for that matter.

Several beats of the Energon pump went by before Mirage stood up again, Flare’s legs dangling on free hinges, head lolling over his shoulder, mouth agape. Her crest flapped uselessly, not held in place by emotion; wings dragged the ground as he carried her back to the group.

“Mirage …” Prime tried, reaching out for his arm. But the spy was slowly slipping away, fading into nothingness. Solarflare’s body hovered in front of Sunstreaker and the melee warrior tripped forward in order to take it back.

And then there was just the wind blowing sweetly through the trees, ruffling the grass, drying it. It pushed across the slack face of the avian femme, a last kiss from a forlorn lover.

“Shouldn’t we stop him?” Prowl asked, his own impassive façade cracked and broken. No matter what had happened between them, he felt the pain. “He’ll just go off and get himself slagged.”

Optimus Prime shook his head. “No, leave him. I won’t deny him anything at this moment. However, we still have work to do. Sunstreaker: load Solarflare into my trailer; we’re heading back to base. Whatever transpired here, I want to know. Hopefully Ratchet will be able to tell us what the cause of extinguishment was. Hound.” The tracker snapped to attention. “Finish picking your band. The rest of you …” And Prime looked over them all. “… we roll back home. Nothing more can be accomplished here.”

They shuffled, hemmed, hawed, pawed at the ground with their large feet; stared at the spot where the lone femme of the Ark had lain down and supposedly given herself to the Matrix. And Optimus, being the leader, the one with the stiffest resolution, tore himself away and transformed, this time not caring if he ruined the pristine valley with tire tracks. This was Solarflare’s mausoleum, not nature. He lowered his trailer door and Sunstreaker dipped his noble head in, laying the femme on a small slab within. Sideswipe reached around his brother and placed her chestplate by her side before stepping back and watching Optimus roll home with his precious cargo.

Hound decided that it would be best if he pulled Sunstreaker and Sideswipe from the group before they all left, as well as Prowl. Together, the six scoured the valley, picking up traces of Decepticon feet, which differed from Autobots’ only due to the boosters in their heels. As he literally sniffed the perimeter, Trailbreaker came up beside him to voice his concerns. “I can’t comprehend why she’d do it,” the big black bot whispered sorrowfully. “She adjusted so well …”

“I don’t think anyone believes that she gave up,” Hound replied, lifting a branch to inspect a break. “But, Breaker … there are two possible solutions here. One: Flare gave up and the Decepticons came here only to find her gone. Two: they came for her and killed her.”

“I’m more inclined towards the latter,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

“So am I, but, in light of what happened, the former could very well end up being the truth. And if that’s what Ratchet finds out, we have to accept it.”

“But will he?”

Hound stood up, more to scrutinize a leaf of shattered bark than relieve the pressure in his mind. “I don’t know. He might come back, he might stay away permanently. Slag, he might even give up himself; he loved Flare more than anything, more than Cybertron.” From a tactical point of view, they could not lose the spy; Mirage was such an integral part of the operation that Hound doubted they could continue and win without his cloaking ability on their side. He kept those concerns private, however. No need to bring up conjectures when they were trying to solve a possible murder.

“Hey, gents, is this what you were looking for?” Hound and Trailbreaker looked up and spun around to see Sunstreaker gesturing madly to a spot on the ground on the complete other side of the valley. “I told you this place stank of Decepticon gas,” the yellow melee warrior sniffed, putting his hands on his hips and preening. “Now do you believe me?” They all gathered around to bear witness to the Lamborghini’s discovery: torn grass and the distinct pattern of Decepticon booster-heels.

Hound looked to Prowl for direction. In reply, the second-in-command lifted his wrist. “Prowl to Optimus.”

“Optimus here.”

With five pairs of optics watching him steadily, palming guns and rifles from subspace, Prowl replied, “We found the Decepticons’ trail. We’re headed in.” Around the small circle, battle grins started sprouting, especially on the Twins.

“Do you require assistance?”

Grimly, Prowl considered those in his presence. “Not likely. Prowl, out.” Shutting down the commlink, the vice-commander reached out with his pistol and staved the Twins from plowing headlong into the underbrush. “Tact, gentlemen. Remember, we’re here to gather information.”

Sideswipe’s expression could have been considered satanic. “And afterwards, can we dismember them?”

Prowl turned slowly and levered his gaze on the spot where Flare had fallen. “Most assuredly. Let’s go.”

Megatron called for a halt a few miles into the woods. It would have been prudent to take their prize back to the base, but he had a burning desire to see this artifact now.

“Ravage.”

The Black Jaguar trotted forward, the spark of the grey femme held featherlight in his iron jaws. This he placed with mock reverence at the charcoal feet of his commander. Megatron threw the Jaguar a dagger-sharp glance, yet demeaned himself by bending down and picking the spark up in his hand. “Scrapper.” The Constructicon genius stepped forward immediately. “What – is this?”

Scrapper bent forward, eager to take it in his own hands, but Megatron would not allow such sacrilege. In their leader’s paw was a glowing, iridescent object, almost ethereal in nature, encased within a clear shell. Around its surface were several nodules, possibly ports. “It … appears to be a source of power.” He shuffled around Megatron’s outstretched arm to get a better look. Megatron snatched it back, holding it near his cannon arm.

“Ravage. Where on the she-bot did you get this?”

The Cat appeared to consider his commander’s words. “It is her spark,” he said succinctly, plainly not willing to divulge any more information than he was specifically asked for.

“A spark?” Scrapper repeated in disbelief. “That is no spark, Lord Megatron.”

Deep within the iron black Cat, a growl rumbled. It echoed deep within his hollow chest and emanated outwards menacingly. “You call my words false? I took it from her very chest. It is her spark.” He rose sleekly, his proton bombs inclining towards the Constructicon.

Megatron frowned. “A spark, you say, Ravage?” The Cat snarled agreement. “Curious. Undoubtedly, Prime will have his lapdogs on our trail when they find the she-bot’s shell.” He held the unusual spark and its casing up to the dappled light of the woods, turning it so that he might observe it from every possible angle. “A rare prize, this one. I wonder what Prime will bargain with to retrieve it.”

“I still say it is not a spark, Megatron,” Scrapper insisted. “How can it be? Why would it be encased?”

“A special spark, then, my dear Scrapper,” the gunmetal grey Decepticon returned smoothly. “Well, Starscream. What have you to say? The one you sought to destroy had something of value after all.”

The Air Commander huddled in the shadows, splotches of sun and shadow dancing over his maimed features. The marks of Megatron’s disapproval lay bare for all to witness in the scars of half-hearted soldering on his face; his right arm hung useless, attached merely for show. He curled his lip and hung back further, the sting of Ravage’s triumph burning a hole deep into his own dark spark.

“What, nothing to say?” Megatron cruelly mocked. “Sulk, then, Starscream.”

Down on the leaf-strewn floor, Ravage smiled to himself. What entertainment!

“Well done, Ravage,” the warlord murmured, holding the spark and its shell casing up to his optics once more. “If only all my soldiers had your intelligence – and track record. Yet … you are holding back something.” The Cat’s ears flicked back and he cursed himself for his premature smugness. “Divulge, now!”

The Black Jaguar decided that it would be best for his gleaming hide to do just that: “AUTOBOTS!”