Reflection

I watched as she bounced out for patrol, her wings sweeping out as she transformed. I never get tired of seeing her face radiating pure bliss as she takes to the air. Something innocent about it all. So very few of us can claim to be pure, in any sense. Not with the millions of years of war ingrained upon our circuitry.

Solarflare was different from us in that she enjoyed the circling; the long hours spent surveying the terrain in search of unwanted Decepticon activity. Even boastful Powerglide and the Aerialbots confessed that they couldn’t understand the intense joy Flare felt every time her pinions opened and she thrust herself into the wide Oregon sky. Few really do: myself and Optimus, for example, understand that Solarflare truly belongs on the wing, that deep down inside her programming there’s a bird of prey who’s wearing the guise of a civilized female warrior mech.

In these certain moments, when I catch her just right, I’m reminded just how lucky I am to have her by my side. I’m under no illusions that there was a time when I considered her—and most of humanity—to be beneath my worry. Certainly, for those few like Spike and his father Sparkplug, I’d begrudgingly accepted that it was all right to form some sort of attachment. But I wasn’t here to make friends; I didn’t want to be on Earth at all. Cybertron loomed so very large in my optics that I barely saw anything else but its metallic surfaces, its sweeping planes. I did my job, I did it well; I worked hard to make sure that the outcome resulted in us returning to Cybertron and me picking up the remnants of my former life. I used to daydream about how I would help reconstruct Iacon, rebuild its gleaming towers into something that would rival the brilliance of the sun itself. The plains called to me nightly, haunting my offline hours with memories of turbofox hunts and lavish parties. But, I had to live as well.

It is more accurate to say that I stumbled into Flare’s life than she came waltzing into mine. I’m certain she never would have visited the Ark in the first place, if it weren’t for her connection to Sparkplug. We often have humans trekking in and out of the Ark at various points throughout the years we’ve been here; some are friends, some are colleagues, some are merely curious. Before, I watched them all with a thin layer of distaste—for each time they came, they wanted something out of the deal. A tour, a demonstration, something for them to take home and show their families that they had indeed visited the Autobot headquarters. That got rusty for me pretty quickly. However, I am not above changing how I compute the world around me.

Solarflare started out life as a human named Alina Michaels; I’m more than one hundred-percent certain that if she hadn’t come with Sparkplug that day, she’d have died human. I wasn’t present when they first pulled up to the Ark, ever-gracious Hound volunteering to be their carrier for the evening.

—Hound. I asked Solarflare once why she didn’t bond with Hound. She merely smiled and replied, “He’s not that mysterious.”

Being a friend of the family, Sparkplug was giving Alina a ride home, as her car was in the shop for repairs. On the way, he asked Hound to make a stop by the Ark to pick up something. Hound later told me that they had an idle conversation, but it wasn’t the type of conversation that the other humans had struck up with one of us. She did ask a few questions about Cybertron, but after that wound down, Alina amazed Hound with an intelligent, philosophical discussion. Intrigued, Hound invited her back whenever she wanted to come.

The next time she came, I was there. I had wandered into the rec room for my off-duty hours to find her sitting on a table, surrounded by Tracks, Prowl, Bluestreak, Bumblebee and Skyfire. Another human hot for attention, I thought acidly, making my way to the Energon dispenser. But I lingered for some reason, hanging on to the tail end of the conversation. Slowly, it became clear to me that Alina was not a human who wanted herself believed; she did not prattle on and on about American culture, or question Cybertronian society. She asked, listened intently, proposed another line of thought, acknowledged when she had spoken wrong. Quick to remind that she was not a philosopher, but only a curious soul, Alina nonetheless charmed half the crew. They weren’t enamored by her, but merely impressed by her conversations.

I thought that they had glitches in their mainframe, but they would sooner turn on me for being a spoilsport. I simply drank my Energon, recycled the cup and left. She noticed my presence, of course; even when she was human, she rarely failed to miss something.

Alina came back a few more times before I got irritated. I had to find out for myself what the fuss was about. She was always occupied when she arrived, so there was no opportunity to get her alone and pull information from her organic brain. So I did the only thing a mech like me could do—I followed her home, invisibly.

It didn’t take me that long, in my off-duty hours, to piece together her daily schedule. No one suspected me of anything, because I had a reputation for being a loner. I often went trudging along the mountainous area by myself, to ruminate and stargaze. Hound did question me about me not meeting him for one of our gatherings at the ledge, but he soon chalked it up to one of my moods.

I managed to catch her one night, alone in her garden in the suburbs of Portland. She was typing away on her primitive laptop computer when I stepped into her yard. To her credit, she looked up as one of my legs brushed a potted plant, but she quickly went back to work. So I stood there for a while, just observing. My internal comm chimed, alerting me that my shield was at maximum usage and I had to decloak to recharge.

Alina was too busy to notice me for a few moments. When she did, she gave this peculiar jump, like she’d just been given an energy boost. Her eyes went to my chestplate, where my Autobot symbol was displayed. Instantly, her entire posture softened.

“Hello, there,” she greeted me, fumbling over the side of her chair for her laptop. “You are?”

“Mirage,” was my terse reply. “I’m not here on a courtesy call; I want to know what the big deal is.”

“Excuse me?”

I admit, I was very hard on her. She didn’t deserve my rudeness or my intrusion, but I was desperate. I had to know and I was intent on getting that information. I explained what I’d seen, but stopped short of accusing her of being a Decepticon spy. She stared at me while I dropped my load at her feet, mouth drawn in a thoughtful line.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked softly, after a moment.

She disarmed me. That little human female completely disarmed me. How many had grown tired of my yearning for home? How many times had I been told to stop lamenting about everything being better on Cybertron? Far too many times. Not even Spike would sit and listen to me reminisce about successful hunts or life among the Tower elite. With those few words, I soon found myself with my skidplate firmly parked in Alina’s garden several nights a week, just talking. Eventually, I ran out of stories and boasts; I began to question her about her life, about the female gender in particular. Come to think of it, I noticed that she did seem to grow a little weary of my usurpation of the conversation, but she was subtle about it. Gradually, her comments and questions sparked my own curiosity. I began to value this blossoming friendship.

I, Mirage of Iacon, had found a friend among the humans.

Soon, I found my earlier sentiments slipping away. I understood then why Hound loved this planet so. Its differences made him better, strengthened his internal resolve. My fellow comrades commented about my altered attitude, and even Cliffjumper admitted that I appeared more “trustworthy”. I still yearned for Cybertron and this war’s end, but I came to realize that I fought for two worlds’ freedoms: Cybertron and Earth’s. It came to me then that what makes a warrior is his ability to fight for people who are not his own, as surely and truly as if they were protokin. By defeating the Decepticons, both worlds would be free from tyranny. And I was committed to achieving that end.

Then came the day that my mainframe nearly crashed. Alina was a writer, and she had volunteered to help Spike with a difficult paper at the local library. My altmode being what it was, carrier duty fell naturally to Hound. To this day, I’m unsure of what the exact provocation was—did Megatron have one of his Cassetticons trailing me as I made my trips to Alina’s, or had it been a matter of coincidence? Did Ravage just happen to come upon Hound delivering the two? No matter; the end was so horribly the same. Megatron’s cat-from-the-Pit burst into the library and brought the ceiling down on Spike and Alina’s heads.

Hound did his best to save them, but when we arrived, only Spike managed to walk away with some minor cuts and bruises. Alina was buried deep. Optimus told me to guard the entrance while Inferno, Red Alert and Sideswipe dug, but I cloaked and did a little hunting of my own.

I would have loved to see the look on Soundwave’s faceplate when he saw Ravage’s dissembled body laying scattered about the beach.

Truthfully, I should have terminated the cat right then and there, but I am a hunter; what fun would there be in that? Having the enemy constantly looking over their shoulder is far more entertaining.

I radioed in to check on Alina’s status. After being berated by Prowl for leaving my post, he told me that they had moved her back to the Ark. That was odd, I thought. Then Prowl said that Spike had come up with the idea to transfer her mind and soul into a blank spark, in case she died. “What an idea,” I replied sarcastically; “this coming from the kid who went berserk when we pulled that stunt the last time.” Prowl merely told me to get my skidplate back to base or face charges, so I sped off and arrived in Ratchet’s lab dripping in Ravage’s mech fluid. Unconcerned with the puddles I was creating, I pushed my way in just as Alina flat-lined.

The last time the world slowed around me was my first battle. I was young and green, still accustomed to the idyll of the Towers. I felt it again, then. Selfish thoughts raced through my cortex as that low buzz sounded. Who would I talk to now? No one understood me as well as she did. I needed to see her face light up, her head tilt to the side as she asked me a question or posed an alternative to my reasoning.

Like Energon, Alina’s mind fueled me.

My servos swung of their own accord, carrying me over to the repair table. I grabbed the first mech I came into contact with and lifted Perceptor off the floor. “By Primus, you will save her or I’ll blow you all to molten slag!”

Perceptor stuttered something, but my audio receptors refused to acknowledge. I shook the scientist like a human child’s rag doll, and kept on shaking until Prime’s hand closed on my shoulder. He might as well have disabled my motor circuits, for Perceptor dropped to the floor, my hands utterly devoid of power. Gradually, my audios picked up Optimus’ low booming voice, telling me that they were doing the best that they could. Nearly blind, I was passed off to Prowl, who locked me up in the brig for a few hours to regain some sense.

I used my solitude to berate myself for not getting there sooner, for hunting Ravage. Bumblebee came by to tell me that Alina’s parents had claimed her body. I cared little for that, and I told him as much. I could feel the sullenness, the need for the comforts of Cybertron slowly returning. Having thought I had dismissed him, I was annoyed to find Bumblebee still there.

“Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor wanted me to tell you that the transfer was successful,” the yellow Minibot told me, leaning through the bars. “They ask if you have any ideas in mind—for her new body.”

For the first time in a long time, I truly looked at Bumblebee. There was such a transparent honesty about the little fellow. He didn’t deserve my grief. I sat back on my bunk and considered all the conversations we’d had.

“I always wanted to fly,” she said one evening.
I looked at her, confused. Didn’t humans use their planes for travel? “Well, I’m sure I can convince Powerglide to take you up sometime …”
She chuckled, embarrassed. “No … I want to fly—under my own power.” She looked up, spotting an eagle and pointing. “Like an eagle … be an eagle.”

“An eagle,” I said unequivocally. “She wants to fly.”

Bumblebee appeared dubious. “Wouldn’t a plane be more practical?”

I found myself at the bars, my hands clamped over his. “I said an eagle.”

Although my weaponry had been removed, Bumblebee was still nervous. He bobbed his head in ascent, and, breaking my grip, darted off. “Geesh!” I heard him say to Spike as he ran down the corridor.

I vented my frustration the only way I could—I shook the bars like a berserker, howling at the top of my vocalizers. No one came to investigate the awful racket I was making; perhaps they had expected me to crack. After a while, playing musical sticks bored me and I retreated to my berth for more contemplation.

Optimus himself came to claim me when my time was up. In the interim following my explosion, I had taken the time to use the cell’s ionizer to rid myself of Ravage’s tainted fluid. At least now, I was balanced and presentable. Palming the lock open, the chief spoke sparingly to me and did not inquire about my excursion. Optimus was the only Autobot who trusted me completely, who never questioned my motives. He knew that I never did anything without a solid reason backing it up.

When we reached the doors of the repair bay, Optimus paused with his hand on the access panel. “Mirage, your weapons will be returned to you at the end of the day.” I nodded in acceptance and the doors slid open. However, Optimus held me back. “A word of caution,” he said in a low tone. “While it pleases me to see you so involved at last, there is a chance that this experiment may not work.”

How was our leader to know, as astute as he was, that I held the barest of hopes that Alina would ever “wake”? I spent most of my lock-up thinking about that possibility. “I understand, Optimus, but I intend to be there should she … terminate.”

Paternal almost to a fault, Prime’s hand clasped me firmly on the shoulder. “She’s become dear to many of us as well.” And with that, he left me.

As I walked in, the three mad scientists looked up. Perceptor refused to make optic-contact with me, and I did not blame him. Ratchet merely pointed to a large cradle in the corner and went back to work. He didn’t have to vocalize; his facial planes spoke volumes: She’s over there, but if you as so much as breathe too hard on it, I’ll wire your face to your tailpipe.

Mindful of Ratchet’s legendary wrath, I parked my skidplate on the stool they’d provided for me and turned to look at what lay within the cradle. Within its titanium alloy casing, a living spark glowed. Bands of red, orange, and yellow streaked across the surface in ever-changing patterns. I could discern no sentience, no sign of the vibrant human whose essence this was. Staring at this globule reminded me of my own spark, kept safe deep within my circuitry. My entire being was caught up in its center, the very core of who I was. Would Alina remember anything when she awoke? Or would she be doomed to repeat the horrors of Spike and Autobot-X? Wheeljack must have been tuned into my neural circuits, because he came over and rested a careful hand on the cradle.

“We’re doing everything possible to ensure that there isn’t a repeat of Autobot-X,” he said, lights flashing. “We chalked that one up to a conflict of minds.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Autobot-X was unstable to begin with, you see. No spark. Couple that feralness—if you will—with a traumatized human mind and you have a recipe for disaster.”

My optics twitched. “Alina was violently injured—”

Wheeljack held up his ubiquitous Finger of I-have-a-point-to-make. “She was conscious for a few minutes before you came in. She knew, vaguely, of what was going on. No, Mirage, if anything, she’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Gently, Wheeljack touched the edge of the containment unit. “The body we’re building her has no preprogramming; the addition of Alina’s mind will cause no conflict. Clean slate, you see.”

Despite myself, I found Wheeljack’s words calming my raw neuros. “So you hope.”

“So we hope,” he agreed.

Over the next few weeks, I spent what time I could in the lab, sitting silently by the cradle, watching with interest at what Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor were doing. The odd skirmish with the Decepticons kept me busy the other half of the time. I welcomed the distractions, as painful as some of them might have been. I never actually saw Alina’s new body being assembled; deigning to be mysterious, the three had a section of the bay partitioned off. They only assembled bits and pieces within my line of sight. I did walk in once to see Wheeljack carrying what looked to be a great grey-white-and-black wing. At least it seemed to be a proper wing—not like what Swoop had. I never did understand how that Dinobot flew.

I was summoned from patrol on the day that they were going to insert the spark. I had both yearned for and dreaded this hour. Today, we would see if all our hard work had paid off; today, it might be possible for me to have my conversations with Alina again.

Those of us not needed for necessary duty crowded the repair bay. As we watched, Perceptor carefully extracted the spark from its cradle, bringing it over to the body they had succeeded in building. I must admit, they did well, those three—though, I did have serious doubts about their choice of color scheme: grey and white and black. Alina was not a colorblind individual by any means, but I think they must have used a real eagle for reference.

The body itself was interesting to look at, if I must say so. (Deep down inside, I’m as much of a mech as any; I just hide it better.) They’d sculpted the white face into sharp planes, leaving a little of her original features. I knew the reason for that but privately I would miss the way she had been. Noting the mass of grey titanium feathers falling to the shoulder struts of the femme, I once again questioned the sanity of Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor. And that would serve what purpose …?

I was being too critical, so I forced myself just to take it for what it was. The wings I’d seen Wheeljack assembling were attached to her arms by a series of clasps that, according to Perceptor, would unlock when she transformed, or if she needed the extra freedom of movement. Astute, I had to admit. And then there were the legs: they had really stepped off the pavement with this one. The majority of the femmes I had socialized with on Cybertron had long, slender lower appendages; the shell’s calves were anything but. They were black, almost bulky in appearance, with large claws fastened one to the front, three to the back, above the foot and heel.

All in all, I was very much impressed. My comrades expressed similar sentiments; Sunstreaker decided it would be appropriate to toot out the side of his air vents.

Wheeljack reached over and pulled down the grey chestplate, opening the inner cavity and exposing a Transformer’s most vital circuitry. From deep within, the spark chamber rose of its own accord and blossomed to receive the precious cargo.

“Cross your transistors, gentlemen,” Perceptor said as he lowered the spark. As we all leaned forward, the click of the spark adhering to the containment unit was crystal clear. Everyone kept their ventilators as still as the barren plains of Cybertron, waiting for the inevitable.

The spark clicked again and the containment unit lowered back into its recess. Slowly, deep within the central core, lights began to flicker on. Wheeljack hummed with approval and respectfully closed the chestplate. He stepped back and stood by Ratchet’s shoulder, monitoring the situation. From deep within, twin ventilators began their air intake-outtake process; cords and cables swelled as mech and other vital fluids began coursing throughout the body.

“Life signs increasing,” Ratchet intoned, hands laid on either side of the monitor embedded into the slab. “Central processor and cortex are a ‘go’.”

In that instant, diamond-shaped optics suddenly lit up, a bright, clear gold. With a lurch and a gasp, the Transformer that held Alina’s essence sat bolt-upright—alive.

The next few hours were the critical ones. The three monitored Alina closely, to make sure that everything was connected properly and that she was in no danger of being shut off unexpectedly. Once they were assured she would not spontaneously terminate, they began to help her regain motor control. I stayed out of their way as they went through the basics of locomotion—and for good reason. Several times her wings disengaged of their own volition and batted Perceptor and Wheeljack upside the head and the chestplate. Then there was the instance of her lower torso torquing and getting stuck halfway. We look back on those early days and laugh, but I knew she was growing impatient and more frustrated with each failure. She hid it well, locked behind the grief that she was no longer human.

As she sat down for a respite, I pulled up my well-worn stool. Nothing was said between us for the first few moments: she getting used to viewing me—and the world—through optics, as well as her new height, and I getting used to her new form entirely. A while later, she gave a low, wry laugh, her vocalizer still spitting the odd burst of static as it smoothed itself out. “Are you sure you want to sit there, Mirage? I might give you a concussion.”

Knowing she needed the levity, I chuckled. “Pain comes with the territory,” I replied.

She gave a slight smile then sighed, her titanium crest sliding back along her skull. Already her mind had interfaced completely with the body’s physical responses. “So, tell me, what do I do now? I obviously can’t go back to my job tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what to say to her at first. How do you go about discussing life after losing everything? I still had Cybertron to go back to—she could never set foot in her house again, nor experience life as a human. All that she was, all that she could have been was snatched from her so ruthlessly. Suddenly, I was very angry with myself. We had thought we had done the right and noble thing, praised ourselves for a successful experiment. But we were only selfish individuals. In our quest for righteousness, we had forgotten that sometimes it’s best to leave the dead alone. Perhaps, I thought quietly to myself, we shouldn’t have played Primus with Alina’s soul.

However, there was no turning back; we had done the deed and she functioned once again.

“I’m sure Prime will have something for you to do,” I told her. “We always need more help around here.”

Her golden optics narrowed slightly. “I’m an Autobot now, aren’t I? Does that mean I have to fight?” With a little shake, she inclined her head down to look at her grey chestplate, but no symbol lay there—yet.

“Well, no, you’re not an Autobot. That is something you have to decide for yourself.”

She seemed shocked. What, did she think we conscripted individuals like the Decepticons? Perhaps she had considered the possibility—we were at war. “I have a choice?”

I sat back. She deserved nothing less than the truth. “You have two choices,” I began. “You can choose to join our ranks, or you can choose to be a noncombatant Neutral. By accepting the Autobot symbol, you pledge yourself to our cause—which you know—and yes, you must fight when called upon.”

“And the other?”

“As a noncombatant Neutral, you’re entitled to our protection, but you’re responsible for your own actions. You cannot fall back on us if you run into trouble.”

She looked down at her hands, not saying anything for a while. I knew how she felt—memories of my own proclamation to the Autobot cause came to mind. I too had faced that same difficult decision, but in the end I’d chosen to side with Prime. As dubious as I felt about it then, I did not regret my choice.

Slowly, resolutely, she flicked her fingers in and out again, each time hidden claws extending and going back in. I kept my counsel, knowing that I had to let her make the choice herself. For a few hundred astroseconds she did this little exercise, obviously deep in thought. I do not know what she saw, nor did I ever ask her, but after a while, she looked up at me. “Where do I sign up?”

I have my theories about what made her choose to side with us. The most prominent one being that of revenge against Megatron and his cronies for taking her life away. Anger is a very powerful emotion, and in the right places, it can be a tool to be reckoned with. However, when used wrongly, one runs the risk of being taken out before one can accomplish his mission. Alina didn’t strike me as a careless person to begin with; hopefully she’d realize that there was more to being a Transformer than just warfare.

The next day, Optimus presented the newly-renamed Solarflare with three Autobot symbols—one for her chestplate and two to display on her outer wing covers. After that small ceremony, Optimus took her into his office to discuss what her duties would be as well as what her training would entail.

I noted a marked difference in her attitude as time progressed; she was acting less like Alina-the-human and more like Solarflare-the-Autobot. It was to be expected, of course, but now and then I found it to be disconcerting. We still had our conversations late in the evening, but now they revolved around the Decepticons. She didn’t seem to notice that she was changing, that her human mind had almost completely melded with her present form. It was evident in the way she carried herself, in the motions she made in conversation—they all had the tell-tale mark of a raptor, Hound said. These days, Solarflare is all Autobot, with vague recollections of her life as a creature of flesh. She is able to remember upon being asked, but she’s more than content in her role as an avian warrior. Then, as now, she’s often to be found perched atop Mt. St. Hillary in raptor-form, gazing down at us as we come in from patrol.

It was after our patrols and during our off-duty hours that many of us took the time to teach her how to fight, shoot, and defend herself. We could only do so much, so Powerglide offered to teach her how to fly. He thought he was going to be able to impress Solarflare with his crazy maneuvers, but I overheard him remark one day in the rec room that, “Well, I’ll be grounded! She flew circles around ol’ Powerglide!” I guess there’s more finesse involved in being a bird than a plane.

She did well, in my unbiased opinion. Still, Prime deigned to keep her to the Ark and out of combat, for the time being. He had Wheeljack teach her how to use Teletraan-I and put her in charge of communications. That was a good move on his part, we agreed, as most of us were not around long enough to field the various calls that came by. Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor were far too busy with their own work to keep up. With the single-mindedness of a bird of prey, Solarflare dove into her new task with a fervor that caused Sparkplug to remark one day, “She’s more raptor than robot!” Of course, we all knew that by now, but it was amusing to hear someone actually say it. It was evident in everything that she did, especially in how she attacked. I knew, because my part in her training involved loading stray boulders into a glorified slingshot and letting her pulverize them with her titanium talons or her now-active eye-lasers or fiery breath, which was reminiscent of Slag’s.

“Not an eagle, but a Phoenix!” Solarflare had proclaimed with a chuckle upon demonstration.

Of course, her transformation wasn’t totally smooth. There was that rare occasion where one or both wings would disengage from her arms and belt someone upside the head. Then there was that memorable instance of Sunstreaker making her laugh so hard she shot him in the shoulder with her eye lasers.

Other than that and the Decepticons, life progressed quite nicely. That is, until Brawn decided to stick his olfactory sensor where it didn’t belong. He approached me at the shooting range and asked me pointblank when I was going to make my “move”. I’d never thought of Brawn as being astute or anything other than a thick-headed—literally—warrior, but apparently he saw something worth bringing up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied evenly, setting my sight on the next target. It was a half-lie; I had an inkling of what he was referring to. How could I not when my offline hours had been spotted with images of Solarflare? I tried to pass those dreams off as nothing more than an overloaded processor, but could I really deny what they meant? Yet, I cherished my friendship more; there was no way I was going to ruin it by caving in to neural impulses.

Brawn shook his head, hands on his hips. “I think you got glitches in your brain garage,” he retorted, using one of my favorite sayings against me.

“Leave it Brawn,” I told him firmly, cleanly piercing the target. “I don’t have time for this.”

Brawn stalked to my side and forced my rifle down. I tried to lift it, but I’d forgotten how strong he really was. I turned to look at him, optics narrowing in irritation. “I said I don’t have time for this.”

He let go of my rifle and tapped me on the chestplate, nearly knocking me over. “Look, I’m not doing this for my health, but I figure I’d warn you anyway.”

I set my rifle on the counter, not wanting to accidentally shoot him should my temper increase. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Face it, Mirage, one femme among all us mechs? Eventually someone’s gonna notice her as more than a comrade.”

I struggled to keep my facial planes neutral. Leaning up against the counter, I folded my arms and tried to appear unconcerned. “Well, that’s good for her, right? I know she gets lonely sometimes. Maybe Hound or Bluestreak will ask.”

Brawn made a low grinding noise deep within his vocalizer. “And why not you? You know her better than anyone else. That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, Mirage. Don’t blow it.”

“Blow what, Brawn? There’s nothing there.”

“And I’m a trilythium turtletroid!” he exclaimed impatiently, throwing up his hands and stalking off.

I turned and set my hands on the counter. Suddenly, it was getting very hard to keep things fraternal; Brawn’s comments rocked me more than I had let on. I couldn’t lose control, I had to keep things the way that they were. If any of my other comrades decided that they had an interest in Solarflare, so be it. Whatever made her happy.

Brawn did not broach the topic again, but he occasionally threw knowing glances in our direction as we practiced. Solarflare remained oblivious to it all, which was good enough for me. She had more than enough on her cortex these days: Optimus had paired her up for patrol with Powerglide and Hound. It was during these missions that we discovered a trick to use on the Decepticons: utilizing Solarflare’s high-powered raptor vision, we could plug into her optics and see whatever it was she saw. While we normally used Sky Spy for observation, it had to be controlled by one of us if it was to be of any use. Solarflare, with her avian design, could hide in large trees or on mountaintops, relaying information down to a hand-held comp unit, or directly into Teletraan-I, all of her own volition.

It wasn’t long after the start of her surveillance missions that she came into contact with the Decepticons—and combat.

I was doing some weaponry maintenance when Hound’s call for backup came. Teletraan’s warning claxon roused us all and we made our way to the bridge to receive instructions from Prime. From Hound’s broken transmission, we learned that he and Solarflare were on their way back from patrol, only to be pinned down on the western side of the mountain range. The images received via his wrist comm showed the tell-tale purple energy bursts from Decepticon weaponry firing from a higher trajectory. In the background Solarflare could be seen returning fire, covering Hound while he made contact.

“Those slaggin’ Seekers!” Cliffjumper exclaimed, pounding the main console for unnecessary emphasis. “Let’s get ’em, Prime!”

Optimus made a motion with his right arm. “All right, Cliffjumper. Prowl, Bluestreak, Bumblebee, Tracks, Mirage, Smokescreen, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker—transform and roll out.”

I was already on the ground and rolling, pushing my engine to the top. I wasn’t suited for the rocky terrain, but I made damn sure I got there quickly. We raced around the perimeter of the range, Prime leading, his massive trailer taking up all the space that could be afforded on the small trail. The rest of us traveled behind him in pairs, with Cliffjumper taking up the rear as he usually did.

“You sure are in a hurry, Mirage,” Prowl wryly noted over our internal commlink system.

“I’d go the same speed if it were you pinned,” I replied as dryly as I could.

Prowl gave a peculiar chuckle. “Something tells me you’d go a little slower.”

We reached them in less than a hundred astroseconds. Lurching out of carmode, I didn’t wait for instructions. I slid down the ravine to where I’d seen Hound and Solarflare standing in Hound’s transmission. Flinging myself by Hound’s shoulder, I propped my rifle up and took aim at the nearest Seeker.

“Well, Mirage, fancy seeing you here,” Hound noted with his usual levity. Nothing seemed to faze that tracker—except Cliffjumper’s propensity to pull massive weapons out of subspace.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun now could I?” I cajoled back, shouldering him out of the way of a stray missile.

“Thanks,” he said. Looking to our left, his optics blinked furiously. “Hey, where’d she go?”

I turned to look where he was pointing. There were scorch marks from an energy pistol’s discharge all over the slope’s face and a few holes left by opposing weaponry. “Mirage—she was there! A click ago! I swear I saw her before you arrived!—Wait! Where’re you going?”

I was gone before the last words left Hound’s vocalizer. Cloaking, I ducked behind a boulder and came up on the opposite side, right under the plateau where the three Seekers were standing, barricading themselves from most of our shots with the natural rocky cover. Zooming my optics in, I focused my internal computer to find the weakest spot on the plateau’s face to bring all three of them down.

It clicked once, alerting me to having found the precise location. I would have to decloak to fire, so I gauged the right moment—and heard the most peculiar sound I’d ever heard in all my functioning days. It was this aural-piercing screech, challenging and aggressive.

I looked up to see a cannonball in the shape of Solarflare’s altmode come streaking from out of nowhere. So that’s why I hadn’t seen her anywhere—she’d been circling for the last hundred astroseconds, biding her time. Fascinated, I watched as she plummeted through the myriad of laser shots that were now directed at her grey-white-black form. With an interesting and never-heard-before bang! her titanium talons made contact with Starscream’s back plate. This close, I could hear the awful sound her claws made as they punctured his thick trilythium plating.

Solarflare’s momentum carried them both over the plateau’s edge, bouncing off the rocky outcropping. Starscream’s limbs flailed wildly, trying to get off a blind shot with his null rays. They passed out of my optic range, meeting the floor with an earthshaking boom.

“The birdbot is mine!” I heard Thundercracker exclaim.

I swung around, decloaking. “Not if I have anything to say about it!” And shot him twice in the kneecaps. “You’re next, tinfoil turkey!” I snarled, hand on my shoulder-mounted cannon, rounding on Skywarp as he stepped up to the edge. His optics did a strange dance in his faceplate before he turned and grabbed a moaning Thundercracker under the armpits.

“You’ll be hearing from us, Autobot!”

“I’ll pass my message to Starscream,” I retorted, firing warning shots that flung rock shards up in their faces. Toting Thundercracker, Skywarp took to the air, leaving Starscream behind.

I saw the others mounting the plateau, turning to fire at the retreating pair. I took the opportunity to vault into the ravine below, only to be met with a different scenario than I expected: Solarflare had Starscream pinned to the floor and was continuously jabbing at his unprotected back with her black beak. Starscream was howling his vocalizer off, unable to shift her weight. I froze, momentarily taken aback by her avian ferocity.

Training took over. I locked my cannon onto Starscream, but Solarflare blocked my shot with her entire body. “Move, Solarflare!”

Her head lifted the barest of a fraction, but that was all Starscream needed. Taking advantage of her broken concentration, his left arm rotated around and made contact with the side of her head. She staggered backwards, wings batting furiously as she tried to steady herself. Before I could fire, Starscream launched a barrage of energy missiles at her unprotected chestplate, slamming Solarflare backwards into the plateau’s base.

“No one uses Starscream for a pecking board!” he shouted, intent on move towards her.

“No!” I cried out, starting to run forward.

A blast from a laser rifle cut the air between me and my target. Optimus stood tall and mighty on the plateau’s edge; smoke curled from the muzzle of his rifle. The business ends of my comrades’ guns were all pointing at Starscream’s head. “Give it up Starscream. Your friends have deserted you!” Optimus declared.

The Seeker commander stood up high, trying to belay his obvious disadvantage with pure arrogance. Giving a derisory laugh, he pointed to where Solarflare’s body lay smoldering. “Forget them! I am twice the warrior they are! I see you have a new toy, Optimus Prime. Now you don’t!” With a massive wrench, Starscream transformed, shooting skyward in a wide arc. “Make no mistake, no one makes a fool out of Starscream!” And he opened fire on the plateau’s base, bringing a load of slag directly on top of Solarflare.

As the plateau shook and came loose, the others were too busy trying not to fall in that they were unable to reciprocate. Heedless of my own physical safety, I slid down the short slope to where Solarflare lay buried under a ton of rubble. Everything about this scenario brought back the memories of digging her human body out from under the library ceiling. I vowed to never let that happen again and I always honor my oaths.

When we uncovered her at last, she was huddled into a ball, wings over her head. The air smelled of smoke, thick and acrid. I reached down, but Optimus lifted her up and turned her over—she had heavy black burn marks all across the front of her chest and chipped pinions. Thankfully, she still functioned; her golden optics flickered briefly and she lifted her head the barest of an inch to look at Optimus.

“All gone?” she croaked.

“Affirmative.” He turned with her swinging in his arms to where Ratchet had just pulled up, bay doors wide. Tucking her safely inside, he turned to us and gave the command to return to base.

I waited outside the repair bay and followed Ratchet as he wheeled her back to her room once she’d been fixed. She was still offline as we laid her down on her padded bunk and attached the recharging cables to her chest cavity.

“She’ll be like this for a few hours, Mirage, so why don’t you go and put your feet up for a while?”

“I feel fine. I’ll stay here.” Looking around, I caught a chair with the back of my foot and pulled it forward, seating myself.

Ratchet’s brow plate drew down in puzzlement, but he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” With that, he palmed the lock open and exited, closing it behind him.

I watched him go and then turned my attention to the contents of Solarflare’s quarters. I’d never entered her private sanctuary; like mine, it held what little memories of home she was able to gather: paperback and hardcover books too small for her to comfortably enjoy, three small murals of Earth animals, and writing materials, among other things. A large stuffed bear was perched on top of her shelf, something she’d picked up at the local fair a few months ago just by walking past the booth. As I turned in my chair, I noticed a reader laying on her desk with a Post-it note that read “Paradise Lost—John Milton”. With a glance at her still form, I picked up the reader and flicked it on. My admonishments would have to wait until she came online.

I’d just finished the epic and was turning the reader off when I heard her groaning. I set the reader aside and pulled my chair closer to her bed. “Good evening, miss,” I rumbled.

Leveling herself on one forearm, she reached across to push herself up but was blocked by the five cables protruding from her open chest. “Yeah, good evening to you too,” she rasped, eying the cables. “Mind helping me get these damned things out?”

It wasn’t the first time I’d had my digits in her inner chamber, but that had been before the attack. Before then, it was only as a friend and companion; now, I didn’t know what to think of myself. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the thoughts to the back of my cortex. I wanted her so badly—but to jeopardize our friendship for my obsession? And I wasn’t even certain she felt the same. That alone kept my vocalizer quiet as I reached in and started disconnecting the cables, rolling them up and tucking them into the storage bin below.

Her hand caught mine as I started to pull away. “Mirage—what’s wrong? You’ve hardly said anything to me. What—no tips? No admonishments for getting my ass kicked?”

Friends, friends, I thought as I disengaged her fingers. “No, I think you handled yourself fine out there. I’m … proud of you.”

She sat up, chestplate hanging open. “Then, what’s wrong? You can tell me.”

Tell her? I couldn’t. Not even if she’d promised me Cybertron.

“Your chestplate is open.”

She looked down. “So? You’re changing the subject.”

“Just … close your chestplate, Solarflare.”

Somewhere deep inside her system, she began to rumble. “I’ll leave my plate open, thank you, sir. It never bothered you before, so why should it now?”

I turned around and started walking towards the door. The sooner I got out of there, the sooner I could collect myself. Perhaps by tomorrow I could reformat my thinking on the subject.

“Mirage! Get back here!”

I continued right on through her open door, down the corridor and made my way into the rec room. My comrades looked up as I entered. “How’s Flare?” Trailbreaker asked from where he sat playing chess with Smokescreen.

“She’s fine.” I went to the dispenser and dialed myself up a cup of warm oil. I took my mug and went to sit on the couch to watch Sunstreaker and Sideswipe battle it out on one of the gaming consoles Spike had brought over.

“Is she coming or staying in her room?” Trailbreaker persisted.

“I have no idea.”

Sideswipe elbowed me in the foot. “What, you two have a fight or something?”

Tracks laughed. “Now that is a novelty. Those two never fight. You’d think they were binary-bonded or something, the way they act together.”

Cliffjumper sniggered. “Mirage and Solarflare—bonded? Now that’s funny!”

“Hrmph,” Brawn snorted, looking over his shoulder at me. I controlled myself enough not to throw my mug at his large head.

Things got quiet for a while until I heard Trailbreaker exclaim: “Ah! There she is! Flare, come here and watch me take Smokie for the fifth time!”

Looking up, I watched Solarflare come strolling in through the door purposefully, chestplate shut, I must add. She gave Trailbreaker a slight smile. “I’d love to, Trailbreaker, but I’m looking for Blaster.”

Blaster!

“He’s over there, plugged into the local radio station again.”

With another smile, Solarflare crossed the room to where Blaster sat in boom box mode on the counter; a thin black cable attached him to the desktop console. “Blaster,” she said, tapping him on the side to get his attention. “You busy?”

She stepped back to allow him room as he transformed, pulling out the plug. “Busy?” he asked cheerfully. “No. Whatcha got in mind, Flare?”

“There’s a rave going on at the warehouse tonight. Wanna come?”

Blaster seemed taken aback. “A rave? That’s a human dance party, isn’t it? I didn’t know you were into that, Flare.”

She shrugged. I sat up on the couch, clenching my mug a little too tightly.

“Figured it’s something to do. So, do you want to come?”

Blaster grinned hugely. “You’re right I do! I won’t pass up the opportunity to get more samples of human music. Hey, Jazz, up for a night out?”

From across the room, Jazz sat up. “Sure. Can’t let you two party animals have all the fun.”

I clenched the mug tighter and tighter, my anger building. She was baiting me—that little she-bot was baiting me! Then Sideswipe was in my face, oil dripping down his back.

“Yo, Mirage. I didn’t need that shower.”

I looked down: oil was split all over myself, the floor and most of Sideswipe. The mug lay in pieces in my hand and in my lap. I hadn’t even realized I’d crushed it.

“At least it wasn’t me or you’d be paying for my new paintjob, Mirage,” Sunstreaker drawled.

Sideswipe gave his brother a light jab and turned back to me. “Look, why don’t you go after her? You do that and I’ll forgive the tiny bath you just gave me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I heard myself reply hollowly, still examining the pieces.

Sideswipe poked me in the kneecap. “Yes, you do. Now get that skidplate of yours down there before I drop kick you.”

With Sideswipe’s jesting or real threat—one never could tell with him—to fuel me, I made my way into Portland, following the signals of Solarflare, Blaster and Jazz. I hadn’t even pulled up to the renovated warehouse when I heard the heavy thumping of the bass drums. By now, we all knew something of American culture, but I wasn’t Hound, Jazz, Beachcomer or Blaster, who immersed themselves in every aspect that they could get their hands on. I felt awkward as I walked up to the large double doors, almost stepping on the bulky human who stood outside.

“Another one?” I heard him exclaim as I ducked, pulling my arms in to get through.

If the music outside was loud, it nearly burst my aural sensors when I entered. Some of the twirling, whirling humans looked up at me as I passed by, but it wasn’t in shock. I figured that they’d already seen three of us, so one more wasn’t anything special.

No matter where I turned, brightly colored lights assailed my optics. The floor shook under my feet from the sheer power of the amplifiers. I looked towards the stage and saw Blaster up there having the time of his spark, spinning and jamming like there was no tomorrow. Next to the equipment-laden stage were a few tables, one of which Jazz sat behind, his feet propped up on the wooden surface, his head constantly bobbing up and down to the beat.

“Hey, baby, what’s cookin’?” he greeted me, waving a hand in the direction of another large crate that’d been placed beside him. “Sit down, take a load off and chill, man.”

I had to sit—I’d just seen Solarflare: she was up by the stage, the lights glinting off of her metallic body, swaying with a grace that I’d never seen in any femme on Cybertron. Blaster had the best lights trained on her and she had quite the gathering around her feet. Glowing sticks hung from her wrists and were looped around her waist, giving her an otherworldly feel. All the anger I’d felt before at being baiting pooled at my feet and seeped out onto the floor.

“What … what is she … doing?” My vocalizer could barely compute the words.

Jazz laughed, snapping his fingers. “Dancing, Mirage-baby, dancing. And slaggin’ good, too.”

Solarflare turned and twisted, lifting her arms over her head as the beat changed. Her golden optics, swimming with the brilliant lights, met mine. “Are you coming?” I heard her say over our internal commlink system.

Jazz poked me in the side. “Get goin’ man, cuz she sure is tempting ol’ Jazz here.”

Dancing is not something I’d ever done—we just don’t do that on Cybertron. As I got stiffly to my feet, I swung my optics over several of the male humans, recording and analyzing their movements. In an astrosecond, I’d managed to collect enough information to hopefully get me through the night.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Solarflare shouted over at me as I came up behind her. I could see Blaster grinning like a fool and he swung the beat into something more sensual with a heavy, internal-pump drum.

“You challenged me, Flare.” Feeling like a droid, I nonetheless put my hands on her hips, following her motion. “I had to come.”

“It would have been easier if you just told me what was going on.” She swung around, disengaging her wings and putting her arms around my shoulders. “Perhaps you will now?”

Being this close to her left me with little sense to argue; the music drowned out all the rest. All the combat training, all the warrior fuel left me in her presence. “I never wanted to jeopardize our friendship, Flare. It has been my most treasured possession, over everything I have left of Cybertron.”

“And what would you have to say to me that would jeopardize our friendship?”

“I … love you.”

The most peculiar smile lit her facial planes. “It took you all this time to tell me? Brawn was right, then.”

I stopped moving and held her at arm’s length. “Brawn did WHAT!” Several humans looked up at us, startled by my booming voice. Still wearing that smile, she reached out and flicked me under my chin with her claws open. The sensation wracked my frame, setting my cortex buzzing.

“Don’t blame him; I asked him when you left. He stopped by to see how I was.”

“So you knew.”

This close, I could feel her body’s humming. A low thrum emanated from her vocalizer. I would later come to recognize this as Solarflare’s purr. “I’m female, Mirage. We know. And I’m flattered.”

I waited for the “but I don’t feel that way”. I’d seen enough on the human entertainment channels to know what was coming next. I looked down at her, all wreathed in artificial lights and bathed in more from above, and waited for the inevitable.

Her head tipped up and she arched her neck so that her lips were at my vents. “I love you too.” My optics glazed over as her lips touched mine. It was then that I realized that I could have told her sooner, but I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything on Cybertron.

I know that most of humanity on Earth sees us Transformers as nothing more than sentient killing machines, but we are more alike than I think they realize. While our morals and mode of thinking are different, all sentients hold the same emotions. Love, sadness, jealousy, rage—these are not restricted to humanity.

I could see Jazz still propped up on the table, his face split in the largest grin I’d ever seen him wearing. Blaster wore a fair approximation of that smile; he gave me a thumb’s up in response.

And then there was Solarflare. From the human who had sat with me and listened to my endless stories of Cybertron to the wild avian warrior who had taken on Starscream and sent him packing—she had come a long way.

And she was mine.

Or, more precisely, I was hers, because she’d held me captive for over a year, and didn’t know it.

Prowl did reprimand us for staying out until 4AM, but it was a token punishment. I think he was remembering his own dalliances on Cybertron when we wandered in, Solarflare still dripping with her now-dead glows and Blaster and Jazz wearing bits and pieces of female clothing strung off their limbs.

Prime took us into his office for a reminder that duty came before anything else, but he wished us well. “Perhaps I should take a journey on the space bridge when Megatron’s not looking and visit Elita,” he mused with a quirk of his brow plate.

Solarflare merely smiled.

“Mirage! Stop gawking at the girl and get going. You got a patrol to get to.”

The blue and white spy turned around and smiled. “Of course, Prowl. I’ll see you later.” In a flurry of mechanics, Mirage transformed and sped off down the rocky path. Above him, a great grey-white-black Transformer circled and called out before turning in the opposite direction, her own area to oversee.