Chapter Three
No News Would Be Preferable

There's an "answer" somewhere for sure | kitto dokoka ni "kotae" aru
The answer for why we were born | umarete-kita kotae ga
Everyone is seeking for that, going | hito wa minna, sore wo motome
towards helpless dreams he can't set free | yarusenai nogasenai yume ni mukau no
~Megumi Hayashibara, "Give a Reason" Slayers

A crisp and cool breeze blew past the woman bundled in a tight sweater standing on the curb, looking furtively in either direction, her black boots tapping restlessly on the pavement as she waited. Wouldn’t robots be equipped with better ways of keeping time? she idly thought, looking at her watch.

What Alina was doing here, standing on a remote corner of downtown Portland, she could barely convince herself. She’d received a rare phone call from her older brother Richard the night before (rare, because Rich was always the last one to take the initiative) and somehow the conversation had turned to the Witwickys and Transformers.

“Geez, Lina. If I were you, I’d be throwing the finger to every goddamn stiff in that joint and driving up to that mountain.”

“But I’m worried, Rich,” she’d admitted.

“About what?”

“About what they’ll think.”

Her brother’s tone changed to one of indignation. “Since when has my sister given a shit about what people think about her?”

“That was high school …”

“Awr, shit, Lina. Screw it. I think you’re reading too much into this. You had one encounter with them – and they’re offering to let you come back. I say fuck the firm and have fun. If they happen to find out, that’s their problem.”

Candid and frank – that was her older brother. So, she shoved her worries to the back of her mind just like he said, and discovered, after she thought about it for a while, that she was eager to see them again. She would take her lumps if they were given to her – being fired for fraternizing with the alleged enemy was locked tightly in the back of her mind, but she’d deal with that later.

“Just don’t tell Mom and Dad,” she cautioned her over exuberant sibling. And Richard had laughed.

“If only to keep Dad from begging a ride.”

Sparkplug had not left her with a number with which to contact him, so she had to use her own firm relations to find someone who did. It took a while and a few lies, but she was able to get in touch with a laboratory that had a favorable opinion of the Autobots.

“Oh, yes,” the elderly scientist on the other end told her, “they helped with the electrocell fiasco a few months ago. Though, I’m afraid I can’t give you the contact number – it’s highly classified. I’m sorry, my dear.”

Dejected, she calculated how long it would take her – in the daylight – to drive up to the mountain stronghold. But she quickly shot down that line of thought. Better let them know when I’m coming, she noted, crossing off that idea on a pad with a thick swatch of ink.

She’d run out of ideas by the time her phone rang – it was Sparkplug. After telling her that the Ark had gotten a call from the Experimental Laboratory concerning a young woman inquiring about how to get in contact with a Mr. Witwicky, the older man had realized the error of his way. He apologized for not giving her a contact number, but noted that there were few people out there who could actually have it. It wasn’t something that he could bandy about, he lamented. “But I tell you what – meet me downtown, by the grocer’s. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes to pick you up.”

“Why not here?” she’d asked.

The ironic silence was enough of an answer. She quickly agreed and got ready.

And so she stood, looking fairly foolish as to not use the crosswalk. A few overfriendly cabbies tried to get her to use their service, but she politely refused each one, stepping further from the curb each time.

At long last, a familiar green Jeep with its even more familiar red symbol pulled up to the curb. Surprisingly, no one seemed to care; some looked twice, but they seemed placated when a human stepped out. I guess if there’s a human present, your car can’t possibly be an Autobot in disguise, Alina wryly thought, hitching the huge collar of her sweater tighter around her neck.

“Sorry,” Sparkplug panted. “I was caught up in helping Ratchet fix Mirage’s hydraulic system.”

“He doesn’t like to squeak,” Hound offered by way of explanation – quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion. “It doesn’t do him any good if he makes any noise while trying to infiltrate the Decepticons.”

“What does he do?” she asked as Sparkplug “held” open Hound’s door for her to slide in.

“He’s our spy – hence the invisibility.”

“Oh.” It made sense. “I thought he just might be anti-social.”

Human and Autobot fairly cracked up at her innocent observation. Alina tilted her head in query, a bit confused. “What?”

Sparkplug settled his hands lightly on the wheel as Hound revved his engine; the Jeep put on his light and pulled into traffic before answering. “Mirage tends to set himself apart from the rest of us for a few reasons. A lot has to do with his ‘upbringing’ if you will. He’ll joke and laugh, spar sometimes, but now and then, he’ll wink out and go wandering somewhere. No one asks where he goes anymore – he doesn’t like to be questioned. Especially about his loyalty.”

Alina pondered the information that she’d been given, turning ideas around in her head. “You don’t think that he just goes out to better your chances of winning?”

Hound made a low sound in his engine and several lights blinked. “I don’t doubt that sometimes that is what he’s doing,” he replied thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Mirage; he’s good company. I’m the last to question anything about anyone,” he added as an afterthought. “Anyway, like I said, he prefers to be alone. If there’s one thing on Mirage’s cortex, it’s Cybertron.”

Thoughts of the white-blue Autobot drifted from Alina’s mind as they approached the Ark. It was even more imposing in the bright daylight. Hound gently chivvied them out of his innards and transformed amidst the rock and cacti. Alina shielded her eyes, staring up and into the great gaping holes of the four boosters. High above, a vulture swung on a low thermal before landing on one of the boosters; it shuffled momentarily, and then bent its head to peer down at them with a keen eye. A sudden thrill shot through Alina’s spine as she imagined sitting on those barrels and looking down and out at the desert beyond.

The vulture gave an undignified coughing cry and spread its wings, launching itself from its perch in a flurry of ragged feathers.

“We get a lot of those around here at this time,” Hound told her, following her gaze, his hands locked behind his back. “There’s a nice variety of wildlife around here – more than I would think could be supported by this environment. Can I take you for a tour later?”

There was such an open honesty about the green mech that Alina couldn’t help but smile – and then drop her chin with a grimace, rubbing the back of her sore neck. “I’d love to,” she replied, a little sideways. And Hound positively beamed.

Sparkplug coughed politely. “I think I’d best get back to Ratchet. There are a few things that he wanted to show me while he could keep Mirage on the table.” A knowing glance passed between human and Autobot; a private joke, it seemed.

Hound paused. “Why don’t we show her the medbay, then?” He turned around with a slight hiss and click of parts.

“Sure, wherever,” she told him. As if she would know what places to inquire about!

“This way, then, my lady.” And off he went, keeping his stride as short as possible without seeming to mince. Even with that consideration, Alina found herself walking at a quick clip in order to keep pace, and by the time they’d ridden up a very large – orange – elevator, she was mildly winded.

The Ark was an amazing place – especially to someone who had no working knowledge of avionics, and only a passing interest in space exploration. (Beside the fact that it was horribly orange. She couldn’t get over that detail.) After walking down another orange corridor, she thought about asking Hound the reason behind the color scheme, but the hall abruptly opened up into a large theatre.

“It’s about time you got back,” a gruff voice greeted them. “Mr. Invisible’s getting twitchy.”

“Maybe it’s because you have your finger in my gear shaft?” came the urbane reply. “I’m not exactly comfortable.”

“Be quiet,” the first snapped.

Alina found herself staring at a more blocky than stocky white robot with red medical crosses on his shoulders and a deep grey chevron stapled to his forehead. Unlike Hound, who seemed to wear an expression of perpetual affability, this Autobot’s face was carved into a scowl. His patient was lying on his back, one leg cocked, the other straight out; his fingers were tapping against the undercarriage of the platform impatiently. His chestplate was pulled upwards, almost to his chin, baring his innards for all to see.

Mirage turned his head the moment they entered, and his blue glass eyes seemed to lock onto her. Startled, Alina broke eye-optic contact and concentrated on her surroundings.

The medbay was comprised of several tables all laid out with mathematical precision. A computer bank lined one wall, its myriad screens all uniform blue. Long arms with different instruments strapped to their ends hung from the ceiling above each table; several more were attached to one large unit in the corner. Along the opposite wall was a storage unit stacked from floor to ceiling with more tools – some of which looked like they belonged in a carnival horror show and not a medical unit.

“Well, Hound,” the spy drolled, “I see you managed to get one to come back a second time. Not bad.”

Hound merely chuckled and walked over to the platform. Sparkplug left Alina’s side and joined the Jeep, scurrying up a small ladder and clambering onto the flat bed, a curious pen-shaped instrument appearing in his hand. Without a word, he dove into Mirage’s chest, legs hanging off the mech’s side like a deranged puppet’s.

“I’m sure you remember Alina, Mirage? She stopped by a few nights ago with the flat?”

“Oh?” the spy asked, tipping his head back in her direction. “Oh, yes. I remember.” And that seemed to be the end of that little reintroduction, for Mirage pulled himself up on one elbow and stared Ratchet dead in the optic. “Are we done, yet?” However, Sparkplug was still fishing around in his chest at the time. A stream of curses amplified by the metal interior bounced around the medbay.

Horrified, Alina could only stare in shock as Ratchet carefully, calmly, pushed Mirage back onto the platform with one firm fist to the throat. The spy fell back, metal ringing on metal. Sparkplug popped out much like a cork would, rubbing his balding pate and clutching a wrench in the other hand.

“Well!” Hound exclaimed with a hearty laugh, “I think we’ll be moving onto another section. I’ll catch you later, Mirage, Sparkplug. Take care, Ratch.” Gently, he put his hand behind Alina’s back and deftly maneuvered her out of the medbay.

“Slaggin’ impatient elitist …” she could hear Ratchet swearing as they walked away. “Is Sparkplug okay?” she asked, craning her head around to glimpse the argument that was still raging on.

Hound glanced back, too. “Oh, I don’t think anything’s been damaged. He once got stuck in Sideswipe’s chest and came out all right.”

The Autobots were so large, with metallic bodies that had to weigh several tons, yet they moved easily around the Witwickys – and herself. It was almost as if they could perceive something smaller around their feet and made a conscious effort not to break their delicate allies.

Hardly any Autobots were present in the Ark at the time of her arrival. Most were out on patrol or aiding various technical allies they had accumulated over the past year and a half, so there were few for Alina to meet. She did find herself acquainted with the squat yellow fellow whom she had seen with Spike. His name was, cutely enough, Bumblebee, and those Transformers of his size were affectionately referred to as Minibots.

As night fell, Hound came by the empty rec room where she, Spike and Bumblebee were trading stories to drive her home. “Sparkplug wants me to let you know that he’s a little tied up with Wheeljack at the moment, so he won’t be able to see you off,” the gentle green Jeep informed her with a lopsided grin.

A quick check of her watch revealed the ungodly time of 10 o’clock. She needed to be home by 11 to get some decent sleep if she was to get up early for another one of Harper’s ass-crack-of-dawn meetings. Waving good-bye to Spike and Bumblebee, she followed Hound outside, where he performed that amazing transformation sequence that still left part of her brain numb trying to figure it out.

Hound was considerate on the drive home, leaving her to stare out the window at the inky landscape as they pulled into the bright, soul-stealing lights of the city. Against Sparkplug’s earlier warning, Hound pulled up outside her modest one-floor suburban home, said his good-nights, and drove off into the night.

She stood there a moment, watching the solid red pulse of his tail lights until they vanished around the bend. Her breath misting in the cool near-midnight air, Alina drew her sweater collar up around her ears and turned to enter her home.

Once safely ensconced in bed, she stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together the amazing and odd day she’d had. After her first encounter, she had been left feeling relatively shocked with all the information that had been thrown at her. This time, while still in awe, she’d managed to see the “humanity” behind their metallic exteriors. And that, she thought as her eyes closed with a flutter, was what the rest of the world needed to recognize.

The Walters were doing repairs – again. Alina leaned against her mirror, brush half-way through her thick black mane. With two fingers, she drew apart the curtain and peered up and over the thin wooden fence that separated her tiny domain from the Walters’ ever-changing landscape. Though covered in vines and other easily-cultivated greenery, she could just make out Mr. Walters’ Green Bay Packers baseball cap as he tooled around on his riding lawnmower, dragging a thatcher behind him. The consistent thunk-thunk-thunk was enough to drive her crazy – but she was leaving for work in fifteen minutes. Perhaps she could tolerate it a little longer.

At least they were considerate enough to keep their reformatting to the daylight hours. Still.

Alina tugged the brush on through, grimacing at an unintended snarl. She worked it through and set it aside, tugging at the cuffs of her thick sweater. It was going to be cold today – cold. On second thought – she rummaged through her winter drawer and grabbed a pair of svelte black leather gloves that had been her one of her mother’s Christmas presents to her last year.

Warm and secure, Alina took one last glance at her busy neighbor before leaving the house. The sun was just peeping over the horizon, flinging wide bands of red-orange-purple across the sky. Gradually, the colors flowed into a perfect rose, followed by the plaintive cry of a mourning dove. Alina smiled to herself, breathed deep – and almost tripped over the woman standing on her stoop.

Stumbling into a yearling lilac bush, Alina bit back the swear that unconsciously rose to mind. What solicitor was out and about at this time of the day?

“Pardon me,” the older woman began with a cheery smile, “but are you the owner of this house?”

“Excuse me?” Alina frowned, brushing off flakes of dead leaves from her sleeve. “Who are you?”

The woman’s vapid expression did not change at all. She extended her hand without so much as an “I’m-sorry”. “I’m Lillian Vanden-Bulke, with the Times.”

Casting her gaze skyward, Alina then dropped her eyes to her watch. She would be running seriously late if this line of talk continued. “I’m sorry ma’am, but I need to get to work …” She stepped off to the side, heel first in a bit of mud that had not hardened from the rains. With a squelch, Alina grimaced, turning her face up towards the reporter’s.

“Oh, it’ll just take a moment, miss. I just need a quick answer – yes or no.”

What could she possibly want? “Fine,” she ground out, yanking her foot from the mud and using the edge of her porch to scrape the worst of it off. With a self-serving nod, Lillian pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. “Are you Alina Michaels?”

Shit, she scuffed the leather! Alina twisted her foot to get a better look at the damage. “I am. – And with that, I’ll be going.”

Infuriatingly, the woman stepped in front of her with a gracious smile. “Just one more, Ms. Michaels? I will have my boss make a personal call to your establishment to explain your tardiness.”

With a sigh, Alina rolled her eyes. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d been habitually late – or late at all, for that matter. “Fine,” she allowed with a groan.

“Good! Now, is it true that you were in the company of an Autobot the other day?”

The words exploded from her mouth before her brain had the barest of chances at coherency. “EXCUSE ME??”

Lillian looked up from the thin notebook that had suddenly appeared in-hand. “Oh, yes. Didn’t you know? The police have been following any vehicle that goes in and out of the road to Mt. St. Hillary for a few weeks now – trying to curtail human involvement with the Autobots.”

Icy fingers not associated with the wind began to creep up Alina’s spine; the hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. “I …” she grasped for words. “I’m not under arrest, am I?”

“Oh, no, no. A warning at most is all I’ve heard. I guess the reason why you weren’t stopped was because you were with an Autobot. You were, weren’t you?”

Ice was quickly replaced with fire. Alina slipped around the infuriating woman and jammed her keys into the car door. “I suggest you get off my property!” she hissed, getting in and shutting the door, effectively cutting her off from the reporter.

By the time she’d pulled into Harper-Bell’s parking lot, much of the anger had subsided into a quiet discordance in the back of her mind. Still, she looked around, peering over cars and vans until she was satisfied that there weren’t going to be any more surprises – human OR Autobot. Swinging her purse over her shoulder, Alina made for the front door.

Her suspicions were aroused the moment she set her hand on the knob – the vibrations from early-morning employee chatter was swiftly cut in half as she stepped inside. Warily, she drew back, looking around at the line of cubicles framing the front desk. No one would meet her gaze – not even Josie, her supposed friend and the company receptionist.

Hitching her purse higher over her shoulder, Alina closed the door behind her, almost tip-toeing down the carpet. There was Joe, and there was Katrina, locked in their little pre-meeting huddle over the water cooler. As she passed, the blonde bitch held something up between two fingers: a square of orange construction paper. The meaning of Katrina’s ploy was lost to Alina – until she got upstairs.

Her desk, which sat squarely in front of Mr. Harper’s glass-enclosed office, was stripped of every piece of equipment and plastered with orange construction paper. Even her chair.

“Not bad, eh, Autobot-lover?”

Alina spun around, losing her purse in the process. The bag dropped to the floor, spilling her car keys, wallet and other knick-knacks around her mud-encrusted boots. Her jaw would not close, so indignant and in shock was she over the speed of which news traveled.

How could they? How could they have known? raced through her mind at light speed.

Katrina smirked. “I saw you the other day – on the corner by Johnson’s Grocers. I didn’t think it could’ve been possible, but I saw you get into that Autobot. With that same grubby old man who was riding with them that day. I guess your job doesn’t mean shit, huh, Alina?”

Positively seething, Alina clenched her fists at her side, if only to keep from grabbing the woman’s head and shoving it into her massive breasts.

Katrina continued on in a droll manner. “Guess not. Were you letting them know of our project? I’m sure Harper and Bell would love to hear about this.”

“Hear about what, Gregory?” Harper paused on the landing, Bell not a few steps behind him. “And what is this? Michaels? Care to explain?”

“Katrina papered my desk,” she deadpanned, staring at the other woman with fire crackling in those blue eyes.

Harper huffed, pulling himself over the landing and going to stand between the two fuming females. “And why did you do that?” He glared at one, then the other, clearly not amused. “Well, spit it out! We have the ‘Better Portland’ project to work on!”

Katrina drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-nine – plus breasts. “Mr. Harper, I have reason to believe that Alina has been talking to the Autobots.”

Bell peered over the landing. “Alina – is this true?”

A cold fury rolled in her belly, slowly turning into a deep nausea. Her job hung in the balance – and so did her credibility. If she was fired, no firm in Portland would take her. “I didn’t seek them out,” she managed through numb lips. “As I said before – I’ve known the Witwickys since I was small. So, yes, I met the Autobots, but it had nothing to do with the project.” She bit her lip until she drew a dab of blood, trying in vain to keep herself from shouting: If you don’t believe me, ask them! Because she had told them. And Sparkplug was not the type to lie.

Harper pulled out her chair, eying the construction paper before sitting down heavily. He folded his hands over the top of her desk, his eyes grave. “This is very serious, Alina.” He caught Bell’s eye and turned back to her. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Alina. You will be paid for the day, but that’s all I can promise you until we can come to a decision about your involvement with the Autobots.”

Dabbing at her cut lip, Alina could only nod; her eyes welling, she scooped up the contents of her purse and left. Not to her house, but home. She needed her mother.