Chapter Four
When in Doubt – Fraternize

I've been where you are before
No one understands it more
You fear every step you take
So sure that your heart will break

It's not how the story ends
You'll be back on your feet again
~Richard Marx, "Take this Heart"

“I don’t believe this,” Sparkplug scoffed, flicking the back of his hand against the top portion of local paper. “It really seems as if that firm of Alina’s is going through with that ‘Better Portland’ scheme.” He snorted and sipped his coffee.

“What do they plan on doing, Dad?”

Sparkplug rustled the page and smoothed it over to read the tiny type better. “Hm, they seem to want the public’s opinion on what needs to be accomplished first. There’s going to be an open forum tonight.”

Gently, the cups and plates on the low table began to jiggle; the chairs the Witwickys were sitting in began to shake with the vibrations from two massive feet. A figure paused in the doorway to their little Ark enclosure: red and white and blue, Optimus Prime’s thick digits wrapped themselves around the edge of the entrance, his serene, battlemasked face tilted down towards them. “What’s the news, Sparkplug?” he asked, his deep voice resonating around the room.

“Eh, some public relations firm in Portland is trying to stop us from coming through the city.”

Prime walked through and leaned up against the door, one hand cupped around his chin. “Is that so,” he mused. “If they had a problem with us, why haven’t they said anything before?”

“You know people in the government, Prime,” Spike scoffed, digging into his eggs. “They don’t tell you nothing.”

“True,” the leader of the Autobots slowly agreed. “Read me the article, would you, Sparkplug?”

“Sure.” Flicking the paper open, Sparkplug began to read it in its entirety. He got to the end of the front page and turned to the fourth for the continuance. It was there he stopped dead, lips drawn tight as his eyes scrolled once, then twice, over the information in black and white.

Optimus tilted his head with a slight whine of hydraulics. “Is there something wrong?”

Spike leaned across the table, trying to see what had caused his father to stop so abruptly. With a low growl, Sparkplug slapped the paper down and shoved his chair back. “Those bastards! They fired her!” Giving the chair one last kick, he stalked to the back of the room, grabbed the coffee pot and a new mug and poured himself another cup.

Spike scrabbled for the paper while Optimus looked on, his brow ridges arched in concern. “Spike?”

“One minute. Oh … here it is … It’s real small, Optimus: ‘Alina Michaels, secretary for Harper-Bell, the public relations firm in charge of Project: Better Portland, was reportedly let go yesterday for her supposed involvement with the Autobot army.’ ” A shadow covered Spike as the full bulk of Optimus Prime loomed over him. The skin across Spike’s shoulders twitched with the sudden proximity of the Autobot leader, but he pushed the discomfort aside, secure in the knowledge that Optimus was in complete control of his body. The Autobot’s forefinger (which was almost as large as Spike’s own body) pushed the pages aside as he searched for the article, to read it with his own optics. This close, Spike could hear the faint sound of Optimus’ optical sensors spinning tightly behind that blue glass as they increased magnification.

“This same young female whom you brought in a few days ago?” he queried in a quiet rumble.

“That would be her,” Spike affirmed, looking up to watch as Sparkplug continued to pace his anger at the injustice away.

Sparkplug kicked at the counter with a steel-toed boot. “It’s my fault, Prime. She told me about the firm’s plans, and I had her come here anyway. I should’ve known better than to compromise her.”

Optimus stood straight and tall. “None of us took this idea seriously,” he replied with a shake of his great grey and blue head. “While I cannot change our route for the time being, I suppose I could go to the firm myself and speak on her behalf.”

Spike swung around. “Do you think that’s wise, Optimus?”

“I don’t know about ‘wise’, Spike, but it’s the least I can do.”

“And I’ll go to the forum tonight, Prime,” Sparkplug declared from the kitchen sink. Slowly, Optimus shook his head.

“No, that is the least of my concerns at the moment, Sparkplug, but I do appreciate the effort.”

His jaw set tight, the elder of the two Witwickys nodded his acquiescence. Optimus Prime gave them both an inclination of his head before departing. Sparkplug left the counter and reclaimed his chair, staring at the pages before him.

“This really stinks, Dad,” Spike noted sadly. “I mean, Alina didn’t do anything.”

“I know, son, but that’s how the world works sometimes.” He sighed. “Sometimes … the good people get the short end of the stick.”

Mid-day traffic, for once, got the best of Optimus Prime. He practically crawled through central Portland, well-aware of the acute interest in his progress. The Autobot leader watched them with shrewd optic sensors located in his windshield and headlights. He counted himself very lucky that his crew had found staunch allies in the Witwickys, for if they had not met up with favorable sentients upon their awakening, Prime was convinced that his view of humanity might have been forever tarnished. Humans, like Transformers, came in many forms – and some also preyed upon those of different factions with a ruthlessness long attributed to Decepticons.

The Autobot leader knew very well that he could not solve every human problem that came along, though many thought that was what they were here for (sometimes, the proliferation of human media worked to their disadvantage). Apparently, they were unaware of a galactic war in their midst, though facts proved to the contrary.

Something cold, wet and decidedly rotten hit Prime in the trailer. The semi swung his sensors about, pinning the culprit easily. Under-developed humans were the least of his concerns; he revved his engine until smoke poured from his stacks, hunkering low on the road. The youth took one look at the half-transformed arm that was coming from the cab and dropped his ammunition, scurrying through the streets. Optimus allowed himself a private chuckle before the light turned green and he moved along with the flow.

Harper-Bell sat on a relatively wide street, so it was easy for Optimus to park along the curb and not disrupt the traffic patterns too badly. Unfortunately, he could not transform and enter the establishment, so he was required to honk – loudly.

It took four toots and a blare of the smoke stacks before someone was brave enough – or lost a bet – to push the front door open and peer around the corner.

“We – don’t accept – deliveries,” came the stuttering reply.

Optimus rolled himself slightly up on the curb to “stare” at the unfortunate male. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Harper or Mr. Bell, please.”

The young male jumped backwards a foot, startled by the resonate voice issuing from the red cab. He glanced back towards the door, which was fairly crowded with the stunned faces of his coworkers. Sensing no support from the peanut gallery, he stammered back, “Uhm, they’re not speaking to anyone at this time.”

Usually, he was not one to intimidate by sheer physical force; today, Optimus took one last “step” up the curb until he was cab-to-nose with the young man. “Please?”

“Excuse me, excuse me.”

Prime swung his sensors in the direction of the door. A tall, weathered male, his brown hair liberally streaked with grey, was pushing through the blockade of employees. He took the younger male by the shoulder and whispered fiercely in his ear. Optimus sat patiently through a stream of invectives no doubt describing his personage, knowing fully well that the human had no idea how powerful his audio sensors were. The greying male pushed the younger one towards the door, pulled on the bottom edges of his tan suit and took a step towards the red cab, now effectively blocking all sidewalk access.

“I’m Jack Harper. And you are?”

“Optimus Prime, Autobot commander.”

If he was taken aback, the man had learned to control his emotions well; all that betrayed his surprise was the slight pulsation of his pupils as Prime identified himself. Harper coughed. “Well, Mr. Prime – what can we do for you?”

Optimus rolled backwards, enough to give the man some semblance of comfort space. “I’m not here about your campaign, Mr. Harper,” he began cordially. “Rather, I wish to speak with you on the behalf of one of your employees.”

This time, Harper did start. “You know about that?”

“I believe in keeping up with current events, Mr. Harper – even if they do not pertain exclusively to me. I am well aware of your campaign, but you have the right to express your feelings about our presence. But, as I said, this is a matter of one of your employees – Alina Michaels.”

Harper visibly drew himself together. “Ms. Michaels no longer works for us, as I’m sure you know – if you keep up with current events, Mr. Prime.”

The slight sarcasm was not lost on the Autobot. “At the time of our meeting with Ms. Michaels, had you come to a conclusion about this campaign?”

Harper folded his arms. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the nature of firing employees, as I’m sure you will understand.”

Smoke wisped out of the tall stacks on either side of the crimson cab at the reply. “And I am sure you will understand when I say that I believe you wrongly let her go.”

Human stared at Autobot long and hard before answering. “I will not reveal the nature of Ms. Michaels’ termination from our firm, but I will tell you this: she left under the condition that I will recommend her for any new job she might seek. So, you see, Mr. Prime, it was a willful parting of ways.”

Water sprayed from Prime’s wipers and onto the nice, pressed suit of the director. “Pardon,” he murmured, flicking his wipers back and forth under the pretense of cleaning his windshield. “Well, Mr. Harper, let me leave you with this parting thought: perhaps you should better concentrate your efforts on finding a way for the humans of Portland to accept us rather than to alienate us. Good day.” Smoke, thick, dark and black, poured copiously from Optimus’ stacks as he backed up and off the curb. With a loud honk, the leader of the Autobots rolled for home, leaving the humans of Harper-Bell stunned.

AUTOBOT LEADER MEETS WITH HARPER-BELL, the headline positively screamed. Underneath the large, bold type was a picture of the semi seeming to pin Mr. Harper against the brick. With a low moan, Alina reached for the Tylenol, popped two in her mouth and threw them down with a glass of orange juice. It was bad enough that Katrina had papered her working area orange, but with the announcement of her termination, some discriminating youths had taken it upon themselves to paint her house orange. It had been a sloppy, half-assed job, thankfully, and had only taken her and Richard a few hours – and several beers later – to undo the damage.

“What can they do to me now?” she lamented aloud, draining the glass and setting it aside with a heavy clank. Dump scrap in my yard? Burn effigies of Autobots on the sidewalk? What had she done to deserve being suddenly and unexpectedly ostracized?

Thank you, Life, for fucking me up the ass with a piece of space-junk, she snarled, tossing the paper aside.

Her doorbell rang, and Alina jumped. “GO AWAY! NO MORE INTERVIEWS!” she screamed, palming the glass to use as a projectile.

The reply was soft and muffled by two inches of oak. “It’s just me, Lina. Can I come in?”

A low sob caught in her throat; two tears, one from each liquid eye, trickled silently down her sharp cheeks. Slowly, she walked to the door and put her hand to it. “Please, Sparkplug, no more,” she whispered through the crack. “I just want to get on with my life.”

“Prime was trying to help …”

“Tell him ‘thank you’, but no more. I can’t …” A fat tear rolled from her eye to land with an audible splat on the hardwood floor.

Outside, Sparkplug’s head bobbed and weaved in the window, trying to discern her location.

“Lina, please. Just let me in.”

Indecision raged hard and deep within her mind. Several more tears fell on her floor before she decided to open up the door. To her surprise, Sparkplug swept in and covered her with a huge bear-hug, like the ones he used to give her as a little girl. Frustration spilled from her eyes as she wept long and hard on the shoulder of the man who had been, in part, responsible for her termination.

“There, there, sweetheart. It’ll be all right.” “Will it?” she sobbed, her throat tight with crying. “Five years and a promotion down the drain?”

“It will,” he avowed, squeezing her shoulders supportingly. “You’re young, smart and come with an impeccable record.”

“Until now …”

Sparkplug coughed, embarrassed by his slight. “Yes, well, there are bigger, better places of employment than that crappy old firm. Your talents are wasted as a secretary.”

Alina’s only response was a low, shuddering moan. Sparkplug gave her a brisk, firm pat on the back and held her at arms’ length. “Come on a walk with this old man, huh?”

Sniffling, Alina dragged her sleeve across her nose. “Walk?” she repeated, dabbing at her eyes with the other sleeve. “No Autobots?”

The older man laughed genially. “No, no Hound, Prime or Bumblebee – just you and this old man.”

Despite herself, Alina found laughter bubbling from her lips. “You’re not old, Sparkplug; I don’t know why you keep saying that.”

“Anything to get you to laugh, girl,” he told her, reaching out and tweaking a lock of black. “Now, get something warm on. It’s a bit nippy out.”

Alina quickly complied, stopping a moment to fix her hair and her face, red-rimmed eyes touched up with cream. Arm and arm, they strolled from the house, going no where and not planning to – just walking.

Presently, Alina began to speak of what else she could possibly do, with Sparkplug chiming in now and then with suggestions. To her immense relief, no one stopped them; perhaps, she thought, she was being too paranoid. News got old very fast; maybe the short human attention span had wandered elsewhere. However, as they were turning the corner to a small park, Alina got the feeling they were being followed.

Cold, icy tendrils once again began to creep up her spine, and she dug her fingers into Sparkplug’s bicep warningly. She’d felt that way several times over the past couple of days, and it was beginning to worry her.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, looking down at her with concern.

With a quick spot-check, she leaned close. “I think someone’s following us,” she hissed back, a touch of fear stealing into her voice. Panic rose in the back of her mind at the prospect of being stalked.

Sparkplug’s brows rose perceptibly at her admission. “What makes you think that?” he casually returned.

She paused, scrabbling for an answer that didn’t sound foolish. “I … feel it.”

Tucking her closer, Sparkplug looked around, trying not to arouse suspicion. “Just keep walking, Lina. If anything happens, I can call for help.”

“And how fast can it get here?”

Sparkplug’s grin was grim. “Very fast,” he tried to assure her. Holding her close, they looked both ways before crossing the street to the park.

While the remainder of the walk produced no visible suspects, the feeling did not leave Alina any more comforted. She and Sparkplug parted ways as the sun was dipping along the horizon. Once inside, she swiftly closed the door and padded through her living room to the other side; pushing the sliding glass door open, she stepped out into her backyard for a little clearing of the mind. The Walters’ improvements had halted for the night, and she could hear them cleaning up. Pushing a strand of ivy that was starting to come back to life to the side, Alina peered through the crack in the picket fence. Yes, there was Mr. Walters, brushing off the grass from his thatcher. From the looks of things, this was going to be the last day he’d be using it – the whole yard looked ripped to shreds.

That would mean she’d have quiet until he got out the mulch and compost and began riding around with all that smelly stuff. Joy and rapture.

With a sigh, Alina stepped back – and hit metal. A shriek exploded from her lips, causing Mr. Walters to rush over to the fence. “Ms. Michaels? Are you okay over there? I thought I heard a scream …”

Whipping her head around, Alina stared into the encroaching darkness, illuminated only by the street lights and a few ornamental ones that came on at this time. Panting with fright, she took stock of the situation before replying. “Oh, no, I’m fine Mr. Walters. I just stepped on a trowel in my slippers.”

His brown eyeball peered through the fencing, trying to pierce the ivy. “Are you sure? It sounded a little too severe for a trowel …”

Clutching her chest for support, Alina nodded. “It’s okay, Mr. Walters. Really. I’m going inside now – have a good night.”

“Good night …”

Alina stood there until she could hear him retreat into his own house, and then turned away. She looked all around, but couldn’t see a damned thing. What had she run into? – Ass-first, no less, she amended.

You’re cracking up, Lina, she chastised, running her fingers through her hair. All this stress is making you go bonkers.

“You seem to have created a lot of trouble,” a careful, cultured voice spoke from the ether – softly, as not to incur suspicion.

In her wild spin, Alina found herself smacking an arm into something very hard. With a quiet yelp, she jerked her hand back, nursing it against her chest. Through teary eyes, she watched as the grass seemingly flattened itself into the impression of two very large … feet?

“Me?” she whispered incredulously. “I did nothing wrong!”

“Perhaps,” the voice continued. As Alina looked on, the grass flattened more, as if something massive was parking itself on her lawn. And then, as if a heat wave had suddenly come upon her grass, a figure materialized – first the head, with its regal blue helm, then the white shoulders, down to the blue torso, and white and blue legs. A large, shoulder-mounted cannon sat purposefully at his right, the grip of an immense rifle peeking over the other shoulder. “I do find it interesting that your people will ostracize you over such little information.”

Her shoulders sagged at his casual remark. “Yeah, don’t we all?” she replied, looking at him sideways. Then, a thought occurred to her. “Might I ask why are you here?”

Mirage gave her a slow smile, shifting his body so that he hunkered well below the line of the fence. “Keeping an eye on you – though, I should be doing other things.”

His quiet sarcasm was not lost on her; but, her mind was trying to wrap around the fact that someone – an Autobot no less – had been sent out to look after her. And she put that query to Mirage. The spy leaned on his fist, looking down – and possibly – through her. “It was Prime’s idea. It’s been quiet on the Decepticon front again, so he figured he could spare me.” He turned his head from side to side, testing the night sounds for anything suspicious. “Well, I’ll be going. Things seem to have calmed down now.”

Before Alina’s very eyes, Mirage began to fade. An orange prism engulfed him, erased him. Alina walked over to the spot where he’d sat and passed her hand through the air – nothing. He was gone. Idly rubbing her hand, she began walking towards her house, pausing once more to see if she could hear (or feel) anything. No, it was quiet, just as he’d said. As she stepped inside, her last thought was, Why can’t things be normal? – and closed the door.

Mirage paused, looking over his shoulder. Compared to Spike, Chip and Carly, this older human’s antics were low on his personal screw-up meter. Through simple happenstance, she’d managed to lose her job and incur the wrath of an entire city. And that all stemmed from meeting with them but twice. She definitely had his sympathy … what was her name?

Alina? Mm, Mirage thought as he walked the silent streets, the grip of his rifle clutched gently in his right fist. I never thought I’d give a human my pity, but I think she deserves it. His thoughts began to wander back in time, to the days following his join-up with the Autobots. Yes, Mirage knew alienation – self-imposed alienation at the time, but the feelings were the same.

Low mutterings caught the attention of his highly-attuned aural sensors. The Autobot warrior-spy stood still, his finger pressed lightly on the trigger of his invisible rifle. A band of six male youths were skulking through the shadows, their bodies covered from head to toe in black. Mirage repressed a chuckle at their naiveté, but continued to track their progress. Two of the group were swinging large buckets, the rest were holding cans of spray paint.

Invisible lips pressed together as Mirage’s highly-trained cortex considered their intentions. He was due back at the Ark for his report by now; if not, either Red Alert or Prowl would be beeping him and demanding – either in low tones or highly exasperated – an explanation for his tardiness.

The humans paced quickly by the cloaked Autobot, none of the band sensing his presence like the female had. That little talent, in of itself, concerned him – but that was for another day. Mirage watched them pass, finger tapping his chin, wondering if he should follow. He wasn’t completely sold on the idea that Autobots should also act as a secondary form of police when there were so many out and about. – Usually.

The youths ducked into the tree line, bobbing and weaving in insane patterns that almost made Mirage laugh aloud. Amateurs.

He was about to continue on his way when the group made a sudden turn for the street he’s just left – Alina’s street. With a mild curse, Mirage finally deduced their intentions. Slinging his rifle into its customary position on his back, the white and blue spy padded after them.

The darkness and the relative quiet of the neighborhood gave the delinquents courage. They whispered loudly to themselves, pausing now and then in the shadows of garages, car ports and porches, outlining a little more of their plan each time. Stalking them, lightly as a feather in the wind, Mirage caught more than enough of their objective than he wanted to know: these boys, it seemed, had slathered orange paint on Alina’s house several days before. Now that it was clean again, they found compelled by some strange civic duty to make sure the neighborhood knew who the traitor to humanity was. For, in the buckets and cans were several gallons of orange paint. Mirage shook his head; orange – the color of the Ark. How droll; why didn’t they just paint the Autobot symbol on her garage door? That would have been easier to discern. Apparently, he decided, stupidity ran rampant in young male humans – Chip notwithstanding.

Two of the boys were shaking their cans of paint, the little balls within causing quite a disturbance. One of the boys, who was the largest and, it seemed, the ringleader, snapped several epithets and grabbed the cans from them, delegating the paint buckets instead.

Not wanting to end up streaked in orange, Mirage padded around to the left, standing next to Alina’s car as the gang crawled up her driveway.

“Okay,” the lead boy instructed, “Joey, you get her car; Ralph, you and Toby will hit her porch. Don’t leave anything uncovered. We’ll work around to the back and meet up at the front. The rest of you can hit her lawn. Got it?”

“Right on, Tanner,” one of the youths replied eagerly, shaking out a large roller brush.

Mirage waited patiently until every one of the boys had taken a position before reaching down and over Alina’s car to tap the one named Joey. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he whispered at his most low and urbane.

With a start, the boy looked up – and up, into the materializing face of the Autobot spy. Mirage bent at the waist, slowly sliding his rifle from behind his back, letting the lights from the sidewalk wink over its sleek structure. “You know what?” the spy continued, almost conspiratorially as a small, dark patch began to form at the boy’s lower torso. “I think what you’re doing is wrong. Now, you wouldn’t want me to make you disappear, would you?”

The patch on Joey’s pants only grew larger, and something began to trickle out of the black cuff. “T-t-tann-er!” he yelped, backing away and tripping over his own wild feet.

The larger delinquent paused in painting a large swatch of orange on Alina’s front door. “What –AGGGGGGGHHH!”

Lights began to snap on with alacrity just asTanner hit a second, high-pitched wail. Mirage only had to bend a little further and bring his rifle a little closer to the boy for him to freak out completely. Tanner ran like his pants were being seered by Decepticon lasers, leaving his compatriots to drop their defacing gear and high-tail it out of there on their own.

Mirage slid his rifle back and allowed himself a little laugh at their expense. Neighbors were streaming out of their homes, walking around in confusion – only to see the outline of an Autobot standing by a car across the street. Some ran back inside, no doubt to call the authorities.

Something soft touched his lower leg; Mirage started to lift his appendage in order to shake off the unwelcome human contact when he realized who stood next to him. Clutching her purple robe tight around her neck, Alina quickly jerked her hand back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, watching with wide blue eyes as her neighbors swayed on the fringes. Someone was holding a primative rifle, dangling loosely by his side. Mirage’s keen optic caught sight of it, though it was hidden in the shadow of the man’s loose, striped pants. This could get nasty very quickly, he decided, wondering if he should have materialized at all. He could very easily vanish, but not with the girl clinging to his side in terror.

Well, Raj, look at the slag that you’ve gotten yourself into, he thought wryly, trying to formulate an escape plan. “Stay by my side,” he muttered, intended for her ears alone.

“And do what?” she asked, moving aside as he began to sink to the ground in what he hoped was a non-threatening posture.

“Keep still,” he replied in answer to her hushed query, drawing one blocky arm around her shoulders. He flattened his other hand on the ground, keeping the butt-end of his rifle visible over his shoulder.

“Don’t you think you creatures have disrupted our lives enough?” a man shouted from the opposite side.

“Yes, and I’m sure you would have stopped those delinquents from giving this lady’s home a new paintjob,” he retuned casually, optics flickering. “Mirage to base; answer.”

“Blaster here, man. What’s the ruckus? Our scanners got a contingent of cops headed to the girl’s crib.”

“I got deterred. Some young males decided that they were going to repaint the lady’s house –without her permission.”

Prowl’s low, crisp and professional voice came over the commlink. “Engaging the neighborhood wasn’t your priority, Mirage,” he chastised. “What on Cybertron did you do?”

Mirage knew very well that he needn’t repeat himself on that account. “I showed myself and my rifle. And gave a little warning or two.”

The logistician’s weathered sigh was palatable over the distance of a few miles. “Primus, Mirage, of all of us, I would have thought you’d have more sense than to intimidate!”

“Oh, I think I’m getting my just deserts right about now, Prowl. I have local authorities and citizens all pointing their guns at my chassis. By the way, I think you’d best get down here before this little lady gets harmed by the bullets bouncing off my chestplate.”

“Miss!” the police were shouting. “Step away from the alien.”

“Uhm, I think I’m pretty safe where I am, thank you,” she returned from her crouch by Mirage’s left leg.

The spy’s lip components quirked in a small show of humor. The girl had steel-lined tubing when it came down to it. However, it seemed that he had unwittingly created a standoff, and that would do no good for human-Autobot relations. As he watched, the chief of police lifted his megaphone once more, only to have a subordinate tap him on the shoulder. Brows draw low over his optics, Mirage watched shrewdly as the chief turned around to grab at his two-way. The spy would have listened to the conversation if it were not for the safety of the female at his side.

Whatever discussion was going on continued for several heated minutes until the chief finally tucked the two-way into his pocket. With a wave to his men, he turned around and faced Mirage. “I just got a call from your leader, Autobot. You can go, but the lady remains in her house for the night.” He whirled around and began barking intensely at the crowd. Slowly, but surely, they trickled back into their homes, lingering but a moment until the police ushered them inside.

Mirage let a low sigh pass from his ventilators at the verdict.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Alina asked quietly, her hand on his knee.

The spy looked around at the parting crowd. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But I wouldn’t bother yourself with it. In a round-about way, I did my job.” Slowly, fluidly, he got to his feet with nary a hiss of hydraulics.

“Thank you,” she repeated, taking one final glance at the dispersing crowd before scurrying inside. Mirage paused, listening for the subtle click of the lock; he watched as a light flickered inside then quickly shut off. Satisfied, the Ligier faded from sight and made his way on four wheels back to base.