Chapter Five
One Day in Your Life

I watch the heavens and I find a calling
Something I can do to change this moment
Stay close to me while the sky is falling
Don't wanna be left alone, don't wanna be alone
~Sarah McLachlan, "World on Fire"

“Hello.”

The tinny greeting echoed around the interior of the massive plasma cannon that the spy was currently ensconced in. Mirage paused, a dirty rag dangling from his right hand. Slowly, he backed down the long tube, completely disgusted with the state that Prowl had allowed the cannon to degenerate into. Touching ground, he dusted off his hands, irritated about the condition he was in – grit, grime and various pieces of rock dust covered him from helm to toe.

“I’m sorry,” Alina continued. “They told me that I only had a few minutes, as you’re on punishment detail.”

The spy grunted, patting his sleek exterior until clods of sludge slothed off, landing with thick splats at his feet. The girl jumped back with a slight exclamation, trying not to get hit with the debris. Mirage sighed and looked down at her. “I see they finally let you loose from house arrest.”

Alina smiled softly. “Self-imposed. I’ve been job-hunting.”

Mirage made a non-committal sound in the back of his vocalizer, gazing at the cannon. He still had a few more feet to go before Prowl would count it spotless.

“I just wanted to let you know that no one’s tried to paint my house again – thanks to you.” She laughed, her bright blue eyes sparkling for the first time since Mirage had laid optics on her. “I think they’re expecting you to pop out at any minute.”

Using a clean spot on the rag, Mirage polished off his fingers. “Well, I guess I did my job, then.”

The young woman looked down at her feet, idly pushing the rocks around with a toe. “I guess I just needed to tell you that again.” She paused, tipping her head to the side and gave a short, wry laugh. “You know, I’ve been told not to come here – that I’m only hurting myself by keeping up relations with your kind. Maybe … maybe a few weeks ago, I would have considered myself crazy, but not now. I guess staring at all those ‘wanted’ pages left me with a different frame of mind.”

Mirage looked down at her, thoroughly confused. His lip components twisted ironically to the side. “Pardon?”

Alina flushed and rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment. “Sorry … I guess I’m not afraid of what’s to come anymore.”

The spy nodded assent. “Well, that’s good to hear.” The whir of the external cameras caught his attention and he knew that Red Alert was having the time of his life back there, watching the elite spy doing drudge-duty. Not only that, but the security director wouldn’t hesitate to blare commands over the small speaker attached under the lens. With an elegant shrug of his shoulders, Mirage bent his head and began to scramble inside the cannon.

He wasn’t in there a nanoclick when someone tugged on his foot. “What?”

“Hey, Raj, Prime said you can come out now.”

Mirage sighed. He didn’t want preferential treatment; let him finish out his tenure. “No, that’s okay, Hound. I’ll finish.”

“Don’t make me haul you out, Mirage.”

Deep inside the cannon, Mirage’s optic shutters blinked. He worked his way backwards with as much finesse as he could muster and dropped out the bottom, only to face Optimus Prime. The tall leader of the Autobots peered inside the cannon. “Well, I think that’s clean enough.”

Mirage blinked again. “Pardon, Chief, but what are you talking about? I have more to go.”

Optimus tucked his hands behind his broad back. “You’ve already done the other four, Mirage, and your friend did come a long way to see you.”

Friend? The word bounced around Mirage’s cortex without touching off anything remotely connecting. It merely pinged off of Hound before coming out the other side of his aural system. “I’d rather finish, Chief.”

Optimus crossed his arms in front of his boxy red chest and looked down at Mirage from his statuesque height. There was a gleam in his cool, collected optics that didn’t brook any argument. The Ligier sighed and tossed the rag back inside the cannon. Of all of his comrades, he thought Prime would understand his position on associating with humans. He wasn’t here to make friends; he was here by pure, fatal chance. If there was a job to be done, he’d do it, if only to see his triumphant return to a free and golden Cybertron – the one that haunted his recharging nights and danced in the corners of his optics. What time did he, Mirage of the Towers, have to make friends?

Optimus tapped his fingers on his upper arm. “You are very complex, Mirage. From what Alina told me, you protected her quite ‘valiantly’, to use her terminology. And yet, you want to clean out plasma cannons?”

Trust Optimus to back him into a corner using his honor as leverage. “I’ll shower first, Chief,” he told the Autobot commander at last, and was rewarded with a pleased nod. Optimus turned with Hound and walked back down the path to the Ark proper, leaving the spy to lean against the cannon’s lip, discomforted.

The week following the sabotaged paint attack had left Alina with more questions than answers. She’d spent much of that time perusing the “want” ads, looking for compatible positions somewhere outside of Portland. She’d tried several in Portland’s sister city of Central City, but in that pro-Autobot metropolis, all her queries were met with plaintive pleas to meet the Transformers. It was almost as bad as going grocery shopping and being mobbed by youngsters who wanted to meet Optimus Prime – whom she’d never laid eyes on. The hot-cold aspect of humanity was never more apparent to her than during these trying times.

But, what had made her come here again? A few conversations with her brother, to be sure; her parents were more hesitant on the matter, not wanting their only daughter to become a societal pariah. She could have shunned the Witwickys and their strange companions for the rest of her life, but that was not the type of person she was. Indeed, the more press-time the Autobot-Decepticon war got, the more wild the rumors surrounding their existence became. What irked her the most was the write-up of the incident at her house. What being bent on peace would point a gun at a child? And so, among other less-tangible pros, she decided to flaunt the police warnings and drive up to Mt. St. Hillary on her own.

When she had finally met Optimus Prime, she was amazed at the aura of serenity, of quiet command, that positively oozed from his metallic exterior. It left her wondering just how humanity could perceive these amazing people as mere robots. She felt like standing at attention just by coming upon him seated at his desk. And when he stood up to escort her to the plasma cannon field, she felt like a mouse walking beside a Shire, a slip of fear touching her soul at the prospect of being casually stomped flat by those massive feet. But, like the others, Optimus Prime knew where his feet were going and he kept a respectful distance all the way up the cliff-face.

Now, here she was, in a large room, seated on a table and chatting amicably with three Autobots who happened to be off-duty: the affable Bumblebee; a solemn, white space-faring jet named Skyfire; and a chatty, soft-spoken grey car called Bluestreak. Spike sat perched on the other end, explaining the various furnishings. The rec room (as it was called) had several squared-off couches, a large television, and a few tables and chairs for private games. What Bumblebee described as an “Energon dispenser” sat in the back.

And it was towards this little cappuccino maker that the spy Mirage walked. He passed the group without a word, his plating gleaming with a recent wash and a little more than a dab of wax – or whatever it was they used. Alina was amazed that even around his fellow soldiers, he kept his head averted and walked without a sound. She turned from the conversation to watch as he drew a shimmering pink liquid – fuel? – from the dispenser and swirled it around in a tall, thin glass before sipping. He tilted his head towards her and lifted the glass casually before downing the contents in one easy gulp.

“All done, Raj?” Bluestreak asked, noting that their guest’s attention had wandered elsewhere. “I thought you had all the cannons to do.”

“Prime concluded that they were clean enough,” he replied in that fine, cultured tone that Alina had come to associate exclusively with Mirage.

“C’mon over,” Bumblebee urged the spy. “Alina was telling us about how you sent some kids packing.”

Spike nodded eagerly. “Wish I coulda been there.”

Mirage set his glass aside and folded his arms. “Nothing spectacular,” he allowed. “You show anyone the tip of a rifle and they drop their things pretty quickly.”

Rifle? Alina felt her eyebrows rise in surprise at the spy’s admission. “You mean – you did hold those kids up?” disbelief naked in her voice. And here she was, about to defend his actions!

Bumblebee shook his horned head. “Awr, Mirage … didja have to? I mean, people around Portland hate us enough for blocking traffic.”

Mirage gave an eloquent, unapologetic shrug. “I would have rather not been sprayed orange,” he conceded, tapping his fingers on his upper arms.

Alina turned around, heavily disappointed. His whole demeanor spoke of old, country values – almost English in his carriage and attitude. Stiff, but proper. And what English country gentleman would go around putting his pistol in the faces of minors?

Skyfire made a sound deep within his chest that sounded like a plane starting up. He shook his head and turned around. “Eh, I’ll see you around, guys. I’ve got patrol.” Bluestreak, Bumblebee and Spike all murmured good-byes, before they, too, started to break apart.

"Wanna come to the bridge, Alina?” Spike offered, using Bumblebee’s shoulder as a means to get off the table.

“No, no thank you,” she declined, swinging her feet. “Too much walking.” And grinned to convince them of her humor.

Spike took it in stride. “Oh, okay. We’ll be back later. Unless Mirage wants to take you around.” And he peered around the table to where the spy still stood, his arms crossed, chin tucked against his chest. All he received was a measured stare from the Ligier. “Fine …” Bumblebee put his arm around Spike’s shoulder and they left, leaving Alina alone with the spy.

She turned around on the table, folded her legs, and rested her chin on the palm of her hand.

“I have no apology to make for your assumptions,” he said at last, pushing off from the counter and walking over to the table; he pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his hands on the burnt orange top.

“Mmm,” she conceded, staring up at him. Well, he was right – it was foolish of her to make assumptions. He was a warrior, after all – how else would he know how to diffuse a situation? “I’m sorry.”

“I seem to hear you saying that a lot,” he returned drolly.

She shrugged. “No less sincere than the last time.”

Mirage shifted, lifting his shoulders. “So, you say that you’ve had no other unwanted activity?”

Alina nodded, watching the subtle movements of his face. What, exactly, was it made of? Transformers, it seemed, had flawless freedom of expression, though it appeared their whole body was made of metal. Perhaps, she thought, it was a different kind, something malleable. “No, not since you stopped the kids.”

Across the table, the Ligier merely nodded. Alina groped for another conversation topic, but she seemed a little lost for thought. It didn’t help that she had sought out the one who appeared to be the least conversational of all the Autobots. “Still,” she continued, grabbing at mental straws, “it hasn’t helped my image.” And she looked up into his pale blue face, lips twisting in a wry smile. “I’ve tried applying for jobs in Central City, but it seems all they want to do is talk about you.”

“Well, they would, after we saved their skidplates from the Decepticons.”

Alina rocked back on her rear end, splaying her hands out behind her. “Oh, I remember that – last year. You got sent into space after a crazy trial.”

A strange look came over Mirage’s face. “I thought we were going home … turned out that we were headed on a one-way trip into your sun.”

Homesick? Well, she decided, if they could exhibit such personality, they could certainly be capable of feeling other deeper, more human, emotions. Alina drew her legs together and folded her arms over her knees, resting her chin on top. “You miss your home, don’t you?”

A curious leap of the brow ridge was her only indication that her query had hit something very deep within the spy. He paused before replying in a low tone, “More than you could possibly imagine. More than anyone else understands.”

That admission surprised her. “What do you mean? Surely everyone else here wants to go home …”

Mirage’s lower jaw worked from side to side, as if he were engaged in a mental battle of how much to tell her. “There’s no point in me speaking of it again,” he said at last. “I’ve been told numerous times to keep my keening to myself.”

Alina frowned. That didn’t seem right. Of course, she wasn’t privy to the reasons behind the others’ choices, so she shouldn’t make any snap judgments. Still, there was a look in Mirage’s optics and in the way the ridge above them slanted at a forlorn angle, that she felt compelled to say, “Why don’t you tell me?”

He looked up. “That is generous of you … but no.”

“Why?” she pressed, flicking her hair back from her eyes. “You don’t think I can understand?”

Mirage sat back, keeping his hands on the table as if for support. “No, not particularly. Human and Cybertronian lives are different.”

Alina gave a wry toss of her head. “Try me. Give me one day out of your busy life. I promise I won’t tell you to shut up.” What surprised her the most was not his reply, but her own willingness to hear the homesick moanings of a robotic alien. But there had been sadness, and a longing, and she felt that he had tried so many times to convey that to his comrades, but had been shot down just as fast.

Mirage studied her long and hard, taking in her humanity and tossing that around in whatever passed for a brain. Finally, he reached into his … side … and pulled out a small globe. It wasn’t that large – compared to him, that is. But as he placed it before her, she saw that it was about half her height. “Watch,” was all he said, and set the little disk down, pressing a button on the side. From the center of the bronze plate came a golden light, which quickly expanded into the image of a golden planet, slowly turning in the blackness of space. Amazed, Alina slid forward, watching the metallic planet spin.

“This is your home …”

He nodded. “Cybertron,” he affirmed. One slim black finger pointed to the top of the planet. “This is Iacon, the capital of Autobot occupation. It used to be the capital of all Cybertron before the wars. I lived here, The Towers.” He pulled his finger back so that Alina could see a small patch of gleaming, glittering white and silver, striated blue and green amidst the uniform gold of the rest of the planet. To her eyes, they seemed perfect – towering minarets and sweeping arches. What it must have been like to live there!

“What did you do – before the war?” she whispered, trying not to break the spell of the hologram.

“Hunted turbofoxes, parties. Spent credits on art work and company.”

That’s all? she thought in confusion. You were a rich boy? Apparently, he felt no shame in telling her, a female, about his whoring … or whatever one would term relations between mechanoids. Now, that was something she did not want to get into. “Seems rather … limited,” she said at last.

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

Alina finally managed to tear herself away from the spell of the planet Cybertron. Mirage took that as a signal and reached forward with those long fingers to grab the hologram and tuck it safely back into that … netherwhere.

“Do you like anything about Earth?” she asked, rocking backwards, letting her legs stretch out.

“Not particularly. I don’t like being here, but I tolerate it. I gave Optimus my pledge of loyalty when Cybertron began to fall into war, and I will honor that, despite my personal preferences.”

That wasn’t an answer, she decided, more like him trying to prove something to her. “Oh, come on, there must be one thing.”

Reflectively, the white and blue spy began tapping his fingers on the tabletop. “I’ll get back to you on that one,” he finally replied.

“Promise?”

Mirage turned his head slightly, peering down at her with one sky blue optic. Alina merely smiled her sweetest – well, it used to work on her exes … Mirage’s fingers rapped out a complex beat before he answered, “When I find something, yes.”

She grinned, finally getting through that tough, high-priced armor. “Now, tell me more about Cybertron.”

“Are you serious?” Apparently, it never occurred to him that anyone would want his version of their homeworld.

“You don’t see anyone holding a gun to my head, do you?”

The spy visibly winced. “Touche,” he returned, and with that, came a small sliver of a smile. Alina grinned back, liking this sudden shift in his facial planes. When not locked in a downward slope, Mirage’s light blue face had a soft, almost innocent look about it. As if there was a little robot-boy deep down inside, yearning for a time and age that had been swept away by the greed of a tyrant.

“Well,” he began, rocking back in his chair. Then, in one sudden motion, he tipped back and threw his feet up on the table, hooking one foot over the other. “I’ll tell you about the Towers …”

Invisible, Mirage watched the silver car until it was too far gone, even for his superior optics. The spy was leaning up against the rocky outcropping just outside the Ark’s main entrance, his ankles crossed, one hand tapping his chin reflectively. While Alina seemed sincere, Mirage wasn’t inclined to trust anyone on appearances alone. He was Tower-born and raised, and he knew the veils people wore when they were hunting for something you had. He’d played that game many times before, and on occasion, had been played. However, there was a fact he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried – she had gotten him to open up, if but a little, and sat there for clicks listening to his descriptions of Cybertron. She was like Hound in that respect – except that these days, all Hound wanted to do was compare Earth and Cybertron.

As if there was such a comparison to be made!

Mirage sighed, his ventilators rattling forlornly. Letting his hands drop, he pressed his back up against the rocky face of the old volcano. If but for a moment in time, that small female had made him forget … forget the sickness that drove him to complete his missions – instead of duty and pride, as it was in his fellow soldiers.

He still didn’t trust her, but perhaps … there was time enough to allow such a thing to occur.