Chapter Six
A Girl and Her Robot are not Soon Parted

People create history | hito wa ai wo tsumugi nagara
while weaving love. | rekishi wo tsukuru
Even knowing I'll never be a goddess | megami nante narenai mama
or anything like that, I live on. | watashi wa ikiru
~Takahashi Youko, "Cruel Angel's Thesis/Zankoku na Tenshi no TE-ZE" Neon Genesis Evangelion

Job-hunting was sorely trying. Alina pushed aside the glass door and stepped out into her back yard. The mid-April sunshine was comforting, much better than the cool winds of March. Things were looking up, she decided. Tomorrow, she had an interview at a mid-sized publishing company in Central City. It wasn’t her first choice, but this was the first business that hadn’t put two and two together when she gave her name – or, at least, was more professional than to pry. Admittedly, she was more than a little nervous about it; they would ask about her previous job, and she would have to let them know about the circumstances of her being “laid off”. That’s right … she wasn’t technically fired. Apparently, Mr. Harper still had some heart when it came down to those matters.

On a whim, she walked over to the fence and stood on tip-toe, peering over the weathered brown slates. The Walters’ had done a fine job this year – an array of ornamental pots, little gnomes and freshly tilled top soil mixed with mulch bespoke a banner garden. Too bad she wouldn’t be invited over this year to walk amidst the flowers. With a soft sigh, she dropped back to the ground and moved over to the small lawn chair that was sitting on her poured cement porch. Grabbing the chair, she dragged it onto the grass and flopped down in it, pulling a thin volume from her back pocket.

“That is a rather interesting reading posture,” a soft voice commented from the ether. Once more, Alina jumped, biting her tongue in surprise. Wincing, she uncurled her legs from underneath her bottom and swung them down. Before her, the grass once again flattened into the shape of two feet; quickly, it compressed completely as Mirage sat down.

Rolling her tongue around in her mouth, checking for blood, Alina was slow to reply. “Phuh-hahs,” she mumbled around her tender tongue. Finding only a sore muscle, she curled her legs, staring up into what she hoped was the spy’s invisible face. “What brings you here?”

Without a whisper of air, a glowing orange box etched itself into the space before her, and in that box, Mirage appeared. He had one leg cocked, elbow resting on his kneecap. Curiously, the cannon that sat on his shoulder was absent. “Hound wanted to take a nature walk, so I let him and wandered over here.”

Despite herself, Alina chuckled. “That’s cruel.”

Mirage frowned, but it was without malice. “What’s cruel is trying to drag me through miles of forest. If you haven’t realized it by now, dirt and I don’t get along very well.”

Still giggling, Alina tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Really, tell me, what brings you down?”

Mirage looked around and proceeded to stretch his legs out. “Maybe I wished for intelligent conversation.” His brow ridge drew down and he seemed to be looking at the book that had flopped to the ground by her feet. “What might you be reading?”

Stooping, Alina scooped it up. “Oh, this? It’s Paradise Lost, by John Milton.”

Obviously, the poet’s name meant nothing to him, so she cracked the text open, cleared her throat and read the opening line:

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos.

There was a curious look on the spy’s face as she closed the book and stuffed it between her and the lawn chair. “That is a rather interesting piece of literature,” he said at last. “I would like to borrow it sometime, if that is all right with you.”

A request? That was something new to her. Still, she smiled. “Of course.” And that seemed the end of that thread of conversation. Apparently, Mirage was not the type to start something unless it had to do with Cybertron. “Oh, I don’t know if you heard, but it seems as if the police are cutting down on warning folk about heading up to the Ark … ”

The Ligier was about to reply when a head poked over the fence. “Ms. … Michaels? Who are you talking t—SWEET JESUS CHRIST!”

The world turned upside down as Alina fell backwards in her chair with a solid oof! Rolling her eyes to the left, she caught sight of Mr. Walters’ weathered brow and nose poking between the regenerating ivy. He was staring with an apoplectic expression at Mirage; the spy effected a casual, unassuming pose, which had him curling his legs together and dropping his hands in front of his knees like a prisoner of war. “Hello,” he greeted genially, tipping his head.

However, that spark of kindness did not win over Mr. Walters. Gripping the fence like it was his only grasp on reality, the poor man began shouting. “Marge! Marge! Call the cops! That crazy Autobot is back! Oh, shit!”

“I can find some deeply afflicted Autobots if that’s what you’re after,” Mirage told him pointedly. “I’m sure Gears or Brawn would love to have a garden party with you …”

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” continued Mr. Walters. Groaning, Alina rolled free of the plastic chair, smudging her hands and knees with newly-warmed dirt.

“You need to build a bigger fence,” Mirage remarked casually with a small laugh, getting to his feet. And then he was stepping up to her, both feet planted firmly on either side of her body. “Sir, I’m not going to do anything to –”

And then there was Mrs. Walters, visible only though a hole in the fence, tugging very hard on her husband’s shirt. With a sigh, Mirage bent down and lowered his slim black hand. “Climb up,” he instructed. “It looks like I’ve inadvertently caused wide-spread panic again …”

Alina stared at his wide palm as if it were a whole different entity. Oh, well, what the hell … And practically skipped into the crook of the spy’s arm. Vertigo assailed her briefly as she was lifted into the air and settled with fair gentleness upon the Autobot’s smooth shoulder. She perched by his head, trying to find some purchase on this shiny metal that made up his body; finally, as he began to shift, she dug her heels into his collar and wrapped her fingers around his helm, ignoring his grunts.

Mirage took a step, then another … and began to fade. She felt a subtle hum, felt vibrations underneath her rear as something within him revved up for the change. And to her initial horror, she, too, began to fade.

“I suppose they’ll try and charge you with kidnapping now,” she told him as he crossed over the fence and moved with surprising agility across the front lawn.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And more punishment detail?”

“More than likely.”

Invisible, she clung to the side of his head, a strange sense of adventure and living on the edge coming to mind. “But, isn’t this fun?”

There was a noticeable pause as Mirage’s cloaked body slipped onto the sidewalk and through back yards without a second thought. “You know … it is.” And he sounded distinctly surprised by the admission.

“At least we can get into trouble together,” she told him with a low laugh. “I think I’ve broken more than a fair share of laws on my own. You’ve been a bad influence on me.”

A hearty laugh, like nothing she’d heard from the spy before bubbled up from inside his sleek chest cavity; it vibrated along her bottom and into her head. “Me? Vise versa, I believe.”

She giggled and leaned up against his head, aware that there was a hand ready to catch her if she fell. It really was the most fun she’d had in a very long time –a welcome relief from the madness and heartache from being fired and subsequently turned into newspaper fodder.

Around them, dusk began to fall. The sky turned a lovely blue-purple and the moon, a sleek sliver among the winking stars, flowed into view from behind a slip of a cloud. If it weren’t for the subtle, rocking motion of Mirage’s walking, she could have been alone, on her back in a field, watching the stars come out. It was so peaceful and serene.

Really, he wasn’t so bad, she thought. Sure, he might sound a little haughty at times and presumptuous, but there was that need to be heard and understood. She supposed it came from being so far from home, and from fighting a millennia-old war.

Mirage’s long strides carried them across the neighborhood and to a small park. And it was here in the quiet dusk that he uncloaked, bending down to help her off his shoulder. Once she was secure on the ground, he sat, crossing his long legs in front of him, chin lifted to the stars. Reflectively, Alina took up a patch of grass, folding her arms over her knees, viewing the stars from under a thin veil of hair.

How strange my life has become, she thought. I used to think I had it all, and then it was all taken away from me. I’m not struggling; I have enough money to carry me through until I get another job. I should, by all accounts, be angry at the Autobots, but they’re not the cause of the problem. Pure human bigotry; I just happened to be employed by the mother of all bigots. Slowly, she turned her head and looked up at Mirage. The spy was staring straight ahead and up into the heavens, his lips pursed in a thin line. What a pair they must have made! Tall, lean robot and short, dark-haired woman sitting side by side, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was then that Mirage pulled back into himself and fixed his sky blue optics on her. “Would you like me to show you where Cybertron lies?”

“Yes.”

He uncurled one hand and brought it around her shoulders hesitantly, as if such contact were foreign. “See that line of three stars?” he asked, pointing out the familiar outline of Orion; Alina nodded. “If you follow diagonally to the right, there will be a faint star. Behind that and a few million of your miles beyond is Cybertron.”

Myopically, she tried to see what it was the spy was pointing out – but her eyes were just no match for his. All she could recall was the small, spinning hologram. Quietly, Alina spoke: “I remember the day Megatron tried to bring Cybertron into the solar system. I remember the terror and the destruction.” She turned and looked up at him. “Your home was so close … And you didn’t go back?”

Slowly, Mirage’s fingers uncurled from her shoulder and he withdrew into himself. “No, I didn’t. I’ve had … many opportunities through the various forays we’ve made to Cybertron. And yet I return here.” He was quiet for a few moments and then tilted his chin down to her. His soft blue face was – for lack of a better term – lined with sadness. “I suppose you could say that my loyalty to Optimus Prime overrides even my greatest desire for home.”

“Or, perhaps, you want it to be free before you go there.”

“That, too. Cybertron is no place for me the way it currently is. There is nothing there that reminds me of its former glory. The Towers are long gone, obliterated.”

Empathy for his situation practically gnawed on her soul. Standing, she sidestepped and placed her hand on his blue hip. “What about your family?”

Nothing could prepare her for the jump in the spy’s brow ridges. His face shifted and then quickly resolved itself back into its sad façade. “Cybertronians are not organics,” he said at last. “There are no families, and if there were, they would not be anything like yours.”

Surprised, she drew her hand back. “Sorry for asking …” she muttered, turning away.

Silence stretched around them, punctuated only by the cries of crickets and the occasional roar of a nighttime plane. Cars were few and very far between, and even if they did pass by, the shadows cast by the clouds and the trees easily hid Mirage’s sleek bulk. Eventually, Alina thought it best to sit down. Whenever he was ready, she’d ask for a lift home – and not by his vehicle mode. She’d seen that a few times and there was no way you’d get her to strap into an F1.

After what seemed to be a long time, Mirage shifted. “Listen.”

“What?” she retorted, still a little stung from his earlier shoot-down.

“No … listen. What do you hear?”

There was something in his tone, and in the urgency of the whisper that caused her to shut up completely. Surely, her ears were a poor comparison to his advanced technology, but she gave it a go. Scrunching up her nose, she listened … Crickets – block that out … the plane above … a slight – click? Click, click?

Boom? A trickle of fear raced up her spine. A bomb?

When she looked to Mirage for confirmation, he was gone. At least she knew that he didn’t poof because he was scared. Still … where was he?

Her answer was not long in coming. A moment later, a shout burst from the bushes to their right; cursing interspersed with nonsensical yelling. Despite the apparent seriousness of the situation, not to mention the possible danger, she scuttled to her feet and ran to the source.

“Mirage!”

And there the spy was, fully visible and dangling a stocky man by the back of his plaid shirt. “Little human,” the Ligier began in a deathly cold voice, “do you know what you’re doing?”

“Put me down, you metal sonofabitch!” the man screamed, trying in vain to kick at the spy’s torso with sneaker-clad feet.

On the ground, not far from the bushes, something shiny gleamed. Alina bent down and pulled a Polaroid camera from the bed of leaves upon which it rested. Scattered all around were pictures in various states of development: all showing her and Mirage. There – the spy’s hand on her shoulders; here – her hand on his hip. A feeling of perversion replaced the fear; hands trembling, Alina looked up at the man, no longer feeling any sort of pity for his predicament.

“What do you do with a person who spies on a spy, Mirage?” she asked quietly, flipping her hands over to showcase the photos.

There was a porcine squeal as Mirage swung about to look at the pictures. His lips went flatter than she’d ever seen before. “Well, I know that Decepticons will take out your fuel lines, one by one, until you choke on your own refuse, unable to refine what is left.”

“Give me a break!” the paparazzo screamed, twisting on a scrap of cloth from the spy’s slim thumb and forefinger. “Those are worth major bucks! You two are prime targets – better than that Carlton-Ritz chick last year!”

“Is that so?” Mirage mused. “I shall have to tell Powerglide about that. He wasn’t too happy when he found out.”

Eyes wide in the face of his slip of the tongue, the paparazzo tried changing tactics. “Hey, man – er, robot – Autobot – buddy! Let me go! I can turn this into a great PR story for your buddies. I mean, this is all nice and sweet, yanno? Perfect to combat that firm’s campaign against you … Awr … c’mon … let me doooooooooooooown –”

Negligently, Mirage tossed the man into the bushes – lightly. And then he took one step towards the camera – and reamed it into the dirt. There was a slight pop and a bit of smoke as the Polaroid was crushed by his massive foot.

Alina backed up into the relative safety of the spy’s leg as the paparazzo scrambled from the bramble. He took one look at the ruins of his camera, then swung a murderous gaze at her before turning his beady little eyes on Mirage. To his credit, Mirage merely crossed his arms and stared back, his presence enough of a threat. Spitting in their general direction, he scraped together what remained of his dignity – and shirt – and ran downhill, stumbling and cursing all the while.

Alina watched him go, then pushed through the brush, looking for any photos that might have been left behind. She found a few, stacked into a neat pile and already labeled with the time, date and place. These she stuffed into her back pocket before twisting about and turning to Mirage for what to do next.

“I’m going to bring you home now,” he said softly, scanning the area. Alina merely nodded, knowing that he was right.

Things didn’t get any worse after the fiasco with her neighbors and the incident with the paparazzo. However, as the Decepticon-Autobot war progressed, neither did her image improve with her neighbors. Alina’s parents remained wary, stopping short of condemning her choice to keep in contact with the Autobots; Richard, though warmly receiving at first, seemed to have some sort of doubt. The only thing that was good about the passage of time was the fact that the publishing firm, despite knowing her illustrious background, elected to hire her as a junior editor.

Despite her schedule, she still managed to find time to trek up to the Ark (when it wasn’t in lockdown) and see the Witwickys. And Mirage.

Though he was reluctant to bear his “spark” (as they called a soul) at first, gradually, he began to open up; more and more, he engaged her in conversations that did not involve Cybertron. Seated on a rocky outcropping or in a field, they discussed politics, religion, humanity versus Cybertronians, and Paradise Lost. Sometimes Hound would join them, and Mirage would smile and nod when the topics turned to Earth. And it didn’t seem as forced as it used to be, that much Hound would tell her in his presence.

Out of Mirage’s acute hearing range, usually when the spy was out and about on a mission, Hound would confide that there was something different about him. Everyone was remarking on it.

“You don’t think it’s just me, do you?” she asked on one occasion, swinging her legs off of rec room table in the mid-afternoon. Hound sat across from her, idly sipping from his Energon mug.

“That’s hard to say. Mirage can be fun, but he can also be really aloof. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a smile on his face for such a long time.” Hound pushed his mug around with a pinky. “You two talk a lot, a lot more than I expect from him. What do you talk about, if I might ask?”

She shrugged. “All different kinds of topics – religion, politics, life, Cybertron …” Hound’s brow ridge went up into his green helm. “That might be it,” he mused softly. “No one really wants to talk about home these days.”

“So he told me.”

“Well,” the green Jeep decided, “whatever it is, I’m glad to see this side of him.”

Alina rested her chin on her fist, thoughtful. “Me, too,” she said after a while, smiling softly. “I think what he really needs is to feel understood – not be understood, anyone can claim that, but to sense that the other person is sincere.”

Hound could only acquiesce.