Chapter Seven
This Grey Tragedy | August 8, 1986

So I play, I'll wait
'Cause you know that love takes time
We came so far
Just the beat of a lonely heart
And it's mine
I don't want to be alone
~The BeeGees, "Alone"

Alina locked her car and swung her purse over her shoulder. Looking at her watch, she realized that she was early, despite having worked until five-thirty. The building where she began to walk to was Multnomah County Library; though most athenaeums closed around six in the evening, Multnomah was running a special summer reading program that allowed children to stay, supervised, until eight. That was all well and good, because Spike had called her a few days ago, asking if she could meet him there to help with a research project for summer school.

Alina chuckled privately and sat at the top of the steps, scanning the roadway for a red symbol. Running around with Autobots was no excuse for slacking in school. However, part of her wondered why it was she who had received shunning and not Spike – they both spent an inordinate amount of time with the Transformers, and yet … With a quick shake that flopped a lock of onyx over her eyes, Alina forced herself to push past petty jealousies.

“Alina!”

Lifting her chin, Alina heard a car door slam, and saw Spike running towards her, his backpack bouncing over his shoulder. There was a low beep behind him; Alina grinned and waved to Hound. The Jeep tooted back and pulled to the side, where he was apparently going to idle for the time being.

Rising to her feet, Alina checked the boy over. “Do you have everything?” she asked, slipping an arm over his shoulders. At sixteen, Spike was getting well into his growth-spurt and would soon top her own five-foot-six in a few months.

He nodded. “I did some preliminary research with Teletraan-1, and I have some notes for you as well.”

“Good, let me see them.” She pushed the doors open and they walked inside, passing the juvenile section and heading to the adult research portion. Spike rolled his backpack around to the front and rooted around for a moment before producing a handful of dog-eared, rumpled 3x5-index cards. He blushed at Alina’s expression.

“Sorry.”

Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she took them. “Boys!” Flipping the cards around, she slipped into a chair at a long table while Spike took the other. “Let’s see … what was the topic again?”

“We have to chose our own ‘wonder’ and write a five-page paper on why it should be considered amazing.”

“ ‘Wonder’?” she repeated, trying to decipher Spike’s thick, slanted handwriting. “Hmm … the Grand Canyon, Yosemite … the Arctic?”

The boy blushed. “I was there once.”

Alina blinked furiously, taken aback. “How – when?” she demanded, setting the cards down on the table. How could he possible get up north? Or, more like, who would let him go that far?

Spike’s brows furrowed. “Uhm, it was about two years ago. Not long after the Autobots landed.” And he launched into a quick explanation of how Skyfire had come to join the team.

Should have known better, Alina chided herself. Have Autobot, will travel. And she smiled. “Okay. You have a week to complete this, starting today. What we need to do is first narrow down your choices to one and then draft a list of reasons why.”

Spike grinned and dug a pad and pen from inside the confines of his overstuff backpack, laid them out on the table and grabbed his cards. Alina rested her elbows on the smooth, golden wood and leaned forward, watching.

In the growing darkness, someone else was watching. Hidden by the bush, concealed by the shadows and darker than pitch, the Decepticon Cassette Ravage crouched. Through slitted bronze optics, the Black Cat observed the Autobot Hound’s arrival and subsequent discharge of the human, Spike. For a week and more, Ravage had been tracking the comings and goings of the humans involved with the Autobots. It had been his personal plan to undermine the morale of the opposition by carefully and thoroughly eliminating each of their human allies. A plan that was not approved by glorious Megatron for the simple reason … Megatron did not know. Yet. If all went according to plan, the success would earn the Black Cat the go-ahead, with more mech-power to back him up.

Ravage did not know the identity of the older female who accompanied Spike into the human archival building, but his curiosity was aroused when he observed her acknowledging Hound. If his faint suspicions were true, then he would be taking out two petrorabbits with one bound. And two kills were better than one.

As he watched, Hound pulled to the side and seemed to shut down. From Ravage’s vantage point, there was only one way to get to the library without being spotted. Bunching his hydraulic muscles, the sleek Panther rose from his crouch and began a slow, pacing stalk towards the rear of the building, using the shadows cast by cars as a cover. He stopped completely every few feet, tiny steel ears pricking, rotating, catching any sound that would alert him to discovery.

Nothing, save the occasional human. Baring his fangs, Ravage made a final bound to the rear of the building. Wedging himself into the shadows, the Decepticon Cat angled his proton bombs towards the high window. Soft murmuring discussions wafted through the windows, left open to catch the cooling summer breezes. Ravage’s ear flicked, homing in on the one human voice he knew all too well – for too many times, he had been thwarted by that soft, squishy creature. One time too many for the Cat’s deep and powerful pride.

A low hiss eased from Ravage’s olfactory sensors and quickly developed into a chest rattling growl. Tensing his hindquarters, the Cassetticon circled once, gained momentum – and fired.

Spike idly flipped through that month’s copy of National Geographic. Across from him, Alina was perusing the newest Newsweek; Spike wasn’t so dense as to assume that she would literally walk him through the project, but he’d hoped that she would give him a little more than she currently had. Closing the magazine, he slid his chair back. Alina looked up, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t find anything?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m going to go pull a few more.” He crossed to the magazine rack, put the copy back and bent to grab the remaining volumes that were stacked underneath when the wall behind him erupted into a sheet of fire.

Spike threw himself to the ground as burning timber, molten glass and chunks of brick flew through the air. A foot-long piece of wood with a flamelet attached hit him in the shoulder, setting his clothes alight. With a scream, Spike rolled, oblivious as to the splinters and hot ash he was rubbing into the wound.

The cries and shouts intermingled with the hot, furious air. From the abyss, survivors scrambled to safety, clutching, carrying, dragging anyone they could lay their hands on. Peering through his fingers, Spike tasted the acrid air and coughed, spitting on the scorched floor.

Into this personal hell, a four-footed figure paced. It was about the size of a small pony and built like a cat. The creature stalked the room, impervious to the chaos, fire and smoke.

“Alina!” Spike choked. “ALINA!”

The creature’s head whipped around, pinning him with huge, luminescent golden eyes.

Ravage.

The long-fanged maw parted in a devil’s grin upon spotting Spike. The Decepticon took one small step, and went bowling head over metal scut as Hound’s fist crashed through the remaining window. The scout’s blow, followed by his upper torso, pushed Ravage across the room; long, deep gouges crossed the old wooden floor as the Panther sought purchase and to ease his skid.

“You can’t save them all, Autobot!” rasped harshly from the Black Cat’s gaping jaws. He bounded backwards, skipping through the falling timber, making his way straight towards Spike.

Eyes wide in horror, Spike faintly heard Hound calling his name. Pushing himself off the floor, he ran, skirting piles of rubble and slipped behind a bookcase. Tremors from the explosion were already rocking most of the stands; all it took was a shoulder to the back, and the case went tumbling onto the Decepticon Cat. Without a moment to lose, Spike bolted and ran for Hound.

“Alina! Alina!” he cried, throat closing with all the smoke. Hound continued to push himself through the hole, head spinning in all directions, trying to locate the woman. “Hound!”

The Jeep found himself caught on the ledge. Beyond, the toppled bookcase shook, and with a mighty heave, Ravage shouldered the wooden structure to the side. Bunching his hindquarters, he launched himself at the stymied Autobot.

Hound looked up, braced himself on the floor with one hand and drew his gun from subspace with the other. He fired at Ravage at close range, eliciting a combination hiss/roar from the Cat as the laser blast caught him in the chest. The Black Cat hit the opposite wall, creating a large impression of himself; just as quickly, he twisted, landed on his feet, and stood four-square among the death-cry of the burning building.

“No one,” Spike heard him growl, half-processed Energon leaking from his jaws, “will leave here and still function!” Tilting his hip, Ravage fired his last proton bomb. It ripped through the ceiling, exploding it into a thousand flaming fragments.

“SPIKE!”

Something huge, solid and decisively heavy threw itself over him. Caught underneath Hound, Spike could hear the crash of timber and the roar of the inferno. Above him, Hound sagged under the weight, bracing himself on his forearms, warding off any chunk of wreckage that threatened to crash into Spike’s fragile, organic body.

“Alina!” Spike sobbed, not even having seen the woman after the explosion. Hound’s deep-set blue optics focused on him upside-down, slitted through the obvious pain he was experiencing. The Autobot’s ventilators shook with exertion, air rattling through his chestplate.

“Hound … Hound to Base …”

Spike groaned as more smoke filtered through the chinks in Hound’s defensive wall. Forever, it seemed, was a long time in coming …

Ravage practically danced out of the library. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the large, black metallic Cat who stood defiantly in the middle of the street, watching with a casual optic as the local authorities worked to pull out any survivors. Those who managed to make it were former wisps of themselves: bloody, burned, broken in some places. Tipping his head to the side, Ravage settled himself into a nice dark corner and smiled. That had to have been the easiest mission; not even the supreme tracker of the Autobots had been able to sniff him out.

Still, there was the matter of the hole in his chestplate. Thankfully enough, that was one of the places where his armor was the toughest; Hound’s aim was askew and didn’t burn far enough.

Satisfied, Ravage bent to lick the underside of one steel-tipped paw. He rose, shaking his lighter haunches and bounded off into the increasing darkness, the sounds of Autobot horns, sirens and engines speeding him onward.

Hot, sulfuric air burned Spike’s lungs. It was as if he was going to slowly cook from the inside – and out – trapped under Hound’s body. What rumbling there had been had ceased; instead, there was a silence unlike Spike had ever experienced. Deathly … quiet.

Is this death? he wondered, panting on his side. I’m … too young …

“BRACE, AUTOBOTS! HEAVE!”

Hound stirred. His optics, the light mere pinpricks, flashed as he, too, heard the call to action. “Stay … close, Spike,” he rasped, his own vocalizer clogged with dust, dirt and smoke. “Hound … here. Prime … read … me?”

The Jeep must have set his commlink to broadcast, because Spike heard Optimus’ strong, steady voice as clearly as if he was standing next to the boy. “I read you, Hound. Can you signal?”

“ …. Barely. I can … try.” A soft red light began to pulse near the headlights of Hound’s chest. Yet, due to the Autobot tracker’s loss of power, it quickly extinguished but a moment later. And with that went his commlink. A soft puff of air flowed over Spike. “I’m sorry, Spike,” Hound whispered. “I tried.”

Spike rolled over, staring at Hound’s chestplate, his only illumination coming from the Autobot’s fading optics. “ … Alina …”

Metal groaned and Spike believed it to be the tracker’s keen for the lost woman. But, no … suddenly, the space under Hound seemed less oppressive.

“HOUND!”

Rubble heaved and heavy feet stomped nearby. A large black hand punched through the wreckage, grabbed Hound by the shoulder, and pulled the green Jeep free. Fresh air, sweet and cool, assailed Spike’s tortured lungs; light stabbed ruthlessly into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Orbs danced before the boy’s face as he tried in vain to see through slit lids; truly, it was night outside, but the light was coming from the headlights of the Minibots, and of Sunstreaker, who held Hound’s servo-weary body in his arms.

Slowly, Spike’s tortured vision cleared, and he could make out the form of Optimus Prime, standing with half his body inside the burned out library, gesturing to the Minibots which places to search. In short order, the rest of the world surfaced by way of sounds: the hiss of water on burning timber, the shouts of firefighters, the wail of sirens, and the loud wails of humanity.

“Easy, Spike,” someone cautioned, tucking thin metallic hands under the boy’s armpits. “Here we go.” Exhaustion lolled Spike’s head around; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brawn’s familiar long, grey face, framed by a patch of yellow. Sunstreaker shifted and began dragging Hound out, not even bothering to see if the tracker could walk under his own hydraulics. The Jeep’s feet created two long furrows in the floor, which was already scarred and burnt beyond recognition.

“I said easy, Spike,” the strong Minibot warned as Spike tried to scramble upright, only to find that his legs didn’t want to obey his mind. “I’ll play nurse-bot; just don’t move.” In one easy motion, Brawn swept Spike up and cradled him with surprising gentleness against his boxy chestplate.

“But …” he wheezed, his body curling upwards at the shock of a cough. Brawn expertly thumped him on the back with his thumb, dislodging the wad of ash that had stuck in the boy’s windpipe. Spike gaped like a fish, aware of the Minibot’s forward motion, but little else.

Optimus Prime watched as Brawn carried Spike down and out of the razed structure. Far too large to even attempt a search in the rubble, Optimus had to stand by the point of entry and direct his troops from there. It had been a gamble to send in Sunstreaker, who was easily double the weight of the smallest Minibot; the floor had been torn to shreds long before the upper level had come crashing down. But there was no one else available when the call came, and he had sent Brawn to search the debris for survivors with the rest of his sub-group.

Along the far, skeletal wall, red and grey Windcharger was shifting metal with his magnetic ability while Powerglide rooted around in the remaining timber. There was something about that pile, Optimus observed …

Windcharger lifted his arm at that moment, staring at the slim watch that was attached to his wrist. Turning his head, he looked Optimus directly in the optic, his somber features even more solemn than before. “Prime, we have something …”

“Get Ratchet!” Powerglide hollered, tearing a beam away. Underneath the ruins of a research table was a soft, limp arm, burned at the top and bloody at the fingertips. A clear patch of skin, in the exact shape of the watch, was their only answer. Powerglide shoved more beams away until the shattered table was unearthed. Windcharger dropped his magnetism, letting the watch fall by his feet. He dove in to help the red jet; as Optimus watched with a sinking spark, Windcharger buried his arms up to the elbow joint … and pulled a body free. “Get Ratchet, slaggit!” the jet roared, stumbling after Windcharger.

Optimus stared at the mangled body – Primus! Someone dug his fingers into the great semi’s side and shoved him away from the hole. Ratchet’s grey chevron’ed helm ducked into the gap, the whole set of his frame brooking no argument. “Get her to me, now!” the Chief Medical Officer barked in his most endearing berth-side manner.

Windcharger, cradling the broken, battered form of the human female Optimus had once known as Alina, braced one hand on the aperture and leapt to the ground. Blood rolled down Alina’s cheeks, out of her ears and matted in her hair. What had once been a long onyx mane was a short, singed puff that smoked at the tips. Dimly, Optimus noted that her chest still moved in ragged, jerky motions. What little he knew of human physiology told him that the chances were strong that she would not survive.

Ratchet pulled his head from the hole, spun around and transformed in the middle of the refuse pile. Immediately, the hatch in the back of the white ambulance popped open and a ramp with a bed attached to it extended. “Get her secure,” the medic ordered. Windcharger dropped to one knee, gently depositing the body on the berth. He stepped back as Ratchet began to bring the ramp back inside and was completely off by the time the CMO was ready to close shop.

“Prowl,” Optimus called.

Instantly, the logistician was at his side. “Escort Ratchet to the nearest hospital. I don’t care how you get there, she needs immediate attention.”

Prowl’s calm grey face, immobile even in the direst of circumstances, showed a little strain around his thin lip components. “There’s no way out, Prime,” he told his leader. “I’ve checked every frequency; the roads are completely closed off.”

In a rare show of temper, Optimus’ huge blue fists clenched. “Do whatever it takes,” he whispered.

But Prowl was undeterred. “I’m serious, Prime. There’s no way out but the way we came. We would have to go all the way to the Ark junction and swing a right before we could hit any major medical facility.”

“Will someone tell me where the slag I’m supposed to go?” Ratchet demanded, his tail lights flashing impatiently. “Her pulse, as if it wasn’t already low, is dropping!”

“Call in Skyfire –” Brawn suggested, but Optimus cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Too far away, even for his jets.” The red-white-blue Autobot stared at Ratchet’s swinging tail lights … and made up his cortex. “Prowl. Fast escort to the Ark. Ratchet, are you equipped for human surgery?”

“I’ll do anything if you let me get on with it!” came the curt exclaimation.

Prowl took one look at Optimus, saw confirmation square in his steely blue optics and transformed with his sirens blaring even as they were barely out of their compartments. As soon as his tires hit scorched grass, the cruiser was off and running, with Ratchet keeping pace.

“Is there anyone else?” Optimus queried of no one in particular. By his side, Windcharger was staring at his bloodied forearms with a peculiar expression on his facial plates.

“No,” came his soft reply. “That was the last pile. The human authorities have everyone else.”

Prime nodded slowly. “How’s Spike, Hound?” he asked, swinging about.

“Faring well enough,” Brawn reported, jerking his head in the direction of the parking lot, where Sunstreaker was standing over the green Jeep like a statue, daring anyone to cross him. Spike sat on a verdant patch of grass with Bumblebee next to the Autobot leader, coughing now and then, and if but for a few scrapes and bruises, he was rather uninjured. “Sparkplug’s gonna blow a fuse over this …”

The mention of Spike’s father set off a warning peal in Optimus’ expansive cortex. He turned slowly, scanning his troops for the only Autobot who was not there, and yet could be. “Where’s Mirage?”

“I don’t deserve anything,” whispered a voice from the air. “Everything has to be taken away: by force, by death, by destruction. There is no Primus if a repentant’s singular joy must be torn out of his hands – and smeared on the walls in bright red.”

“Mirage?” Optimus called, staring into the darkness. No reply came; not that he should expect any.

“Where is that fool going?” Brawn huffed, crossing his arms.

“After Ravage,” Hound replied, leaning on Sunstreaker. “I told him who did it. He’s gone after him – to avenge Alina.”

Optimus’ battlemask dipped as if in a frown. He tapped a place on his barrel chest. “Mirage, this is Optimus. Return to base immediately; that is a direct order.” A hiss of static met his hailing query. Brow ridge drawn down over his pericing blue optics, Optimus Prime looked around at the remnants of his small party. None of them could track the spy; it was futile to even attempt it. “Autobots, transform and roll out. We head back to base.”

Everything lost. Gone, departed. Why did I even believe that I had found some inner peace?

Never again. No more. Once is too many.

I failed you, Alina. I broke your trust – a trust you so willingly gave me, though I was slow to give you mine.

Friends are for fools; empathic fools. Only fools give part of their sparks away. But not I … not Mirage of the Towers.

You shall be avenged, little one. On my honor.

A warm mist parted before the invisible spy as he tracked his elusive quarry. He paused now and then to check the Energon trail; at first, it was formed in tiny pools. Over time and distance, it slowed to a trickle, and then down to a drop. Only millennia of hunting turbofoxes on Iacon’s wide plains allowed Mirage to track the Black Cat. He knew how to hunt a wounded shell; Hound, for all his other skills, did not have the stealth, the silent footing, to continue. And he would not have allowed the green tracker to join him – even if he had come out hail and whole.

Millennia of fighting had not prepared him for the bloody, pulpy mess a human body turned into when crushed by falling debris. Especially a human whom Mirage considered his friend and confidant. He had been coming back to the Ark from patrol when he heard Prime’s broad call to action. Arriving invisible, Mirage wound his way through the mass of humanity that was either helping the evacuation, or being tended to. He stopped short when Windcharger pulled what remained of Alina from the wreckage. And it was then that something within the Ligier’s privilege-hardened spark cracked.

Ravage led the soul-torn spy on a merry dance through field, streets and even a human waste dump. The moon, its bright, cheery face sporting a full figure tonight, lit the way, illuminating the drops of Energon and bits of ash. Silently, deadly and without emotion, Mirage caught up to the Decepticon as he paused on a riverbed, peering into the waters.

Ravage’s head came up the instant Mirage decloaked. For a moment, the Cat stood poised on the brink, every servo on edge. Both Mirage and he knew who had the advantage here – with both proton bombs spent, all Ravage had to offer were his teeth and claws. Mirage, on the other hand, had a rifle and cannon.

The Cat laughed when he spied the Autobot’s face. “I see I succeeded in killing your little pet, Tower-born. Guard the rest of your friends well –”

A single shot rang in the night. Ravage gave a surprised yelp and fell to the ground, a laser burn in his right shoulder. Faster than even his optics could follow, two pairs of bonds were whipped at him from a chamber under the spy’s wrist. The clamps knocked around the Cat’s ankle joints with a faint click as the joints tapped each other.

Slowly, Mirage advanced on the downed Decepticon Cassette. From his unguarded position in the wet grass, Ravage still had the audacity to smile. “Kill me, spy? For the honor of your friend? How Decepticon of you!”

Mirage knelt by Ravage’s side, sliding his rifle until it snapped into place on his back. Reaching into a compartment at his right ankle, he pulled a thin crystal knife; in the moonlight, it glowed light blue. Staying clear of the Cat’s mighty jaws, Mirage leaned as close as he dared. “You killed the wrong human, Primitive,” and had the perverse pleasure of seeing Ravage taken aback. Then the Cat’s optics narrowed shrewdly.

“I killed many humans tonight.”

Mirage brought the blade to the side of Ravage’s neck, where the main fuel line pumped beneath the oil-slick metallic skin. “As I said, you killed the wrong human. Spike lives.”

Ravage’s sensor rolled in the optic closest to the spy. “For only another day. Terminate me if you must, for I can see it is what you want to do.”

Mirage brought the blade down on the Cat’s hind leg, severing it from the main body. Ravage bucked and snarled; Energon, warm and half-processed, flowed over the Ligier, turning his moon-white thighs pink. “Not tonight, Ravage. Tonight, I shall take all your limbs and scatter them throughout this field. But you will function – and suffer.”

Forgive me, Alina …

Wheeljack had enough time to grab Perceptor out of his late-night work and prepare the medbay for their human arrival. “But we do not have the proper medical equipment with which to operate on a human being!” the red scientist protested as he was hauled from his workbench and dragged through the hallways.

“We have enough,” the Lancia replied, his earbulbs flashing as they scrambled into position.

Perceptor frowned, but did not stray from the room. “She might expire here; what will we have to say to her family?”

“We tried?” Wheeljack suggested, rummaging around in a set of drawers. With an exclamation of triumph, he held up a small helmet in his rough palm. “I knew it was still in here. Perceptor … grab that tray.”

The scientist looked around and was finally pointed to a low tray parked by the main diagnostic console. “Where do you want it?”

Wheeljack lifted his head from where he was furiously jamming wires and soldering lines on the helmet. “By the platform. And throw a scrap sheet over it; she’ll fall off the tines.”

Not used to being ordered about like a common android, Perceptor nevertheless had not been privy to what Ratchet had told Wheeljack about the girl, other than she was badly injured. He had to do as he’d been told and wait for further instructions. When he’d completed Wheeljack’s request, he walked over to where the inventor was squatting, surrounded by a hundred parts and more than enough tubing to stretch from the Ark to Portland. “What are you doing?”

“Remember that incident with Spike and the Frankenstein body?”

Perceptor’s smooth brow wrinkled. “No.”

“Oh.” And Wheeljack did not sound the least bit apologetic. “That was before you came here. Anyway, time’s too short to explain, but what I’m doing is altering this helm so that instead of drawing an organic mind and soul into another body, it’ll hold it in a spark-like format until we’re done.” He paused, tilting the sieve-like apparatus from side to side. “At least, I hope that’s what it’ll do. I started working on this after what happened to Spike, but I got sidetracked. There’s a containment unit in the closet over there. We need to hook this up fast.”

Lip components slack, Perceptor stared at the Lancia inventor. Wheeljack caught him out of the corner of his optic, and his earbulbs flashed impatiently. “Well, go on!”

Grumpily, Perceptor did as he was bid. The contraption that Wheeljack had spoken of looked like a grey metal discus, with a clear, plastic dome. Inside was a tiny cradle with a small hollow ball sitting in the middle; the ball had several ports, and attached to each port was a thin wire leading into the cradle. Tucking the unit under his arm, Perceptor brought it over to Wheeljack and set it atop the tray.

They had just enough time to wire the helm to the cradle when Prowl and Ratchet burst into the medbay – Prowl running towards them on his own two feet, while the CMO was still in altmode.

“Get her up, now,” Ratchet ordered, taking command as he always did. “You,” he barked at Prowl, who turned a surprised face to the white ambulance. “Guard the door. No one in, understand. ESPECIALLY if that Tower-bred rich-mech Mirage ever decides on coming back.”

Prowl did not protest. He saluted Ratchet and left, closing the doors. Ratchet backed up to the platform and lowered his ramp; the gurney bearing the broken girl crawled out at a snail’s pace. He’d managed to get an IV hooked up, but most of her veins had been covered with burnt skin. Her cries, moans and ragged breaths had tormented the Autobot the whole drive. It didn’t help the medic’s hardened spark to hear her cry out “Mommy” and in the same wispy breath, call for Mirage.

Together, Perceptor and Wheeljack lifted Alina’s body onto the table. Ratchet quickly transformed and paced around to where he kept his medical equipment. “Broken metal bodies I can deal with,” they heard him mutter. “But innocent little girls? Flesh tears so easily …”

Both of his comrades wanted to remind him that Alina was no girl, but there was no time for chronological corrections.

“Do you have that unit ready?” the CMO demanded, flexing his wrist joints and inserting a thin scapel into the pincher that just replaced his right hand. In the other, suction cups appeared from a compartment under his wrist; without consideration for human modesty, Ratchet peeled the tatted clothes from Alina’s body. He placed the cups on strategic points on her skin and turned his head to view her vitals.

Not good. How she had survived this long, Primus only knew.

A low sob caught his audios. Looking down at the girl’s savaged face, Ratchet saw a tear, then two, trickle down her ruined cheeks. “D-on’t … l-et …” Alina’s body shook with a tremor. “… God …”

A claxon began to blare and red lights pulsated in time to the sound. “GET THAT ON HER!” Slaggit, this was it. They were losing her.

Wheeljack had enough time to jam the helm onto Alina’s head before her body gave a massive jerk and lay still. Blood and salvia trickled in a slow stream down the corner of her face and her eyes, wide with fear, rolled up into her skull. He threw the switch as the last tick on the pulse meter gave way to flatline.

For a nanoclick, none of the three dared move. They were all watching the unit. Before their optics, something faint, ethereal, emerged from the girl’s chest. It pushed upwards, then fell back as if chained. The helm on her head began to light up in various and changing colors; the cradle hummed to life, small buttons surrounding the circumference dancing in time. Then, with a soft, sucking sound, it pulled on the skin surrounding the dead girl’s head. The ethereal wisp tipped forlornly towards the commotion – and vanished.

Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor stared at each other, then at the cradel. “Is that … it?” Ratchet asked. Wheeljack’s earbulbs blinked a pale shade of yellow.

“We’ll see.” And he reached over to flip a switch embedded in the cradel’s side. The sucking stopped, and Alina’s fearful features slacked, the skin sagging as her body slowly cooled.

The lines attached to the clear ball began to vibrated, inflate. In the center, a mist curled – it was not completely colorless, but shot through with veins of red and gold, and a touch of blue. After a nervous nanoclick, all activity stopped, and the three Autobots stood staring at a captured human mind and soul, all wrapped up into one coalescing mist.

“I hazard we will have to provide her with a new body?” Ratchet glared at Perceptor. “We don’t even know if this is a full personality transfer.” He looked to Wheeljack.

“We can only hope.”

Ratchet sighed and looked at the blood on his black palms. Not so different from Energon, coolants and mech fluid. “Clean up. I’ll inform Optimus. He’ll want to call her family.”