Chapter Eight
Darkness Abandon

Don't you cry, | Ty nye plach',
Hide the tears, | Slyozy spryach',
Because a new day will start | Ved' nastanyet novyy den'
Your fire | Tvoy ogon'
Will be heated | Sogryevat'
By thousands of hearts | Budyet tysyachi syerdets
But now get up | A syeychas podnimis'
Hide the pain and fear far | Spryach' podal'shye bol' i strakh
The one who's right will win | Pobyedit tot, kto prav
Know that everything is in your hands | Znay, chto vsyo v tvoikh rukakh
~Origa, "Rise" Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex

It was an hour after dawn when the Ligier pulled into the Ark; pink streaks of dried Energon painted his sleek exterior, along with swatches of green coolant and thick oil. Quietly, he rolled through the main bay and transformed at the end.

“It’s about time you returned.”

Mirage didn’t need a visual confirmation; he knew exactly where Prowl was standing, possibly with his arms crossed authoritatively. The second-in-command strolled over to the Ligier and laid a gentle hand on his cannon shoulder. “Prime wants to see you.” And drew his hand away when he realized what Mirage was covered in. “Primus! What did you do?”

The white-blue Ligier idly rubbed his left elbow joint. “I took care of something,” was all he said, and walked towards the elevator, leaving Prowl, for once, without a word.

Optimus was waiting for him when he entered his leader’s office. The great semi looked up from the datapad he was reviewing, set it aside, and laced his blue digits together. “Have a seat, Mirage.”

The spy closed the door behind him and took a perch on one of the two chairs that sat in front of Optimus’ simple desk. Mirage took note of the slight tic in Prime’s right brow ridge as the Autobot commander finally noticed his unsightly appearance. However, to his credit, Optimus did not mention it right away.

“Where did you go last night, Mirage?”

“I tracked down Ravage and left his parts scattered along a riverbank.” And even Mirage was surprised by how calm and emotionless his vocalizer had become. But, what was there left for him to be emotional about?

Optimus barely nodded. “I see. So if you terminated him, why isn’t Megatron banging on our door seeking retribution?” It was a trademark of Prime to question without accusing, no matter the issue.

Mirage did not shift. “I didn’t terminate him. He still functions – barely. I made sure of it.”

Optimus touched his helm vent in a rare show of fatigue. “This is highly out of character, Mirage. I understand that Alina meant a lot to you –”

“No, I don’t think you do,” the spy interrupted quietly. “I …” The admission caught in his vocalizer, and he swallowed a wad of lubricant, not knowing if he could ever bear his spark again. No, he could never do such a thing.

The red-white-blue commander merely nodded, conceding that this part of the conversation was over. “We were able to bring Alina back to base in hopes of saving her … but, Mirage … I’m sorry, but she expired not a few clicks later.”

You needn’t tell me, Mirage mentally murmured. I knew. Indeed, he had prepared himself for that inevitability ever since he saw her body, steeling his spark against the anguish until he had taken his frustrations and sorrows on Ravage’s body. There were no more tears to cry; no amount of howling would bring her back from Primus’ AllSpark.

“Her brother and parents claimed her body a few hours before dawn. We found this in Alina’s purse; her family said you could keep it.”

Mirage raised a curious brow ridge. Reaching into a drawer, Optimus drew forth a small, slightly singed paperback. On the cover was the image of a dark angel rampant and two nude humans: one male, one female. Paradise Lost, by John Milton.

“How apropos,” the spy muttered, leaning forward to take the book with the tips of two fingers. He turned it over, flipping to the first page. On the inside front cover, in Alina’s slanted cursive, was the words: To Mirage: May you find your own Paradise.

The spy bent over, his malleable facial plates creasing in agony, gripping the fragile paperback in his fist. It crumpled easily. The shock of what he’d just done hit Mirage hard; he pried his own slim fingers open, but it was too late. The cover was harshly creased; Lucifer/Satan’s face was twisted beyond the evil the original artist had intended. Hastily, he opened it; only the strong ink Alina had used secured her final words.

“Mirage.”

Slowly, the Ligier lifted his head. Optimus laid both hands flat on the top of his desk. “What I didn’t tell you was that Wheeljack, Perceptor and Ratchet performed a high-risk experiment in order to save her. They believe they were successful in pulling her mind and soul from her body at the moment her system expired.”

The words barely registered in the spy’s expansive cortex. “… what?” he breathed, his Energon pump rattling in his chestplate. “What?” Could it be true? Looking down at the paperback, he reverently smoothed the creases and tucked it safely away in his personal subspace.

“Come with me,” and Optimus pushed himself away from his desk and stood.

Stiffly, Mirage pulled himself from his own chair and followed Optimus to the medbay. When the doors slid into their recess, the three looked up at the unexpected visitors. Mirage slipped from behind his commander and stared at the object that was seated in the far corner of the main bay. Perched on a table-tray was a large black-grey disk, surrounded by tens of blinking lights like one of those human-conceived spaceships. A clear dome sat atop the disk; a bundle of wires, grouped together and held with a clip, burst from several ports on the contraption. A flat screen monitor was hooked up to the other end and was currently displaying several tiers of lines, all in different colors and varying in thickness. It took the spy a moment to make the connection.

However, it took Ratchet less than half a nanoclick to come down hard on his skidplate. “And just where were you, Mr. Avenger? Get over here – now!”

Slowly, Mirage drifted by the irritated CMO and walked up to the cradle. Respectfully, he set his hands on either side of the tray and peered down into the contraption: what met his curious optics blew him away. There was a small ball, about the size of his clenched fist seated there; most of it was clear, save for several steel-colored ports to which wires were attached. But it was not the ball itself that intrigued the spy – it was what swirled around inside of it that caused his lower jaw to drop: a cavalcade of reds and golds swirled with the serenity of a drop of milk into a glass of water.

Wheels squeaked on tile as Perceptor rolled himself up to the tray. “Amazing, is it not?” the scientist queried gently. “I was dubious in the beginning, but it does seem as if human souls are as visible as Cybertronian sparks. Amazing!”

Questions rolled around in Mirage’s cortex, but he could find no way to give them voice. Not now. All he could do was stare at the remnants of Alina, bobbing around like a laundry-bot.

A work-roughened hand grasped Mirage on his left shoulder. Without warning, Ratchet spun him around. “You can stare at the color show later. Right now, I want your can on the table. You’re covered in fluids!”

With an eloquent shrug that concealed his mental anguish, Mirage evaded the medic’s hold. “None of it is mine. All I need is a shower.”

The CMO’s chevron dipped to touch the top of his nasal ridge. “I’ll decide if your hale and whole, mister. Do I have to call Omega in and have him hold you down?”

Stealing a glance at the cradle, Mirage reluctantly agreed to subject himself to a quick and thorough examination by lord Ratchet. “So,” the CMO muttered as he ran his hands underneath an ionizer for sterility, “who’s is it?”

Though he was growing tired of the story, Mirage repeated himself once more. To his surprise, Ratchet’s brow ridges rose in approval. “Well, I guess that means we won’t be seeing him on the field for a while.” Reaching over, he shut the spy’s chestplate with a solid click. “Okay, Mr. Invisible. Get up.”

Mirage complied, swinging his legs over the berth and sliding to the floor without a sound. “What will you do now?”

Ratchet was running his hands under the ionizer again. When he was through, he crossed his arms and looked over at the cradle; Wheeljack was making grand gestures and explaining the construction process to Optimus. “Well, I suspect we’ll build her another body,” he replied archly. “Though,” he continued in a more serious tone, “it won’t be a human body. I thought we could, but we don’t have the tools to simulate skin, let alone the numerous human sensations.” Leaning up against the counter, Ratchet nodded at the cradle. “We will need some supplies from Cybertron, though. Optimus has already given his consent to the project.” Ratchet looked over the top of his nose at the spy, who could find no words to the information that was being thrown at him. “None of this goes anywhere, you understand. Everyone has been sworn to absolute secrecy. If the humans found out … well, you thought that public relations slag was bad? We’d have to set up on their moon if they caught wind of this!”

Mirage fell back against the berth. Alina could be reborn? Desperately, he felt inside subspace for Paradise Lost and flipped it open. “I’ll go wherever you need me to,” he pledged, more to the handwriting than to the CMO.

Ratchet scoffed at his sentimentality. “Hold your technoquines, fancy boy. None of us know if such a transfer is gonna work. We’re hardly sure if all of her got in there.” He lifted a blunt hand and began ticking off his points. “If it does – and I’m not throwing all my ener-chips in yet – do you realize the consequences? Possible sensory deprivation, lack of coordination … we could build the best body, and she could turn out to be no more sentient than a droid!”

Mirage stared at the white medic, optic to optic. “But you’re going to try.”

Something flittered across Ratchet’s stoic facial planes. “Yes, we’re going to try. I’d do it for anyone: Spike, Sparkplug, Chip, Carly … even that Raoul hooligan Tracks insists on hanging out with.”

Part of Mirage wryly noted that Ratchet left out Astoria Carlton-Ritz, Powerglide’s official – and only – human admirer. Slowly, he turned his head to look once more at the cradle and its precious contents.

“We do need an idea,” Ratchet prompted the Ligier.

“For what?” he replied, only catching half of what the white ambulance said. Ratchet reached out and flicked him on the shoulder.

“Pay attention, clog-audios. The girl needs a body. What should it be?”

Adroitly, Mirage tilted his head at the medic and gave him a look. All the femmes the spy had had dealings with, save that of his creator, were thin as Energon-conductors, big on the upper chassis and low on the intelligence. Oh yes, and big on some other things that had nothing to do with functionality. Still. Knocking those old memories out of his present thoughts, Mirage lowered his chin and peered at the cradle, trying to think of what Alina would want to be.

At first, he considered a silver Chevrolet Cavalier, the same car that Alina had owned. However, it was not at all attractive, with its large, rounded hind end.

Ratchet, noting his indecision, waved his hand. “Why don’t you clean off Ravage’s crap and get back to me on it sometime later today? I want to start this as soon as possible. We have no idea how long an organic soul can keep without a body.”

Slowly, Mirage nodded and left the medbay, but not without a lingering look at the cradle. He rode the elevator to the wash rack and was silently pleased to find it empty. He was tired of the questions that were being asked, and all he wanted now was a little time to roll the events over in his exhausted cortex.

Slipping into a stall furthest from the entrance, Mirage parked himself under the nozzles and turned the water on. Powerful jets heated in part by the lava in the mountain pushed against his sore metal hide, sloghing off the grit, grime and dispare; the spy took great pleasure in watching the remnants of his butchery spiral down the drain. Letting his shoulders sag, he braced his forearms on his knees and dipped his head, rolling his back plates to reach his aching servos. As the tension eased, so did the strain on his cortex.

Reaching across to the other side, Mirage grabbed a bottle of cleaning solution and began throwing it all over the top of his head, down around his shoulders and over his thighs. A brush hung from a hook nearby, and he exchanged bottle for scrubber, letting the harsh Plas-tek bristles cleanse him, body and spark.

Once he was convinced that no speck of Decepticon fluid remained, he set the brush aside and began to think. The form Alina was to wear had to fit her personality as well as being fully functional. Besides, he couldn’t see her sporting a Tower-figure; it was an insult to her vibrancy and her intelligence. Having ruled out the Cavalier, Mirage quickly flickered through other car forms, but came up with nothing that fit. So, he began to replay their myriad conversations, looking for some clue as to what she could be while still retaining the essence of her.

If not a vehicle, he began to wonder, then what about an animal? We have the Dinobots, and as dense as they are, they’ve proved useful in their Primative way.

The image of a turbofox came instantly to cortex, but it was just as quickly dismissed. That would better suit me, he thought with a half smile, arching his back plates against the dual streams. Canine, equine, cervine, feline … all considered and subsequently dismissed. (Though, he did entertain the thought of a lithe, anonymous femme for a brief moment.) That left one major Earth animal group: avian. Having wings would give her an advantage that no jet could have: mobility. And it wouldn’t help to have another flyer in the Ark – one that wasn’t solo and cocky (Powerglide) or part of a gestalt (the Aerialbots/Protectobots) … or blessed with limited conversation skills (Swoop).

“Hey! Raj! Knock it off, whiner; you have to save some for the rest of us.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Mirage reached back and shut off the shower. Not long after, Sunstreaker came waltzing into the stall, his hands planted on his shiny black hip guards. “Primus on his head,” he tossed flippantly. “Didja recharge in there or what? Dream of your little girlfriend?”

Optics flashing, Mirage managed to keep his anger in check. While he could turn invisible at will, there wouldn’t be enough time to duck Sunstreaker’s accurate swing. The golden Lamborghini crossed his arms as the spy reached around the front of the stall for a towel and began drying himself off. “I hear they’re gonna make her one of us. Should make you happy, eh?” He gave a wicked chuckle. “Things are better when they’re actually your size.” And he winked an optic.

Adroitly, Mirage folded the towel and hung it on the rack. “I see; so you’re so impatient for some stimulation that you’ve begun interfacing with elephants?”

Instantly, the humor in Sunstreaker’s classic grey face flashed to fury. He reached out and flicked the spy in the chest – hard. Enough so that Mirage took an inadvertent step backwards into the stall. “We’ll see how much she likes you when she can actually appreciate my beauty properly.” And with that, Sunstreaker popped into the cubicle next door, pointedly ending the conversation.

Mirage waited where he had been pushed, waited until he heard the water running and Sunstreaker begin to hum tunelessly to himself. Softly, the spy padded out of the washroom and back up to the medbay.

This time, he did encounter some of his fellow Autobots, but unlike Sunstreaker, they kept whatever comments they had to themselves. Only Windcharger paused long enough to touch his arm and give a tip of the head, indicating that he acknowledged the Ligier’s pain. And Mirage actually found himself sympathizing with the red-grey Minibot; for it had been Windcharger who pulled Alina from the wreckage and carried her outside, her blood staining his armor.

Even after all this time, the occupants of the bay remained the same, albeit in different positions. The Ligier was surprised to see Optimus Prime sitting on a large tripod stool, staring into the dome. Standing nearby, Wheeljack was chattering about the various possibilities that lay ahead in Alina’s new design.

“Well, don’t you look fresh,” Wheeljack commented sunnily, spotting the spy as he came through the door.

Ratchet turned around from where he was monitoring schematics. “Have anything in mind?”

Crossing the room, Mirage pulled up a second tripod and parked himself nearby. “Yes. Avian.”

Wheeljack tipped his head to the side, earbulbs flashing. “Avian, eh? Interesting. We’ll have to secure light material, which shouldn’t be a problem as much of the heavy stuff would be gone by now.”

Ratchet blew hot air from his ventilators. “Precisely, what kind of bird? Songbird, psittacine, bird of prey?” He spun about, tapped a few keys on the console, and instantly, a hundred different species of Earth bird flooded the screen. “Hm?”

Mirage walked up to the console. His keen optics flicked over the images, dismissing a good chunk of them. “Delete the songbirds and the tropical ones,” he murmured.

“I’ve got an idea,” a familiar voice called out from the doorway. Mirage and Ratchet turned to see Hound leaning up against the frame, grinning. “How does a nature walk sound, Raj? Believe me, it’s a lot easier to decide if you can actually see them up close.”

Inwardly, the old Mirage groaned at the prospect of hiking with Hound; but the new, desperate Mirage quickly silenced that former part of his spark. Ratchet, however, glared. “If you take more than two days, I’ll personally run down your hides and hang you on the boosters. Perceptor, Wheeljack,” he snapped, more impatient than actually irritated, “let’s get the mainform schematics down. We can add the altmode later.”

Gratefully, the spy smiled at the tracker, ignoring Ratchet’s threats. For all the times he had privately bemoaned Hound’s love for Earth, today was the day he was glad for the Jeep’s enthusiasm. “Let’s go.”

The officials at the San Diego Zoo did not know what to make of the two Autobots who waltzed into the park the moment the facility opened for the day. However, the two had paid for their own tickets and were thus granted full admission.

Hound was in his element, peering into exhibits and even taking some time to let children perch on his shoulders for a better look. Mirage took the Jeep’s deviations in moderation; after a day and a half on the road, cruising through all the major zoos on the West Coast, he had somehow learned a little patience, and a little more respect for the world on which he resided.

While Hound entertained himself by the African exhibit, Mirage managed to catch a zoo employee who did not appear to let her bladder go the moment his lean shadow covered her. “Pardon, miss,” he queried at his most urbane, “but where might I find the raptor exhibits?” Over the course of their field trip, Mirage had come to the conclusion that a bird of prey would suit Alina just fine – not only that, but it was practical. What songbird, no matter how large, would stand a chance against the Decepticons? However, he was getting a little tired of Bald Eagles, Golden Eagles and the smaller raptors, like Harrier Hawks and Peregrine Falcons. Nothing tickled his fancy in those avians.

The woman gulped and tugged at her blonde braid to collect herself before replying. “What kind of raptor, sir?”

“Anything but hawks, falcons and those Bald and Golden Eagles.”

“Why don’t you follow me?” Quickly, she excused herself from the Ligier’s shadow and began to walk briskly through the early morning crowd. Mirage followed at a respectful pace, linking his hands behind his back, all the while keeping part of his cortex alert for anything out of the ordinary.

In a short while, the spy could hear the cries of the large avians, harsh and loud. It was so powerful and assertive that he found himself entranced. Yes, he had made the correct decision. What a wild avian femme Alina would make!

Mirage’s guide stopped before a large exhibit and looked up at the white-blue Autobot. “This is the Harpy Eagle, one of the largest birds of prey in the world. They have an impressive seven-foot wingspan and, despite their large size, are incredible agile, able to wing in and out of the trees of their native rain forests.”

The hefty amount of greenery in the exhibit did not impede the Autobot’s ability to see the raptors. One was perched in the cleft of a tree and was staring out with luminous, unblinking eyes. Of all the creatures that Cybertron had to offer, none could compare with this organic creature’s grace or physical presence. Despite dwarfing the eagle as a human would a mouse, Mirage found himself captivated by its intensity. Predominately grey with a dash of white at the breast, the Harpy had a sharp black beak, black-tipped pinions and a dark band around its neck. Suddenly, the early wind blew and the eagle lifted its head; a large double crest fanned out and around its face, magnifying its majesty.

Behind him, Hound whistled low (a trick only he had been able to master). “Impressive. I take it this is it, Raj?”

“Yes.”

With a smile, the tracker reached for his holographic projector. The zoo employee’s expression of nervous tolerance turned into one of abject horror as she incorrectly interpreted the Jeep’s intentions. “No! Wait!”

Hound paused; Mirage stared at her obliquely. “We didn’t bring cameras with us,” the spy tried to soothe. “It’s not a gun,” he added.

To prove his partner’s point, Hound lowered the projector and cast a perfect, albeit tiny, image of Optimus Prime at the girl’s feet. He even had the holographic leader “transform” and “drive” away. “See?”

Clearly, the girl had no words and kept silent for the duration of Hound’s photo shoot. Mirage watched with an ever-increasing interest as one of the Harpies suddenly launched itself from its perch and winged to another part of the enclosure. “Got that one,” Hound announced with a grin. “Any chance of us getting up close and personal?”

“Unless you want to travel to the Amazon, I’m afraid not,” an authoritative male voice announced from behind them. “Jenny, you can go now.” The two Autobots swung around and bent to look at the official. Stepping up from behind the Jeep, the man pulled back the brim of his cowboy hat and lowered his sunglasses a fraction of an inch. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Greg Hanson, curator for the raptor exhibit here at the San Diego Zoo. What can we do for you?”

Hound lowered his projector and stared at the small screen embedded in the back. “Actually, I think I have all that we need.” He tipped his head at Mirage. The spy shrugged.

“Thank you for providing us with what we needed, sir,” the Ligier told the curator, inclining his head. As one, the two Autobots turned away, leaving the curator speechless. “Let’s roll, Hound, it’ll take us all day to get back to base.”

And the Jeep couldn’t agree more.

Darkness … abandon …

senses gone

Is this … am I …

Dead?

No! No!

Warmth. Gentleness.

… who speaks? Darkness around …

gold senses
memory …

“What is about the rest of your team that you don’t like?”

“I guess you could say that I find them somewhat … unfinished. Unrefined.”

“Because they weren’t created like you? Because some of them had jobs?”

“ … You make it sound like a crime to be privileged.”

“Well, I find it a little odd that you’re coming down hard on them, and you’re more than willing to have a conversation with me. You could consider me ‘common’.”

[silence]

“I gotcha, didn’t I?”

“Into a turbofox burrow, yes; my apologies.”

[laughter] “Thought so.”

“You have to understand that I just can’t throw these opinions away. It’s more complicated than that.”

“That’s why we have something called ‘therapy’ …”

... Mommy …