Chapter Nine
Rise | October 28, 1986

Touch my dreams and the magic wakens
Speak my name and the dream is yours
Born again in the name of Phoenix.
Then lost in legend my power endures.
~Cynthia McQuillan, "The Phoenix"

Ratchet did not even look up as the medbay doors swung wide, then gently closed with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw the white-blue spy cross by his workstation and pause a moment, curious as to what new part the medic was working on. The stalwart CMO refused to break his work-pattern and continued oiling the wing joint until the pinions moved freely. By his side sat two ultralight boosters, each with a fuel cable jutting from the top; next to those was a black hand, five steel talons poised by their respective digit. Behind Ratchet was a flat screen; a white wire outline of a femme and an eagle spun in a lazy circle side by side.

Same thing every day, the CMO mused as he turned the wing over. Mirage goes out, Mirage comes back, Mirage parks his skidplate on that slaggin’ stool and reads. Repeat.

Early on in the designing process, Perceptor had expressed concern over possible radiation from the soul-cum-spark. This prompted them to set up a monitor for the sole purpose of tracking fluctuations in the spark’s field. So far, nothing was out of the ordinary, except for the subtle increase in activity whenever Mirage was parked nearby. However, Ratchet did not want to get into any metaphysical discussions at the time, so he and the others continued to work and the matter was quietly dropped.

Surreptitiously, Ratchet stole a glance over at the corner; the spy had already taken up his customary position by the cradle and was pulling a reader from subspace. Ever since that girl had come into his life, there had been subtle changes in the spy’s attitude. He seemed more willing to help humans and sat around more often during their off hours – even watching television with Hound and Windcharger. Once, during a repair job that left the Ligier offline, Ratchet had found several readers in his subspace pocket with un-Mirage-like titles, such as The Chronicles of Narnia, Jane Eyre and The Wasteland. The last time the medic had caught the spy reading, it was an old, boring epic on the glories of the Towers. Idly, Ratchet wondered what he was reading now.

Setting the wing down, Ratchet pivoted, looked at the monitor and called up the transformation sequence they had designed. There was only so much subspace he could give this girl, what with his limited tools. The sequence had to be easy and fluid. Of course, there was also the problem of adjusting human senses to Cybertronian ones. Unfortunately, there were a few things the girl was going to have to do without … not that sex organs would be practical in a metallic-like being, anyway. On the whole, Ratchet was fairly pleased with what they had come up with.

Switching the image back to its original 3-D spin, the CMO took up the wing and both boosters, making for a curtained-off room where they were doing the actual assembly. It had taken a little persuasion and more than enough threats with a welder to keep Mirage from spying. On his Tower-born honor, he’d sworn he wouldn’t pull his invisible act and sneak a peek behind their backs. Ratchet highly doubted he was sincere, but so far, Mirage had made no other suggestions as to the girl’s new form. He stayed where he was parked and that was that.

The addition of a femme to the team had Optimus Prime a little concerned. Not that having a feminine cortex and form was of any concern to the Transformers, as it was with humans. Still, the majority of his troops had been without the fairer form of their species for nigh over four million human years, and there was no telling what they might do. Optimus had confided in Ratchet enough to warn him about certain aspects of Alina’s new shape, which left the medic rolling his optics in irony. This was a war and the girl was no fool. Still, Optimus had contacted Elita-1 during one of the few times communication between Cybertron and Earth was possible and let his bondmate in on the Ark secret.

As he had told Ratchet, Elita was more than willing to let the new femme into her small band if that’s what it came down to. However, as she slyly suggested, it was probably for the best that Alina remain on Earth, where her avian form would be less conspicuous.

“I found the hitch,” Ratchet announced to Wheeljack and Perceptor. The latter continued working on the complex cortex of the inert grey body on the platform before him, while the former bounded over, his earbulbs flashing with glee.

“Excellent! What about the hand?”

Ratchet let the Lancia have the wing and folded his arms. “I think we should keep them sheathed. Do you really want an irritated femme running around with claws all the time?”

Wheeljack laughed, setting the wing beside its mate on a low workbench. He came back for the boosters, sat down and began to hook them up. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Ratch?”

“In the refuse pile with the rest of the boron,” he replied dryly. “How’s the cortex coming, Perceptor?”

“It shall be completed within a nanoclick.”

“Good. Gentlemen, I think we’re ready to move on to the final phase.” Air eased slowly from the chief medic’s ventilators at the challenges still to come.

Later that evening, the three had completed all that they had set out to accomplish. There was nothing left for them to do except take the spark and insert it into the body. Only if the soul took would the shell cease to be an inanimate object and become a person. And, if not … then all would be lost, and the spark gone to Primus as it had been intended to.

It had been a difficult matter to persuade Mirage to leave the room – for his own mental health, they argued, and as a precaution against a possible explosion. The spy stood firm, even threatening to disappear and flaunt their rules. He was taken to task by being called on his childishness and left the medbay, his tail tucked between his legs.

Perceptor pulled the curtain aside and wheeled the body out into the main bay. Wires and fuel lines sprouted from the shell, trickled over the edge of the gurney and snapped into a small generator located on a tray underneath. If the spark did not immediately take, Ratchet hoped a series of shocks to the system would get it into gear.

Stepping up to the gurney, Ratchet reached under the shell’s grey chestplate and popped it so that it rose to rest against the sharp nasal ridge. A swift glance to Wheeljack was all that was needed; the inventor dragged the cradle and parked it nearby. Perceptor stood next to the CMO, watching the rise and fall of the lines on the monitor.

They were ready.

Wheeljack reached for a pair of tongs and slipped them over his right hand; with his left, he slowly raised the dome. One by one, he shut down the main power supply until there were only four lines left on the monitor: these were the four wires that attached the spark casing to the cradle. Carefully, the Lancia settled the tongs pads around the spark and lifted it from its base; with Perceptor watching the monitor judiciously, Wheeljack reached under and snapped the wires.

Instantly, the monitor began to emit a high-pitched peal, which Perceptor shut off immediately. At the same time, activity within the spark casing increased; the gentle swirls of red and gold intensified, become agitated and spinning around in a mad attempt to break free.

Wheeljack spun about and lifted the casing over the gaping hole in the middle of the shell’s chest. Ratchet was waiting. He quickly pulled the new ports from the base and hooked them up to the bare wires’ ends. In the same motion, Wheeljack lowered the casing until it sat atop the new hold; releasing the tongs, he stepped back a pace. With a fervent look to his comrades, Ratchet reached out and pushed the spark case down until a smart click echoed around the silent bay.

A light, as bright as the sun, split the room in half. The Autobots cried out, throwing their arms up to shield their sensitive optics. Through slits in their fingers, they peered down into the shell: what had been a swirl of red and gold in a sea of misty white was a pure mix of the two colors – with what appeared to be a dash of blue. But that wisp was gone before they could truly comprehend its significance.

Their wonder was short-lived, for not a split nanosecond later, the screaming began.

Warmth, joy … some doubt.

Awareness. Voices. Familiar …

I … am ??

“Missed.”

?? “You are mine, but not now. We will meet again

soon, little one. For now, you will return. Live well and forget this conversation.”

L I V E !!

PAIN! UNBELIEVABLE, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see; pain, pressure, agony.

The world came rushing into her head in a fierce, fiery tornado that had no mercy. It filled her, tossed her vulnerable mind around like sticks in a windstorm. Sound roared in her ears, pressure built in the vicinity of her chest, pressing down, down … ever down!

Pain so intense that her mind threatened to burst. Somehow, she found her voice and screamed, arching against the bonds that held her down.

None of the three were prepared for the spark-shattering keen that issued from the charcoal lips. At the same instant, the body heaved a good half-foot off the gurney and came slamming down so harshly that the thin legs buckled, swayed and threatened to break.

“Grab her!” Ratchet snapped as the shell began heaving, lip components gaping like an Earth fish.

“She’s trying to breathe!” Wheeljack shouted over the din as he grabbed the pyramidal black legs while Perceptor scurried around to the darting head.

Gritting his dental plates in determination, Ratchet hauled back and pounded on the grey chestplate with all his might. The twin ventilators suddenly hiccupped and leapt into action, drawing precious air into the femme’s system. While oxygen was vital for humans, it had a minimal purpose in Transformers: for the cooling and regulation of delicate internal systems. Still, they did “breathe”, as it were, and for a human-turned-Transformer, breathing was necessary.

The femme bucked against her creators’ restraining hands, keening – for there was no other word for it – with all her might. Tiny sparks flew from her lip components, splattering on her chest, devoid of an Autobot insignia. Luminous golden optics flashed and her white face contorted with unspeakable pain.

For more than an hour and a half, Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor struggled with the reborn female. The fight jumped from the gurney to the floor; all the while they talked to her, trying to reason with the frightened innocent now forever trapped within a body of trylithium steel. Throughout the battle, Ratchet listened for her vitals, nodding each time he heard the thump of her Energon pump, the slight whirl of her ventilators and the near-imperceptible thrum of her laser core.

“Alina, Alina,” they coaxed as the wild jerking and swaying began to die down. At last, the fight drained away with the minimal amount of Energon they’d put into her system. The grey femme sank to the floor, spent in body and cortex. Slowly, Wheeljack and Perceptor released their holds on her extremities and stretched her out on the ground. Ratchet hunkered down and gently touched the girl’s sharp-planed cheek. Her mouth was open, panting; her thin brow ridges were low over her golden optics, colored to reflect her avian exterior.

“Alina, do you remember me?”

Behind the glass, the sensors could not quite focus on his whereabouts; slowly, with great effort, the head turned. “ … hssszzzsssshhhh …” Frustration replaced uncertainty; the lips opened, closed, and the white throat contracted with the effort to bend the metal voice box to the will of her cortex. “ …hssshhsshhhh-tchshhheet.”

Ratchet traded a glance with Perceptor; the scientist could only shrug, clearly out of his element. “Yes, I’m Ratchet,” he affirmed. “This is Wheeljack and Perceptor. Remember us? We’re Autobots. You’re among friends, Alina. You’re alive.”

More frustration in that white face as she struggled to comprehend. “ … Ahhhh-lighhhhvvvv.”

Ratchet nodded. “We can do this all night. One step at a time.”

Slowly, but surely, she began to improve, and true to form, they stayed there throughout the night and well into the next day. While the mind came up to speed in a matter of hours, the body still refused to cooperate. They gave her little sips of Energon and managed to coax her into letting them put fuel directly into her system via a neck line. Due to her former humanity, these practices left her trembling, with washer fluid leaking from the corners of her optics.

As day waxed into night, Ratchet set up a recharging berth in the corner for the sole purpose of keeping an optic on the girl-turned-femme while she slept. Easing her into the down-time process didn’t take all that long – Alina was more than tired in several areas, and she slipped easily into recharge.

The hours leading up to and surpassing her rebirth were a complete blank in her mechanical mind. The only comparison Alina had was of being so tired, so weary, that you fell asleep and did not dream – you just slipped into that velvet darkness with no recollection of having gotten there. Only, her awakening came with a new body. The initial shock was a faint memory; the circumstances surrounding how she got there were stuck tight up against the front of her mind.

As succinctly as they could, the Autobots had told her the how, when and why of her transformation. And that there was no going back – ever. It was cold and cruel, but it was the truth. And if she wanted to continue to live, she had to accept it.

How could she explain to herself just what had transpired? Every morning since her resurrection, she woke up to a feeling of heaviness in her arms, legs and chest. Gradually, these feelings waned as she got used to the new weight she was carrying around. Everything that she knew as a human as pertained to the five senses were thrown out the proverbial window …

There had been a moment where Ratchet was walking her along beside her, getting her used to these obscenely triangular feet when, suddenly, something snapped up before her eyes (OPTICS). Charts, graphs, rolling, scrolling bars. She’d thrown up her hands and almost fell backwards before Ratchet was digging around inside her head (very unnerving) and banished the images. There were so many things that she had to control in this mechanoid body that she feared she would go insane before she mastered them all. Coordination was one thing; the various knick-knacks and do-dads that had been incorporated into her form were another. Not to mention the giant wingspan and animal-head backpack she was stuck with for life.

Opening her optic shutters, Alina groaned. It was still fairly dark in the main bay; against the wall, she could see Ratchet dozing, propped up on the console of one of the huge computers, his ankles and arms crossed. Quietly, so as not to wake the charging medic, she willed her legs to swing over the side of the berth. As she got used to it, metallic skin wasn’t that different from human flesh; she still felt the same, which initially surprised her, but other than being tougher than regular steel, it was pretty sensitive. Perhaps a little more sensitive than before.

With a deep breath that sounded a little hollow to her new ears (AUDIOS), Alina gripped the edge of the berth, hooking her talons on the underside, and pushed off. Gingerly, she touched the burnt orange floor with the golden tip of one foot and leaned all of her new, considerable weight on it. Pausing, gauging, she deemed herself sturdy enough, and let the other foot fall. Her new equilibrium swung into gear and with it, her wings fanned on either side of her, balancing her out – as they should have done from the beginning, she’d been told.

Wings. She smiled slightly to herself, the motion feeling a bit out of whack. Like an old wound, she had to work these new facial plates all the time, to get them to bend to her unconscious cortex. Otherwise, she was told she looked depressed. Yes, as for the wings, that was a welcome surprise; she loved flying, ever since her parents took her and Richard to Disneyland when they were quite small. The thrill and the rush came back every time she set foot on an aircraft – and now, she was her own personal one! (When she could learn how, that is.)

Slowly, Alina tip-toed across the floor, bent on helping herself for once. All this cozening was welcome at first, but now she wanted to do something on her own. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t seen anyone for the two weeks that she’d been awake. Loneliness was eating her soul (SPARK) out. Not usually given to disobedience, she had to leave. The orange walls were closing in on her in ways that they never had before.

Step by step, she moved along, more at ease with this new body than she had been in the past. Perhaps, at long last, her mind (CORTEX) was taking over the unconscious motions, letting her deal with the here and now, the other things that she shouldn’t be concerned about.

“Going somewhere, little one?”

With a short cry, Alina stumbled backwards, only to have two strong hands slip under her armpits and keep her from falling. She twisted, feeling her tailfeathers and raptor beak scrape against something hard.

Lights exploded in the medbay; across the room, Ratchet stood glaring at her, his grey chevron low on his brow. “I thought I told you to stay out until I deemed her fit enough,” he growled at the nothingness behind Alina. There was no reply. The grip suddenly slackened and she tipped forward until her wings flicked out and the raised onyx talons above each single golden toe snapped down on the tile to support her.

“Not bad,” Ratchet commented in a smoother, gentler tone. He pushed himself off the console and walked over to her, frowning at the air. “It looks to me as if you’ve finally made the transition.”

Turning slowly, Alina looked Ratchet in the optics. It was still a little disconcerting to suddenly find herself on eye-level (or close to) beings she had once feared would step on her. “I still feel weird,” she admitted, the sound of her new voice with its metallic flange heavy in her audios.

“Well, that will take time, but I think we’re ready to move you onto the finer things, like transforming, agility and weapons’ training.”

“Don’t you think that’s up to her?” Mirage commented from the air. Whipping around, Ratchet made a mad grab for the space behind Alina. His thick black fingers closed on empty space. “I told you – leave! You can have all the time in the world later.”

Alina turned, a feeling in the air letting her know that Mirage was hovering right behind her. The sensation sent a short spark up the back of her metallic neck. It was almost as it was before – only stronger. She didn’t think she knew – she was positive that he was there. Biting her lower lip (component), she reached behind her and was amazed when her talons scraped metal. Her fingers closed on a wrist, which immediately solidified. There was no shock on the spy’s sky blue face, only the long, drawn expression he had been wearing the first time she’d seen him.

Without warning, her sight magnified, zooming her past his angled cheek and right into his left optic. Stumbling backwards, she dug black digits into the tough colored glass, willing her vision to return to normal. There was a slight, almost imperceptible click inside her head, and when she lowered her fingers, everything was as it had been.

Ratchet was watching her thoughtfully. “You’re controlling it – also good,” he murmured. But that didn’t stop him from pointing quite firmly at the bay doors. Mirage glowered, but finally turned around, melting into invisibility; the bay doors hissed open, then shut. Alina watched him go; she thought he might remain, but that certain “heaviness” in the air that signaled his presence was gone.

The white Autobot medic grumbled low in his vocalizer before turning to her. “You’d think he’d had enough,” he muttered, more to himself than to her as he reached for her right arm to begin their morning exercise ritual. “Sat on his skidplate day after day by your cradle – bend, good, now rotate that arm, and the other – you’d think he’d give you some time to yourself. Lift your chin …”

But Alina was only barely paying attention. She remembered very little from her time between worlds, and to discover that the Autobot spy had not only paid her a visit, but stayed there for hours on end …

“Pay attention, miss,” Ratchet reprimanded gently, but firmly. “I want those wings out.”

Obediently, Alina turned and with a little frown of concentration, fanned her black metal pinions. From the way they were designed, she wondered how she was going to be able to fly, but Perceptor and Wheeljack assured her that it was more in the thrust than the actual organic manner of flapping.

“What happens now, Ratchet?” she asked quietly, submitting to his tweaking. The medic paused and unbent himself from where he was tinkering with her right hip.

“You’ll have to explain yourself a little better than that, girl.”

Alina sighed, exhaling a short, warm jet of air from her ventilators. It blew across her grey chest, molded to feminine proportions. “Everything. What am I? Who am I? I’m … alive … but what now?”

Quietly, Ratchet folded his arms, carefully considering his words. “You’re one of us now. As to whom you are, that’s up to you. If you want to change your name, that’s also up to you. I’d recommend it, because as you know, we have that code of silence.”

“I know,” she replied softly. Along with the new body, the death of her old one at the paws and claws of the Decepticon Cassette Ravage had been hard to take. Not only that, but the hard, cold fact that due to the nature of her revival, no one could know. Not even her parents. And that is what stung the most. No more family, no more friends … only Transformers.

A firm, almost paternal hand gripped her on the right shoulder strut. Ratchet said nothing; his bright blue optics told her what she needed to know. “Now, are you ready to try transforming?”

Looking at the bay doors, Alina slowly turned her head to meet Ratchet’s questioning optics. Hadn’t there been enough tests? “Please, can I go out? I’ve been in here for two weeks, Ratchet … I need to … move.”

The medic’s brow ridge drew low over his optics as he considered her request. With a quick jerk of his head, he relinquished his hold. Malleable metal plates stretched wider than before as Alina grinned and made her way for the door. She paused by the control panel, finger hovering over a green button, white and red. Embarrassed, the metal of her sharp cheeks warming, she looked over her shoulder for confirmation. “Green,” the CMO allowed before turning to some other pressing matter. She hit the green one and was delighted when the doors slid back into their recesses.

It was as if the world had opened before her. Endless corridors stretched in both directions, at once daunting and exciting. Well, it wasn’t as if she was going to be stopped or stepped on anytime soon. Feeling her new heart (ENERGON PUMP) quicken in anticipation, she steeled her resolve and began walking, going to the right, as it seemed more natural – that, and she was still right-handed.

So strange, she thought, to be here. Of course, not as strange as her current situation, but strange in the sense that this is where she belonged now – and really, she didn’t have a choice. That alone should have her feeling oppressed, but there were other emotions vying for attention at the present moment.

One corridor led to another and she followed them aimlessly. To her surprise, the Ark appeared to be empty. Her pyramidal feet no longer gave her much concern, now that she had some semblance of an idea how to work with them. She supposed they were that way for a reason – part of her avian altmode. The one she had only seen in diagrams and in a wire exhibition. Her wings, on the other hand, were a little bit harder to maneuver – especially around corners. Hopefully no one paid much attention to the slight scrapes in the orange metal. It was a battleship, after all, she reasoned as her left outer pinion made a horrible screeching sound as she went around a bend in the hall. Gritting her teeth, she manually tucked the errant steel feather back into position.

Following directions inlaid in bronze plates at every junction, Alina found the elevator and, a little disconcerted that she could instantly read Cybertronian, selected the lowest level. On the way down, she stood with her back to the doors, watching the view from the open window in the back; upon impact with Mt. St. Hillary millennia ago, much of the Ark’s outer walls had been blown wide open. This elevator once was enclosed by orange metal, but now it was surrounded by heat-burnt rock; if she peered over the edge, she could see into the bottom of the semi-active volcano.

Moments later, the elevator chimed and the doors hissed open – to three Autobots. Alina gaped, they gaped, their mouths slack at her sudden presence. One was Hound; the other two she barely knew, and only recognized by their colorations.

Hound swept into the elevator and picked her up, swinging her up and down in unabashed joy. “They told us it was a success,” he crowed, waltzing her out of the elevator, “but they wouldn’t let us see you until you were completely autonomous. Amazing! Look at you!”

“Easy, Hound,” the yellow-green mech cautioned dryly. “You’ll whip that crested head of hers right off.”

Hound’s grey facial plates tinged pink, and he immediately set her down. Alina laughed despite herself, the world spinning only slightly.

“Well, she certainly doesn’t look like any femme I’ve ever seen,” the stocky, blunt mech continued, flicking his optics up and down her grey-white-black figure. “Get a load of those feet, Smokescreen.”

Hound threw an arm over her struts. “Easy, Brawn. Let’s not make fun of her; she didn’t choose to look like this.”

Brawn huffed. “No, Mirage did,” he muttered and rolled his optics.

Eye ridges rising, the grey femme turned towards Hound for an explanation, but the tracker merely shrugged. Confused, Alina gently disengaged herself from the Jeep’s affable embrace. “It’s all right, really,” she replied, trying in vain to sort out the Minibot’s shocking admission. “It’s been difficult to get used to them, but they’ve … well, grown on me.” She grinned, the expression at its most fluid.

Brawn tipped his thick head to the side, studying her. “So, what are you supposed to be – some sort of feathered jet? That’s all we need around here – another cocky ace.” He walked around her, taking in the golden knee spikes, the blades on her lower legs; around to the back where her split white tailfeathers twitched unconsciously at his scrutiny. Alina stayed put, her black trifold crest quivering against her grey helm; she didn’t notice these reactions from her metallic body any more than she took note of the thrum of her Energon pump or the subtle whirr of her ventilators. She felt Brawn take a good, long look at her avian head backpack, skirt her wingspan and then make his way back to the front.

Hound was looking at her, trying to capture her optic. She merely shrugged. It was to be expected. “So?” the stocky Minibot prompted. “What on Cybertron are you?”

“An eagle, I’m told.”

“Harpy Eagle,” Hound clarified. “One of the largest on Earth.”

“Oh.” Brawn did not seem impressed; he crossed his thick arms over his even thicker chest. “Bird intelligence doesn’t come with the mode, does it? Wouldn’t want another Swoop …”

Quiet up until now, the blue-grey Smokescreen coughed. “I think that’s enough, Brawn,” he chastised softly. “The Dinobots were created with the limited technology that we managed to salvage. It is quite apparent to me that Alina here is fully sapient.”

That he knew her name surprised her – and embarrassed her not to have known his immediately. “If she’s gonna be one of us, she needs to know what she’s doing,” the Minibot retorted. “Whatever. I’m going upstairs. Later.” And he pushed past Hound and entered the elevator alone.

Smokescreen inclined his head to her and followed the Minibot before he could shut the door in his face. That left her alone with Hound. “So, Doc Ratchet let you out. Where’re you off to?”

Alina half-turned, looking down the long corridor to the main bay beyond. At that moment, a sweet, soft breeze blew through, bringing with it the scents of autumn. When I … died … it was late summer, she thought, her crest quivering slightly. Two months out of the loop. “Outside. I have to go out.”

Clearly, the green tracker wanted to go with her, but he seemed to understand that she wanted to be alone. “I’ll see you around then.” He started off down another hall, but stopped in mid-stride. “Hey, has Raj seen you yet? He’s been … well … moping around for the last two months. I’m sure this’ll make him happy.”

Alina paused. First the vigilance, now moping. Apparently she hadn’t realized how much their friendship meant to him. Well, she’d make it up to him … somehow. “Actually … yes. He came into the bay a while ago.”

“You mean he broke in,” Hound laughed. “Ratchet keeping him out after you woke up was like keeping Spike away from video games!”

Alina stopped dead. “Spike – how is he?”

Hound leaned up against the wall. “Fine. He had some smoke inhalation and some cuts and bruises, but he’s fine. Even better now that he knows you’re all right.”

Slowly, she nodded to herself and turned around, leaving the bay and Hound. The wide Oregon desert opened up before her like a summer flower, fresh, clean and innocent. The moment she left the protective lip of the Ark, she heard a mad whirring noise, issuing above her. Keen golden optics locked onto three security cameras bolted to the rock above the boosters.

Startled, Alina could only stare at them, as if at any moment, someone would come stalking out and demand that she come back inside. She waited three loud thumps of her pump before realizing that no one was going to reprimand her. Glancing about, she began to walk around the base of the mountain, the whine of the cameras following her.

Not far from the Ark entrance was a steep slope; she stopped at the edge, looking down into a wide valley surrounded by the rest of the mountain chain. To her surprise, there was a large basketball court, football field and shooting range, all contained in this one area.

Gauging her balance, Alina set one foot atop the shale and ran/stumbled down to the bottom. Tiny rocks pinged against her armor, but otherwise did not hurt her. The sensation was akin to being hit with cotton balls.

When she reached them, it was apparent that these fields were used often – and hard. There were gouges, ruts – and even burn marks on the grass. She squatted at the edge of the football field and stretched out her taloned fingers, running them through the thick grass. It barely tickled, but she could sense the blades perfectly. To challenge her dexterity, she sought out one blade and plucked it; the leaf came out easily enough, and she raised it to her optics. Frowning with concentration, she willed that errant vision to increase – slowly. And like a microscope, it did. Impressed with her mastery, she let the grass leaf fall to the ground and stood up, stretching herself to her full height.

Her wanderings led her to the end of the valley. At the border, a small stream ran cool and clear. With her wings fanning out on either side of her, keeping her balanced, Alina crouched at the bank and looked at herself for the first time in the liquid mirror. For reasons that the three mad scientists were fairly vague on, she wasn’t allowed to look at herself until she had mastered her new body. What little glimpses she managed to get – in the reflection of her data pad, the medbay screens, polished steel – gave her a distorted view.

Her face was a bare wisp of what it had looked like when she had been human – more angular, with sharp cheeks and a high brow. Wistfully, she reached up and touched the back of her bare head – or helm, as it was. No more lustrous black locks fell to her shoulders, her one and only vanity. It was replaced by the helm; sitting in the center of her forehead was a curved black diamond with three stylized “feathers” jutting from it. These, as she had found out, responded to her mood like a bird’s crest, flicking up, down or lying flat.

Two black dials were attached to either side of her head where her ears would be; jutting out from those were two black spines. Reflectively, Alina touched her sharp white cheek, then down to her black lips. Neither color was extreme, so she didn’t look like an alabaster corpse with jet black lipstick – it was more charcoal than onyx, she decided.

So … this was who she was now. A human soul in a robot’s body. Her mind no longer a grey mass, but a complex construction of nodes, diodes, wires and microchips. Who are you now, Alina? she asked the image in the water. Human – raptor – robot?

The stream merely bubbled back at her. In a motion that she could not put a handle on, she reached out and grabbed at the liquid, letting its crisp coolness run through her fingers. Remember! Remember who you are! it seemed to tell her.

Tears of frustration, of lost hopes and misplaced futures, burst from her golden optics and ran in thin rivers down her sharp-planed cheeks. At least I can cry, some coherent part of her cortex noted dryly. Emotions coursed through her and she struck out at the water, beating her aggravations upon the changing waves. “Gone! All gone! Mom! Dad! Richard! … Oh, God!” Her motions rocked her on the bank, and she slipped, landing aft-first on the hardening ground.

“OW!” she keened, slumping forward. “Oh ... God …” Pain oozed from every crack, every line of her new body. She rocked and cried, rocked and cried as if she would surely shake herself to pieces. All the aching loss that she’d valiantly tried to keep bottled up inside flowed out in a roaring wave, overwhelming her new senses. She could never go back, never hold her family in her arms.

Never.

It was so final. So obscenely black and white. Great tears without an end poured from crackling optic sensors as she continued to heave her frustrations and sorrows into the stream.

“If anyone found out what we have done,” Ratchet had told her at his most gentle, “then we’d have every Primus-forsaken deaths’-bed person at our door, begging us to do the same.” He’d paused then, his optics distant. “It just … can’t be done.”

At the time, she’d tried to keep from losing her mind by putting on a brave face. Ratchet had smiled, and turned away. But he would never know the cyclone that tore through her very soul at his pronouncement, cunningly hidden away by the same smooth facial planes he had helped sculpt. “Mommy …” she whispered through a vocalizer punished by pain. “Mommy!”

Her parents would die, never knowing that their only daughter still lived, her mind and soul forever bound to a metal shell. They would watch the Autobot-Decepticon war on TV, watch the parade of mechs and never guess that the monochromatic femme was once their child.

Washer fluid fell with a steady, even drip into the water, circling quietly downstream. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, a rock that had been pushed into position by the stream’s might, but it almost seemed as if two calm, golden eyes framed by a dark canine face was regarding her steadily before the current picked up and it floated along.

Mirage watched her swing and curse; watched her fall and scream. He did not, however, notice the image in the water. The spy rose from his crouch not far from where she sat, where he had been silently observing her ever since she had left the Ark proper. He understood her frustrations and empathized with her situation. Thought not completely similar, they had both risen from destruction to a life they had not been prepared to live.

Wordlessly, he uncloaked and walked towards her. Lost in her pain, she did not turn her head as he sat beside her, letting his legs dangle in the water by hers. Awkwardly, he reached out and put his arm around her shoulder struts.

A low, choking sob caught in her vocalizer as she came to. Scrubbing wildly at her face with those black palms, Alina lifted her chin and saw who was there: optics widened, brow ridge rose into that absurd crest. “Mir-age …”

He merely smiled, a slow tug at the corners of his mouth. Suddenly, she cried out, throwing her arms around him, burying her head in his neck joint.

The spy was taken aback by this sudden mood-swing; his entire frame went ram-rod straight as his cortex fought to process everything. Never before had he been locked with a femme in this manner; never had he been considered a well of solace. “A – lin –” But she only clung tighter, her talons digging into his sensitive back plates.

Mirage squirmed, but tried to remain steady. After a time, she loosened her death-grip and slipped out of his hold. The spy watched her rock slowly back and forth before stopping, her arms between her legs. When she had been human, it’d been easier to ignore her femininity; now that she wore a femme’s form, it was going to be a lot harder, all things considered. He wasn’t used to treating femmes as anything more than playmates, hangers-on, or momentary conversationalists. She’s still your friend, that new part of him reminded matter-of-factly.

“Alina.” He stood up, drawing his legs from the chilling waters. Slowly, her head lifted, and in the growing darkness, her dim optics brightened a little. “Come on. You’re going to lock your joints if you keep your feet in there.” Gallantly, he offered her his hand.

She looked at him, unsure. Something crossed her face, but she seemed to make up her mind. Reaching out, she took his slim black hand with her taloned one and allowed him to pull her to her feet. True to his word, she had a little trouble flexing the joints, if but for a moment.

“Go inside,” he suggested, still holding onto her hand. Try as he might, his fingers would not unlock. How … odd.

Demurely, she cast her optics to their locked hands, then back up to him. And then she smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered. She was the one to let go, and began to walk back towards the Ark, leaving the spy by the stream bank, watching her move away.

Relieved, the Ligier smiled in the heavy dusk and faded into the air. Remember when you asked me to name one thing about this world that I liked? … It is you …