The Awakening

“This whole plan is ludicrous if you ask me,” Ratchet grumbled as he and Perceptor gently lifted Alina’s battered body to the examination table. “Hand me those nodes.”

Perceptor passed the small suction cups, which Ratchet gingerly attached to what unbattered skin Alina had on her body. The scientist sighed and flipped on the monitor embedded in the table. “While I do concur, Ratchet, surely we must try everything that we can?”

The Chief Medical Officer grunted. “Wheeljack, how’s that collection unit coming?”

The inventor looked up from the well of sparks he was creating. “Almost done,” he replied, sidelights flashing. “It’s a good thing I took this on as a side project after the Autobot-X disaster. Otherwise, we’d be out of luck.”

“Thank Primus for your myriad side projects,” Ratchet murmured, glancing towards the doorway as the panels slid open to admit Optimus. “Perceptor, the conductors. Her blood pressure is dropping. It’s not good, Prime.”

Awkwardly, the Autobot leader laid his hands on the table, looking down at the human’s blood-stained body. Behind him trickled in the others, all somber, even Sunstreaker. On the table, Alina stirred, her readout spiking as she struggled to live. “Ugghhhn.”

Gently, so gently, Prime touched her cheek. “Easy, Alina. We shall save you.” He barely knew this little human female, but the look in Mirage’s optics when he came into the library had told him all he needed to know. Life in all its forms was precious.

Ratchet leaned in close. “We’re trying an experimental procedure.” Her pain-filled eyes flickered across his face, mouth moving in a silent plea. Guff Ratchet stood up, lifted a hand and wiped it across his glistening optics. He turned back to the monitor, staring as the line suddenly spiked higher -- and dropped.

There was commotion as Mirage appeared in the doorway, dripping in black mechfluid. The spy had a wild air about him, evident in the way he moved towards the table. Alarms started going off as Alina flatlined, sending Ratchet and Perceptor scurrying to save her. Feral Mirage reached out and grabbed Perceptor from where he stood by the console, lifted him high into the air and shook him like a rag doll.

“By Primus, you will save her or I’ll blow you all to molten slag!”

Everyone stared as the spy kept on shaking Perceptor until his head rattled against his shoulder cannon; Optimus’ hand suddenly descended, clamping onto Mirage’s arm. The scientist suddenly dropped to the ground like a bag of bolts. He scurried up and darted to his post, fingers flying over the controls. Wheeljack popped up from the other end, a small headset with a tube connected to the top in his hands. He fitted this over the seizing woman’s head, turned it on as a trickle of blood began to pour from her nose and ears.

“Ease off, Mirage,” Optimus said quietly, drawing the spy away from the table. It wasn’t really necessary; at the touch of Prime’s hand, all the fight left Mirage. His head dropped, his hands hung limply at his sides; he didn’t seem to be one with the world at the moment. “They’re doing all they can.”

“Want me to take him, Optimus?” Prowl offered. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Mirage’s right upper arm, optics blinking furiously at the sight of the mechfluid. “By Primus -- he’s injured!”

Optimus studied the residual fluid on his palm. “I don’t think that it is his, Prowl.” Looking back at the still form on the table, he didn’t blame Mirage for deserting his post. “Take him to the brig for a few hours. Let him come to terms with what happened.”

“Right.” A gentle tug was all that it took for Prowl to get Mirage moving.

Wheeljack coughed, a sound that turned everyone’s head towards him in the silence that followed. “Transfer … complete, Optimus.” In his hands he held a small globe; inside its transparent hold was something analogous to a Transformer’s spark: an amorphous blob of otherworldly matter hovered within, shot through with streaks of red, orange, and yellow.

“Is that … a soul?” Spike asked, trying to peer up through the throng of Autobots. A sling encased his right arm, a bandage swathed his brow.

“Well.” Wheeljack was at a loss. He looked to Perceptor for an explanation. The scientist stared right back, clearly unprepared to speak.

“Uhm, well, right. You see, Spike, what we extracted -- well, we’re not totally sure what it is. We hope that it is what you humans call a ‘soul’. We do know that we succeeded in capturing her mind, but a mind alone does not make a creature.”

A shudder ran through Spike, a tremor of remembrance. “Is that why I went berserk as in Autobot-X’s body?”

Wheeljack and Perceptor nodded simultaneously. “An astute observation, Spike,” the scientist replied. “We also came to the conclusion that it was also due to the fact that there were two minds in Autobot-X -- yours, and the primitive one your father Sparkplug installed. Two minds cannot inhabit the same body, you see -- highly illogical and simply unnatural. Now, with this new body we are supposed to create for this human woman, it will have a clean slate.” He paused, confusion flicking onto his grey face. “I say, what are we building for her?”

Optimus stared at the cold form on the table, at the globule in Wheeljack’s hands. “Bumblebee, why don’t you and Spike go and see Mirage in the brig. Ask him.”

Bumblebee took a step backwards, hands upraised. “I don’t know, Optimus, Mirage didn’t look too friendly.”

The great mech reached down and patted the Volkswagon on the shoulder. “Prowl is down there, Bumblebee. Just go and see; if not, we will ask him later.”

Bumblebee sighed. “C’mon, Spike.” Together, they exited the repair bay. Optimus watched them go, then turned to the others.

“Might I suggest we all retire and leave Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor to their duties?” With leaden feet and stiff servos, the Autobot leader left. What he did not see was the line of Autobots walk by the still form, some touching the table, others touching an arm or cheek. Even Sunstreaker bowed his head at the globule Wheeljack still held before making his way out.

“Let’s get that containment unit ready,” Ratchet suggested, draping a white sheet over the body when everyone had gone. “It’ll be a while before Bumblebee and Spike get back.”

Brawn swatted an errant branch out of the way. “Can somebody please explain to me what the slag we’re doing in the middle of a Primus-forsaken jungle?”

“Well, Mirage said she’d like to be an eagle, so here we are.” Hound spread his hands, obviously oblivious to the smaller ’bot’s discomfiture.

“Couldn’t we have gone to a zoo for that?” Brawn groused back. “I mean, that’s what humans have them for.”

“And pass up a trip like this?” Hound grinned. “Besides, I doubt the human keepers would allow me to take holograms. And this is their natural habitat, after all.”

“You never saw fit to ask.”

Hound smiled at Spike and Bumblebee. Skyfire said nothing, only ducking when he had to. “Buck up, Brawn. Take in the scenery.”

An explosion of air caused them to whip around. Brawn was sitting on the ground, spitting out leaves. “That’s not what I meant,” Hound chuckled, reaching down and giving the sturdy Autobot a hand up.

“Hey … Hound?”

“Mm, yes, Spike?”

“What did Mirage do?”

Hound scanned the treetops before replying. “What do you mean, Spike?”

“He was all covered in mechfluid.”

“Oh.” Hound was silent for a moment. Neither Brawn, Skyfire, nor Bumblebee seemed to want to answer. The scout coughed. “He … did some hunting.”

“For Ravage?” Spike’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Yes, for Ravage.” Hound pushed a branch out of the way. “He found him and dismembered him. I saw his parts scattered across the highway. He was still functioning.”

Spike’s mouth dropped open. “How -- how could he?”

“He was angry, Spike, that’s why,” Brawn finally said. “If it were me, I’d’ve done the same thing to that wind-up toy. Except I’d kill Ravage outright.”

Spike’s shoulders slumped; Bumblebee reached up and patted his knee. “No wonder he was acting the way he did. I did notice he was … happier … ”

“We all did,” Skyfire said, speaking for the first time in the conversation. “We just didn’t know why.”

Spike draped his arms over Bumblebee’s head. “Y’know,” he said with a little laugh, “it’s funny -- Mirage, I mean -- getting a human friend. I didn’t think he was the type.”

“Neither did we, Spike,” Hound said. “But life has a way of surprising us all. Hey, look!” Heads craned upwards, staring at one of the most magnificent eagles the world had ever seen: the Harpy Eagle. Grey and black and white, it was large, filling the space on the branch of the tree it was occupying. Turning its noble head, the eagle clacked its black beak once in warning.

Skyfire knew what to do. “Ok, Brawn, time to do some climbing!”

Catching a Harpy Eagle proved more difficult than catching a Seeker on the wing. The raptor flew about, darting in and out of the trees, screaming all the while in protest. “Stop -- your -- struggling -- you overgrown -- chicken!” Brawn shouted, getting buffeted upside the head with a massive grey-black wing. The eagle snapped at his face, magnificent double crest arching high over its head. “Hound! Get your do-hickey over here before it rips my face plate off!”

Laughing, Hound, Bumblebee with Spike, and Skyfire waded through the small pond to the other side. “Now, hold still, Brawn,” the scout chuckled. Minutes later, it was over, and the eagle was back in the trees, glaring at them with obvious hatred. Brawn wore the exact expression and spat out a couple of tail feathers.

“This girl better thank me on her new knees for all of this,” he rumbled.

“I’m sure she will,” Bumblebee said, reaching behind the disgruntled warrior and plucking stray feathers from behind his head, lodged in the cavity between pate and plate.

“Let’s get flying,” Skyfire announced, transforming.

Three months later …

“Mirage.”

“What is it?” he replied dully, focused on the road ahead.

“It’s time. They’re done, man”

Tires squealed, thick black smoke rising into the air as Mirage braked suddenly, spinning around on the open road. “Repeat transmission, Jazz,” he replied, vocalizer shaking in disbelief.

“Come on home, Mirage-baby.”

Faster than he had ever traveled before -- and Mirage was a cautious Formula-1 racer -- the spy burned rubber back to the Ark.

On some subconscious level, Alina was aware that she wasn’t quite dead. Vague memories flitted through her mind, cultural ones that dictated to her what Heaven would look like. No pearly gates, no choir of angels was to be found in this eternal nothingness. Darkness surrounded her, cocooning her in its warmth, like a warm bed. She was suspended in an endless dreamlike state with no hope of ever seeing daybreak.

One moment, there was searing pain, the next, she was here. Was someone calling her name? A sea of depthless blue eyes floated before her mind’s eye, inhuman.

Something tugged at her, the first real sensation she’d experienced here. She considered it, dismissed it and returned to examining the darkness. The tugging grew more persistent; it clawed at her essence, pulling at the five corners of her soul. Harder and harder it pulled until her mind rang once again with pain. A purely mental scream resounded in what was her ethereal head, echoing off of the walls of this darkness. Again and again she screamed, unfettered terror.

And she was falling … falling and screaming as if it would never stop.

Pressure so painful pressed hard on her chest, forcing air into the bellows that were now her lungs. Eyes that weren’t organic snapped open and she sat up, screaming.

It took some time before the trembling stopped, before Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor were sure that the relays were permanent and in no danger of shutting off unexpectedly. Mirage sat in the corner on a stool, watching under hooded optics as Ratchet awkwardly tried to console the shaken girl.

Femmebot.

Fifteen feet at the top of her crested head, Alina was no longer human. A pair of grey-black-and-white mechanical wings arched up from her shoulders, attached to her white forearms by a series of clasps. Grey titanium feathers -- each individually constructed and applied -- formed a flowing crest from apex of her brow, down to her shoulders. A grey strut jutted out from each shoulder joint; her chestplate was grey, as well as her lower torso. Her feet were large, not the usual slim appendages Cybertron Autobot femmes had; pyramidal and black were her lower legs, and three black talons were attached to the heel, one each above her foot. White tail feathers split on either side of her legs; above those, at her back, were two folded plates that would form her chest when she transformed. In a white face, golden diamond-shaped eyes wept washer fluid -- the Transformer equivalent of human tears.

She didn’t know how long she cried, but soon she was left feeling faint and weak. A cup was pressed into her lax black hands, holding it steady as she fought for motor control.

“Easy, now,” Ratchet said soothingly. The cup tipped as she tried to grab it and failed. “Here.” Larger red hands formed her digits around the mug, lifted it to her mouth. Sweet, impossibly vibrant liquid flowed down her gullet -- or whatever it was that led to her processing chamber. Slowly, the trembling stopped and she felt better. Once it was gone, Ratchet set it aside and took her hands. “Want to try walking?”

Mutely, she nodded, not even sure she was capable of saying anything. This throat was so different, having a literal voice box. Alina stopped, leaving her hand poised in mid-air. Her mind zipped around her body, picking up on things that she hadn’t realized the Autobots had. Ratchet looked at her, took her hand in his and with Wheeljack supporting her on her right, eased her off the table. As soon as her bulky feet touched the floor, her legs shot out from under her, her body suddenly torquing to the right.

Crying out, she flailed. Ratchet and Wheeljack dove for her, only to be batted upside the head with her wings. Perceptor hurried out from behind the table, reaching for her; she torqued again, stepping on Ratchet’s head and knocking Perceptor against the wall with a blow from her wing. With a massive clank, she fell face first onto the floor.

“N-not f-fair!” The words burst out of her mouth, bringing with them static and electricity. On the other side of the room, Mirage rose half-way … then settled back down. He could not help; it was not his place right now.

“Those wings pack a punch, Wheeljack,” Ratchet muttered, slipping his hand under one of Alina’s arms while the inventor did the same on the other side. “You didn’t turn on her boosters, did you?”

“No, her weapons’ relays are all off.”

Weapons? Boosters?

Colors swam in front of her optics and she tried blinking. Crying out again, she stumbled, knocking Ratchet and Wheeljack’s heads together as her vision suddenly shifted into the infrared spectrum. Strong hands lifted her once more, firmly setting her feet in the correct positions. A low buzz resounded in her left aural tract as Ratchet popped a plate and fiddled with something. “Equilibrium circuit off,” the medic announced. “There, try now.”

The two stepped away from her. Alina stood alone in the middle of the room with no recourse but to stay upright. Whatever passed for her heart was beating furiously as she carefully scanned the room. Cautiously, she lifted an arm, examined this limb that wasn’t hers, and yet was. Put one foot in front of the other and soon you’ll be moving across the floor …

Yeah, right. One foot in front of the other seemed to spell Alina-flat-on-face. Still … screwing up what patience she had left, she willed this mechanical body to obey her. If it was all she had left, by God, she’d make it work. Impulses fired, one after the other; the more time went on, the quicker her mind was assimilating to this body. Stiffly, the foot swung outward, set down; the other lifted, moved forward. Cautiously, she turned her head to look at the three. Ratchet and Wheeljack gave a thumb’s up in response; Perceptor was leaning over the console, making calculations.

“Okay, then, let’s try going across the room now. Wheeljack and I will stand on either side.” Ratchet came to her left and gently turned her in the opposite direction.

An hour, then two, passed. Slowly but surely, she was getting a hang of this mechanical body. When Ratchet signaled for her to take a break, she stiffly made her way to where Mirage was leaning up against the counter. Part of her was surprised by his vigilance, but the other half was relieved, and the spy’s familiarity helped calm her raw … neuros. Two stools were propped up there and she drew up one, easing her new body down. Something quivered behind her and she turned her head a fraction, willing the chestplate to stay where it was. Mirage quirked a smile and pulled up the other stool.

“Are you sure you want to sit there, Mirage? I might give you a concussion.”

“Pain comes with the territory,” he replied with a chuckle.

She gave a slight smile then sighed, her titanium crest sliding back along her skull. The metal-on-metal sound was surprisingly pleasing to her audios. “So, tell me, what do I do now? I obviously can’t go back to my job tomorrow.” Words were coming easier now; things seemed to mirror human biology, what with the thought sparking the vocalization. Perhaps Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor had built this body with her comfort in mind.

“I’m sure Prime will have something for you to do,” he told her. “We always need more help around here.” He looked at her fully for the first time, now that there was sentience behind those glittering golden optics. She tilted her head slightly, optics narrowing, breaking the contact.

“I’m an Autobot now, aren’t I? Does that mean I have to fight?” With a little shake, she inclined her head down to look at her grey chestplate, but no symbol lay there—yet.

Mirage looked at his hands. “Well, no, you’re not an Autobot. That is something you have to decide for yourself.”

That definitely surprised her. She had thought that she was automatically one of their faction, being built into one, after all. And it was evident that they needed all the troops they could in order to turn the tide of their interstellar war. “I have a choice?”

Mirage sat back. “You have two choices,” he began, lifting two slim black fingers. “You can choose to join our ranks, or you can choose to be a noncombatant Neutral. By accepting the Autobot symbol, you pledge yourself to our cause—which you know—and yes, you must fight when called upon.”

“And the other?” Why was she suddenly dreading his answer?

“As a noncombatant Neutral, you’re entitled to our protection, but you’re responsible for your own actions. You cannot fall back on us if you run into trouble.” His hands dropped into his lap and he continued to regard her thoughtfully.

Alina sat back on the stool. If she had a choice, why build her this body? Why rip out her mind and soul if they didn’t want her? Her hands clenched on her thighs, grating the intricate metal plating. A thought niggled in the back of her cortex; she pressed harder and from a recess underneath her fingertips, claws popped out. Fascinated, she pulled them back in -- and flicked them out again. How avian had they made her? How avian was she becoming?

In-out-in-out-in-out …

She could sit on her metal ass in the safety of the Ark, where she wouldn’t run the risk of being blown to pieces, or she could accept her obvious fate and join them. Hound had mentioned something of female Autobots once fighting side by side their mech counterparts. Human history told a similar story.

She sighed softly, chestplate wings quivering at her sides. She wasn’t one to side on the sidelines and watch life go by. She could have died, but instead she was alive, albeit not human again. That alone told her what she had to do. Looking up at Mirage, she pulled her talons in. “Where do I sign up?”

Something indiscernible flickered across his grey features. He stood and extended a hand; she took it, marveling that they were now almost the same size, he being slightly taller. This close, she could see the fine lines that made up his facial structure, could see his optical components flicking behind clear sky blue glass. Perhaps being a Transformer wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“You know,” she said as they started walking down the hall, “maybe I should change my name.”

Mirage tilted his head in a fair approximation of her own gesture. “Why? Alina is a lovely, cultured name.”

She shrugged. “ ‘Autobot Alina’ sounds kind of cheesy, don’t you think? Besides, I’m not … human anymore.” Her Energon pump fluttered within her chest cavity as she spoke those words aloud. “Wheeljack said they installed flame jets in my wrists --” She flipped her forearms over, running a thumb along a nearly-invisible seam in her wrist. “-- and when I’m ready, they’ll activate my flame … breath.” She had to stop and chuckle at that; it was not something she’d thought of herself saying. “An eagle that breathes fire. How novel.” Mirage continued to look at her with a calm expression. “Sunfire? No, we have a Sunny already, and I don’t want to name myself after a car. Fire, fire …” She ran through the possibilities as they walked towards the rec room.

Mirage regarded her, listening to her talk to herself. “What about … Flare? Solar … flare?” he suggested.

The largest smile he’d ever seen her wear suddenly blossomed on her white face. Several times she mouthed it and laughed. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugged him tightly -- and then batted him upside the head with a wing.