The Arising

Were Ratchet a human doctor, he would have been pulling up his sleeves in preparation for yet another session. Instead, the Chief Medical Officer merely retracted his left hand, a thin laser sliding into place. His newest patient was laid out on the table, still in her metallic eaglemode. Lifting his hand, Ratchet paused; it was a double-blow to have Solarflare stretched out thus: not only had he helped build the body her spark now wore, but somehow the medic believed that this was one whom he would never see in such a condition.

“I messed up, didn’t I?”

The words that issued from the charred black beak were barely coherent; they rasped forth, spluttering with static. But Ratchet had a trained medic’s aural tract -- he understood everything. “No, you didn’t. Now, be quiet, or else I’ll cut your vocal cords.” It was an empty threat -- this time. But one could never tell with Ratchet; he’d made good on his promises many times in the past. So it was better to be safe than sorry, thus Solarflare lay there, her optics dim.

The first thing Ratchet did was unbend, with the greatest of care, the femme’s dented chestplate. Gently, he pried the two pieces apart, hammering them back into smoothness. Under the thick plate her arms lay curled under her actual chest; Ratchet extended them out, peering at the crushed digits, noting the broken joints. Slowly, he turned her over, unlatched her bird’s head and folded back.

He pressed the tip of his fingers into his forehead, taking a moment’s break. Sunny, joyful, determined Solarflare, the unspoken darling of the Ark. She’d survive all right, but not even he could determine what the experience had done to her cortex. Looking down, Ratchet noticed that a cup of Energon had appeared at his elbow. The medic inclined his head to the unseen spy and downed the drink in one gulp before getting back to work. Behind him, the bay doors swished open and closed, but no one entered or exited -- not one anybody would see, that is.

Ratchet paused, glancing over his shoulder. Of all times, this would be the one that the spy chose not to attend his friend. The soldiers often wondered about these two in secret; Brawn and Gears were plain in their opinions. Whatever it was, neither seemed to acknowledge these purported feelings. Solarflare treated Mirage as she treated the twins: like a brother. The spy seemed to favor that relationship, looking after the wild avian femme as he would a younger sister. Then why was Mirage walking around invisible? He usually did that when he sought solitude or he was troubled.

Under his laser, Solarflare twitched and moaned, her legs spasming as Ratchet hit a damaged neuro. Cursing heavily, the medic reached over and mercifully put the femme offline. The lines flickering across his monitor shut off -- all save the one tracking her cortex. That line was faint in its pulsing, as if she were in a deep dreamlike state. Instantly, her body relaxed, the damaged joints falling limply to the tabletop.

The bay doors swished again, admitting Sparkplug. Laying his hands on the work surface, Ratchet smiled thinly at his human friend.

“Hear Flare got beat up,” the mechanic greeted the Autobot, pulling himself up on a stool that overlooked the surgery. He reached into a drawer set into the table and withdrew his tools.

Ratchet nodded, fingers flickering over the areas he needed the human’s smaller hands to attend to; Sparkplug pulled out the correct gadget and got to work. Theirs was an old partnership, something that Ratchet couldn’t bear to think living without. They were old and gruff and very much alike, even though one was human and the other a sentient mechanical creature that appeared to be a robot.

“Run-in with Starscream.”

“So I heard.” Sparks flew under Sparkplug’s capable hands. “Also heard she took a few chunks outta old Screamer.” He let loose a low chuckle. “Imagine that. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

“Nor did I,” Ratchet conceded. “Full of surprises.”

They were quiet a moment before Sparkplug spoke up. “Speaking of surprises, I ran into Mirage on my way in -- literally. What’s he doing, wandering around invisible? He’s usually with her.”

Ratchet looked up. The medic thought carefully for a few minutes, wondering whether they should be discussing such events in Solarflare’s presence, even if she was technically unconscious. As a rule, Ratchet didn’t talk about his patient “behind her back” if she was under the knife.

“I wondered that myself,” the medic finally replied slowly. “He walked in with Prime as we were laying her out. I turned around and he was gone; but then he put a cup of Energon on the table. I thought he was going to stay, but I heard the doors open and close and no one came in.”

Silence once more, then, “Spike says the guys have been talking.”

Ratchet nodded. “Lately, yes, they have. But I just thought it was Brawn’s tendency to pry where he shouldn’t and Gears’ to overreact. Brawn said he confronted Mirage and he denied anything.”

Sparkplug tipped forward, going waste-deep into Solarflare’s chest cavity. When he replied, his voice echoed around in the chamber. “Well, I think he would. You know Mirage; he likes to keep things to himself. If there was anything between them, he wouldn’t go broadcasting it.” With a wriggle, Sparkplug popped back up. “Now, what about this little lady here?”

Shrugging, Ratchet closed a panel. “Unlike Mirage, she hasn’t been acting differently. I think she’s ignorant of everything.”

Sparkplug shifted, reaching around a tight corner to solder a split cable. “Seems like you got a problem on your hands, pal. All of you. No matter what the truth of this whole wild tale is.”

And Ratchet had to agree.

The CMO was only half-surprised when he opened the bay doors to find Mirage slumped in a corner, head held between his hands, seemingly fallen offline while waiting. Under normal circumstances, Ratchet would have made a racket about loitering, but this time he reached over and gently shook the spy’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out here all this time?”

Mirage looked up, his sky blue optics unfocused. He glanced around, brow ridges lifting almost imperceptibly as he realized he’d gone offline and decloaked. “Apparently,” he replied wryly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Ratchet noted that the spy was avoiding optic-contact.

“Hrmph,” the medic huffed, straightening. “She’s all fixed. I was going to move her back into her room.” He looked down at Mirage’s seated form, waiting for an answer. “Well?”

“Well what?”

It didn’t take much for Ratchet to shift into hard-ass mode. He reached down and grabbed Mirage by the shoulder and shook him several times. “Listen pipe-sucker, I just spent a whole day patching your girlfriend back together. Now, I asked you nicely -- and I don’t do this often -- if you want to accompany me back to her bunk.”

“What … did you call her?” Mirage looked up then, his optics pale, his face drawn tight. He was too stunned by Ratchet’s words to respond to anything else.

“Give me time and I’ll call her a few more things if that’s what it takes to get your sorry ass off the floor.” Ratchet was well aware he was coming close to an explosion from the spy, but the medic hadn’t received his reputation for backing down in front of blowhards.

Mirage’s long, thin black fingers twitched, but he had no weapons; those were stored in his room and in the armory at the moment. Of course, he could always attack with his hands, but that would only land him in the brig. Ratchet stared him down until he finally got up, joints crying out harshly. The medic eyed him before turning around and going into the repair bay, only to return a moment later, pushing Solarflare’s prone form on a grav bed.

Thankfully, they met no one in the halls, no one in the elevator as they rode up to the barracks. Mirage barely looked at his friend, didn’t even touch the grav bed. He walked along beside it, staring straight ahead until they got to her room. The spy punched in the proper code as Ratchet watched with a discerning optic; the door slid open and the bed was pushed in.

Mirage slid around the corner and stood aside as the medic lifted Solarflare and placed her on her padded recharging unit. Her sleeping area was a curious one: remnants of her humanity brought her to ask if a mattress could be fitted to the berth. Perhaps it was memories, perhaps a comfort, but it was done.

Ratchet pulled down her grey chestplate and began fitting several fat cables from the berth into ports in her inner cavity. While he worked, he kept an ear on Mirage, but the spy made no sound. Indeed, his head was turned away, staring blankly at the opposite wall with its murals of Earth animals. Setting the power to high, Ratchet turned around. “She’ll be like this for a few hours, Mirage, so why don’t you go and put your feet up for a while?”

He was quiet a moment. “I feel fine. I’ll stay here.” The spy caught a chair with the back of his foot and pulled it forward, seating himself.

Ratchet’s brow plate drew down in puzzlement, but he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was tired of arguing; let Mirage wear himself to a nub and then come crawling into the bay on his aching servos. More than one of them had done it before. Ratchet turned and palmed the door open and exited, closing it behind him.

Mirage watched him go, then let out all the air he’d kept pent up in his ventilators. It hissed out in a great stream and he bent over, clasping his head in his hands. Why? Why? He looked up at Solarflare’s still form, at the flow of energy through the transparent cables. At her open chest cavity.

Growling low in his vocalizer, Mirage tore his gaze away and looked for something to occupy his time; he spied a reader sitting on the far end of her desk, a note taped to it. “Paradise Lost,” it read, “John Milton.” Close proximity caused him to eye her one more time, then he picked up the reader and flicked it on. Perhaps, whatever tale was contained within would calm his raw neuros and keep his strained emotions at bay.

Mirage sighed and turned the reader off, setting it to the side. He drew his legs together and leaned forward, fingers digging into his facial plating. Reading that epic really wasn’t the kind of relaxation he’d been looking for. Humanity’s ancient perception of creation and daemons and beings of light … the struggle of good and evil. It mirrored their position here far too closely, reminded him of his own misgivings and concerns.

A sharp intake from another set of ventilators brought Mirage’s head up. On her padded berth, Solarflare arched upwards, groaning. The spy’s Energon pump jumped in response; now or never. He pulled his chair closer to the bed and watched as her optics flickered from dull to bright gold. And then she was looking at him, panting slightly as her systems came back online, overloading her cortex with vital information. It was almost as if he were watching her be reborn again, watching as new life coursed through her tubes and lines.

“Good … evening, miss,” he rumbled, optics blinking in surprise at the harshness of his own vocalizer. But it was too late; her optics narrowed to thin slits and she struggled to sit upright, only to be barred from doing so by the fat cables protruding from her open chest.

“Yeah, good evening to you too,” she rasped, eying the cables. Her ventilators wheezed with the increase in activity, straining against her repaired chest. “Mind helping me get these damned things out?”

He wasn’t prepared for this, not for any of this. Rustily, Mirage leaned forward and started pulling the cables loose, rolling them up and storing them away in a container under the recharging bunk. He’d done this before, many times before, when she had been new to the process. They used to joke about it then. There was no levity in the room now, though; only emotions so thick you couldn’t cut it with an Energon blade. She watched him like the bird of prey she was, shrewdly, gauging his mood. She knew him well -- too well for his comfort at the moment. Her optics bore into him, assessing, processing, wondering. She was curious, confused.

Her hand caught his as he started to move away. “Mirage—what’s wrong? You’ve hardly said anything to me. What—no tips? No admonishments for getting my ass kicked?”

Strange emotions she couldn’t quite place flashed across his face at a dizzying pace; he reached up and removed her fingers, barely touching the black plating as if contact with her burned him. “No, I think you handled yourself fine out there. I’m … proud of you.”

She sat up, chestplate hanging open. The lights from her spark container glowed brightly through the rest of her internal circuitry. “Then what’s wrong? You can tell me.” She reached out to touch his shoulder, to draw him back for fraternal comforting. Deftly, he avoided her; started backing away, head hanging low, avoiding optic-contact, arms limp at his sides.

“Your chestplate is open,” he mumbled.

Solarflare was taken completely aback. She looked down. “So? You’re changing the subject.”

“Just … close your chestplate, Solarflare.”

She could hear the increasing pulse of his pump, see the quick rise and fall of his chest as his twin ventilators worked overtime. Somewhere deep inside her system, she began to rumble. He was acting completely stupid; someone had to snap him out of it. “I’ll leave my plate open, thank you, sir. It never bothered you before, so why should it now?”

More and more, he was inching towards the door. He had to get out -- now. Before he did or said something that he’d regret later. He was too tired, mentally, physically, emotionally; a good, long recharge would fix everything, take care of his overloaded cortex. She watched, mouth agape, as he palmed the door panel and slipped through before it had slid open all the way.

“Mirage! Get back here!”

She jumped off the bed and ran towards the door -- but he was gone, vanished. Suddenly overwhelmed, washer fluid sprang to her optics and she turned and pounded the wall with both fists, wings rattling on her arms in anger. A sharp pain in her side caused her to double over for a moment, reminding her that she was newly-recovering.

The pain quickly passed and she stood up, holding her side and looking back out into the hall. Why was he being so difficult? Weren’t they friends, didn’t they tell each other everything?

Fresh tears sprang to her optics. Weeping quietly, though she didn’t quite know why, Solarflare returned to her room and looked at the discarded chair. A sudden surge of feminine rage against the male of the species flooded her cortex and she hauled back with one leg and booted the unoffending object across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a large crash, falling onto the floor and landing atop her collection of entertainment discs.

“It’s good to see you’re functioning,” a voice commented from the doorway.

Solarflare stiffened, wingtips shooting upward in surprise. She whirled around, crest twitching. The Minibot Brawn stood there, his normally hard features soft. “What’d he do?”

The femme looked at the Minibot a moment, then decided that he was offering up genuine concern. “I -- I don’t know!” she replied quietly, shoulder-struts slumping. “I woke up and he was looking at me strangely.”

Brawn nodded as if he already knew this. “Did he say anything?”

Solarflare lifted her hands in desperation. “That -- that he was proud of me … That I should … close my chestplate!” Her vocalizer rose a few octaves, threatening to break into a howl -- or screech. “I did what I was trained to do, Brawn.” She whirled to face the strongest all the Autobots. “What did I do wrong?”

The Minibot looked at her a moment. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The problem is with him.” When she merely stared in confusion, fluid dripping down her sharp white cheeks, he continued: “He didn’t tell you then. I figured he wouldn’t; that’s why I came down here.”

Maybe Brawn would fly better than the chair, part of her considered, eying his smaller form. Lifting her hand, something fell on the floor with a soft splat; she reached up, furiously scrubbing at her wet face. Did she really want to know? “Tell me what?”

“He loves you.”

For the second time that night, her mouth dropped open. And then she began to laugh -- hysterically laugh. Laugh so hard that her legs trembled and she fell to the floor in a great metallic-feathered sprawl. It was a laugh born not of humor, but of an overloaded cortex.

Brawn reached up and closed the door and waited until she’d laughed herself out; watched as she lay face-down on the floor, shoulders heaving in exertion. Quietly, he knelt beside her and put a gentle hand on her back. “Solarflare?”

“’m ok,” she mumbled, coughing as her overworked ventilators complained. “Just --” Setting her hands on the cool metallic floor, she shifted, pushing herself up.

“Ratchet would have your head for a bowling ball if he saw you.”

Shoulder-struts hanging low, she nodded. “I know. I -- I -- just don’t know what to say.” She sat up with his assistance, propping herself up by her comm console. “It’s too much for me right now.” She looked at Brawn, strange golden optics meeting battle-hardened blue.

“Is it?” Brawn queried, taking a seat beside her. “You’re a smart girl, don’t tell me it hadn’t crossed your cortex.”

Resting her hands on her knees, she shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Then you’ve never thought of him as anything more than a brother?”

Solarflare lowered her head, unsure. Before tonight, the answer would have been simple; nothing was simple anymore. Did Brawn know what he was doing? Did he know that he was influencing her thoughts with his observations? She thought back, back to when she was human, sitting on Mirage’s knee under the trees, talking about life; watching the stars in the park, perched on his shoulder; the long nights in her garden. Vague, wispy memories lifted from the depths of her cortex, reminding her of her time in stasis, after her human body had been destroyed. Sunstreaker had told her that the spy had spent three months by her side, so that she truly been never alone in that nothingness. Mirage was her comfort, her rock, the guiding star that led her along the path of her new life; he was the one who stood by her side as she was introduced to the Autobots as their teammate; he taught her how to shoot properly, not like the way Prowl had shown her; he spent long hours without complaint, loading boulders into a cannon for her to practice her aerial techniques.

And she thought of him as a brother.

And why not? He’d been that way, just like the twins, only more polite.

“You have to make up your mind.”

Brawn’s voice cut through her thoughts and she jerked back to reality. “What do you mean?”

“About the two of you. He’s destroying himself over this, Flare.”

The grey-black-white femme sighed, rubbing the space in-between her helm and facial plating. She had such a headache! “Can’t you see I know that?”

“You didn’t even notice it until I told you.”

Her hands clenched, the pulse behind her optics increased. “Dammit, Brawn! What do you want me to do, huh? Go up to him and say, ‘Yes, Mirage, I’ll be your girlfriend?’ ”

Brawn snorted. “Either way. He has to know.”

“He can come to me and tell me himself.”

Brawn rose and stared down at her. “You know he won’t do that. He believes that he’d destroy your friendship.”

“Friendship be damned!”

“It already is,” he said softly.

Her mouth dropped open for the third time that night. Goddammit, he was right. Here she was, blissfully unaware of her best friend’s internal destruction, his insistence on keeping what he felt secret in order to protect what they had. And she knew him best -- so she thought.

“Brawn, I need to think.”

He nodded. “I’ll be in the rec room if you need me.” He moved toward the door and paused. “I’m sorry, Flare, but I had to do something. No one else would.” And he was gone, leaving her alone once more.

Solarflare reached out for her discarded chair and sat down at her console. She idly tapped some keys, bringing up the local news -- anything that would distract her from this infernal headache! She knew little about Transformer courtship procedures, having few instances to look it up; they knew almost nothing about the complexity of human relationships (the twins’ collection of porn didn’t count). And here she was, stuck in the middle of two worlds again.

Sighing, she browsed through the news. Men, no matter what the species, were so damned stubborn! It would be so much easier if things were straightforward, her avian side mused as her optics scrolled. Me, you, let’s get together. Mate, nest, raise chicks.

“Jesus Christ,” she swore, stabbing at her optics with blunt fingertips. “Stoppit.”

Wanna-be mate should fight.

Solarflare looked up, a seed of an idea beginning to form in her overtaxed cortex. Her birdbrain had been right about everything else -- why not make him fight for it? If he wanted her that badly, he had to prove it.

She meant as if to stand up when she caught a thread of a news item out of the corner of her optic. “Ravers win battle to have dance at warehouse.”

Males fight for mates. Males would fight their best friend if it came down to it, she considered. Males were biologically and psychologically built to fight for what they believed was theirs. With a smile that bespoke of satisfaction, Solarflare stood up and walked out of the room, intent.

Black taloned legs carried her swiftly to the rec room, hoping she’d find him there. Chances were the others would be too; the more of an audience she had, the better her chances that he’d react the way she had imagined.

Turning the corner, her audios picked up the raucous sounds of off-duty Autobots. Smiling to herself, she stepped into the rec room. Immediately, someone called out to her.

“Ah! There she is! Flare, come here and watch me take Smokie for the fifth time!”

Strolling up to the table, she gave Trailbreaker a slight smile. “I’d love to, Trailbreaker, but I’m looking for Blaster.”

If the big black Autobot thought the request strange, he didn’t show it. He merely grinned and gestured. “He’s over there, plugged into the local radio station again.”

With a thankful smile, Solarflare crossed the room to where Blaster sat in boom box mode on the counter; a thin black cable attached him to the desktop console. If everyone else had been previously occupied, they weren’t now. Her comrades leaned forward, eager to see what was going on -- all but Mirage, who was sitting stiffly on the couch behind Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, his face made of stone. “Blaster,” she said, tapping him on the side to get his attention. “You busy?”

She stepped back to allow him room as he transformed, pulling out the plug. “Busy?” he asked cheerfully. “No. Whatcha got in mind, Flare?”

“There’s a rave going on at the warehouse tonight. Wanna come?”

Blaster’s gentle face screwed up momentarily as he pondered her departure from the norm. His optics gleamed as he made up his mind. “A rave? That’s a human dance party, isn’t it? I didn’t know you were into that, Flare.”

She shrugged. “Figured it’s something to do. So, do you want to come?” She tipped her head coyly to the side, crest quirking in an invitation.

Blaster grinned hugely. “You’re right I do! I won’t pass up the opportunity to get more samples of human music.” He turned and looked over his shoulder, calling out, “Hey, Jazz, up for a night out?”

From across the room, Jazz sat up. “Sure. Can’t let you two party animals have all the fun.” The saboteur uncrossed his legs and got to his feet, coming to stand beside Solarflare, grinning down at her.

“Excellent!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and linking arms with both mechs. She so dearly wished to turn around and catch Mirage’s reaction, but now wasn’t the time. If he didn’t step up now, he never would and that was it.

Arm in arm, the trio exited the rec room. Once safely down the hall, Jazz pulled her to the side, slipping out of her grasp. “Tell me, baby-girl, what’s up?”

Solarflare was wide-optic innocence. “What?” She twisted her hands together idly, flicking her crest back and forth.

“This isn’t like you.” Solarflare blinked up at him, but Jazz was all seriousness; he waved a thick black finger in her face, the light behind his visor dark. “As much as I enjoy a good time, I know when something’s up. Care to tell ol’ Jazz, or do I have to pull rank?”

“It’s Mirage, isn’t it?” Blaster interrupted, rubbing the back of his head in contemplation. “I thought I saw him bust his mug over Sideswipe’s head when we left.”

Bust a mug over Sideswipe’s head? Literally? Now that was completely out of character! She turned her head to peer at the open rec door. If Mirage had busted a mug over the red warrior’s head, shouldn’t he be lying in pieces outside? “Yes,” she admitted, a little confused. “It is. It’s a long story, though. I only found about it tonight.”

Suddenly, the light was back in Jazz’s visor. He reached down and touched her on the strut. “Hrm. Well, baby-girl, why don’t you tell Jazzy all about it, and we’ll see what we can do …”

Not surprisingly, Jazz and Blaster completely understood. They were good mechs, warm-hearted and willing to do anything for a friend. They took their time going to the warehouse, long enough for Solarflare to lay out her concerns, frustrations and fears at her friends’ axels and dubs.

“Well, I got him on radar,” Jazz announced as they pulled up to the warehouse. “He’s coming.”

Solarflare alighted and opened up Jazz’s passenger-side door, easing Blaster out and placing him on the ground where he could transform. The bouncer standing guard by the massive entrance to the warehouse simply goggled, a combination of amazement and horror marching across his tattooed face.

“Wha -- what’re you here for?” he squeaked, hand moving towards the gun concealed in his waistband.

Jazz transformed and leaned down, grinning. “To dance, baby. Or is this a closed gig?”

The man’s eyes grew wider, as if he couldn’t contemplate why three aliens from outer space wanted to go inside. “You’ll -- mess it up.” It sounded so stupid once he said it.

Jazz’s smile grew wider as he stood up and looked at Solarflare and Blaster. “I don’t think so. We’re careful on our big feet -- ’specially the lady here. She really wants to go in; how can you say ‘no’ to such a pretty face?” Solarflare dimpled on command, crest sweeping up. “See?” Jazz went on, smooth as oil. “Harmless. I promise, no mess.”

Try as he might, the bouncer couldn’t stop stuttering. Damned speech impediment acting up again. “I -- I’ve seen what you d-do on TV.”

Jazz waved a negligent hand around. “That’s battle, baby. This is fun. Now, are you going to let us in or do we have to start our own party outside?” As he spoke, the compartments on his hips slid open and twin amps extended. All it took was one round of techno-a-la-Jazz and they were in.

Blaster immediately moved towards the DJ platform, leaving Jazz and Solarflare by the door to deal with gawking humans. “What?” the saboteur asked the congregation genially before lifting Solarflare up and spinning her around as the lights flashed off their metallic hides. “We’re here to party!”

Obviously effected by E and the heavy techno beat, the crowd went wild, calling for glowsticks. Jazz set Flare down and they practically crawled over her, attaching glows on whatever part of her body they could reach.

Down on her tail feathers, Flare looked up at Jazz, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the number of people surrounding her. “Bye-bye, baby-doll. And have fun!” And he was off, rocking down the line, raising his fist at Blaster for a heavier beat.

She looked down at the people about her, eager and energetic, and smiled. No matter what happened tonight, this would be fun. Lifting her wrist, she admired the string of glowsticks adorning her arm. “How about here?” she asked, pointing to her waist. They cried out gleefully, using whatever rope and twine they could find in the old building to comply.

Pretty soon, Solarflare sported a carton or more of glowsticks, hanging off of all parts of her frame. She stood up carefully and made her way to the front, standing by the DJ platform that Blaster had taken over. The DJ himself didn’t seem unhappy; he was perched on Blaster’s shoulder, shouting encouragement and tips. Blaster looked up, saw her and grinned. The beat thumped heavy in her audios and she found herself loosing her cares in the music.

It had been a long time.

Carefully, so as not to inadvertently cause harm, she began to sway, to dance, in ways that no one would have thought possible for a creature of metal.

“He’s here.” Jazz’s warning cut straight through the outer noise, right into her cortex. She looked up, still swaying to the music. There was no mistaking Mirage’s sleek frame as he came through the doors; she closed her optics and turned her back, dancing. Through the floor, she could feel the heavy beat of his feet as they carried him closer; over to Jazz, who was propped up on a crate.

She waited a moment, they turned, lifting her arms over her head, dangling glowsticks. He was looking straight at her, mouth slung in disbelief, fingers clenching the other crate Jazz was using to rest his feet on. A wisp of her past life noted that if Mirage had been human, he’d probably be very, very uncomfortable in the lower region right now. “Are you coming?” She pitched the sending to include Blaster and Jazz.

He turned to Jazz; the Porsche grinned and said something she couldn’t hear. But he stood up, making his way stiffly to her side. “Fancy seeing you here,” she called out over her shoulder as he came to stand behind her.

“You challenged me, Flare. I had to come.” She watched as he looked down at her be-glowed waist; the coolant lines along his neck convulsed as he hesitantly set his hands on her black hips.

“It would have been easier if you just told me what was going on.” She swung around, disengaging her wings and putting her arms around his shoulders. This close, she could see the pain, like a string of Cybertronian script, scrolling across his optics. “Perhaps you will now?”

“I never wanted to jeopardize our friendship, Flare. It has been my most treasured possession, over everything I have left of Cybertron.” It cost him dearly to speak to her, to even touch her. A part of Solarflare wondered if she was wrong in doing this. Would it cause more damage?

Slowly, she considered her reply. “And what would you have to say to me that would jeopardize our friendship?”

“I … love you.” He slumped forward slightly, banging their frames together, the emission leaving him with almost nothing.

Solarflare looked at him. He’d said it -- he’d actually said it. “It took you all this time to tell me? Brawn was right, then.” And smiled softly, relieved.

He stopped moving and held her at arm’s length. “Brawn did WHAT!” Several humans looked up at them, startled by Mirage’s booming voice. Still wearing that smile, she reached out and flicked him under his chin with her claws open. His optics nearly rolled to the back of his head.

“Don’t blame him; I asked him when you left. He stopped by to see how I was.”

“So you knew.”

He was watching her, with naked hunger on his classic grey features. Now or never, she had to make her decision. “I’m female, Mirage. We know. And I’m flattered.” She was; the knowing part was a boldfaced lie, but he didn’t have to find that out. He watched, almost shaking apart. Now … or never, she repeated to herself. Leaning over, she put her lips to his vents. “I love you too.” As soon as she said it, feelings that she hadn’t known she’d been holding back rushed straight to her cortex, overwhelming her. Mirage’s hands tightened on her waist, optics searching hers. Gently, she touched her lips to his, surprised that kissing Cybertronian metal wasn’t like sucking on a doorknob, as she’d imagined. His lips were as warm as her own, faint lubricant coating the interior.

Flashbulbs went off amidst much hooting and hollering. They broke apart, Solarflare leaning gently against his shoulder, quite content. Jazz merely smiled the largest smile they’d ever seen; Blaster gave them a thumbs’ up and spun the music down slowly, dimming the lights.

It was around four in the morning that they came trekking back into the Ark, much to Prowl’s disapproval. “Do you realize that you were Decepticon-fodder out there?” he asked, eying Solarflare’s glows as well as Blaster and Jazz’s attire of human women undergarments. “And what is all this?”

“Souvenirs,” Jazz told him gleefully, sweeping by the analyst and draping a thong over his chevron.

“I don’t care. You shouldn’t have been out this late.”

“Awr, c’mon, Prowl,” Blaster wheedled. “We had fun. Don’t blow it.”

Prowl scowled. “Hey, where’re they going?” He spun on his heel, hand raised to call Solarflare and Mirage back. Jazz caught his wrist.

“Leave ’em, brother. Now’s not the time.”

Prowl opened his mouth, thought better and closed it. He’d seen that look before; worn it, even. “Fine. But I need to inform Optimus about this.”

Jazz shrugged. “That’s cool, man; just do it in the morning.” He gave casual wave and meandered down the corridor, into the belly of the Ark. Blaster gave Prowl a grin and followed, leaving the second-in-command in the hanger bay, shaking his head. What did it matter that in the morning he’d be having the twins’ heads for plastering the front page of the newspaper all over the halls, or that he’d spend some time calming Red Alert down as he screamed about another breech of security? Sure, he’d tell Prime, but right now, after seeing their faces, it didn’t seem so important.

War was harsh, but it mattered so much to have someone to go through it with. With a sigh of remembrance, Prowl palmed the hanger bay security system on and walked back to the bridge.