Title – Muted Factions
Rating – T
Universe – G1
Pairing – Mirage/Thundercracker
Author's Note – Something I wrote last summer and completely forgot about, until now. It's just a little one-shot story written for a challenge, and I rather like how it turned out.
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Muted Factions
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Mirage doesn't fancy himself an Autobot. He's too proud for their honorable, losing cause; he's too noble for smoking battlefields and flashing gunfire. He's too busy for tactical meetings and could care less about pointless public relations stunts with the local humans. Worse, Mirage knows when he's unappreciated and distrusted, and he knows when he's unwanted amongst the Autobot ranks.
The blue spy trudges through the night, the darkness disguising him better than his cloaking device, nocturnal forest sounds surrounding him as he thinks foul thoughts about his comrades and his superiors. His goal is to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Ark, while still technically carrying out his patrol duty – but Mirage is much too distracted to keep a watchful eye for the enemy.
His thoughts drift, and Mirage broods as he continues to walk into the deepening evening blackness. He considers the state of unrest at the Autobot base, and the increasing level of tension between himself and his fellow soldiers. He wishes Hound would wake the frag up – the scout's advances are going nowhere and Mirage has no intention of reciprocating. He wishes Cliffjumper would learn to shut down his vocalizer. Most of all, he dreams what it'd be like if the war had never happened, and how wonderful it'd be to be back on Cybertron.
The scream of a lone fighter jet tears through the peace of the wilderness, pulling Mirage from his thoughts. The spy frowns, optics narrowing as he looks to the sky.
Because Mirage, as much as he is disenchanted with the Autobot cause, abhors the Decepticons.
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Thundercracker, by all rights, secretly considers himself a Neutral. His priorities don't match with those of the Decepticon cause, and Thundercracker doubts they ever will. He's too detached to be engaging in constant warfare; he's much too independent to serve under the intimidating leadership of Megatron. Thundercracker is too apathetic to give a slag about Optimus Prime, and he's too restless to be holed up underwater aboard the Nemesis.
With a powerful kick from his thrusters, the blue F-15 careens through the night sky, relieved to feel the cool air buffet his wings and fuselage. Thundercracker is well-aware of the fact he thinks too much, and unsurprisingly, the trend continues. Thoughts of his wingmates and their constant bickering plague his mind and he wishes – desperately wishes – that he could escape from it all, forever. Thundercracker, however, is far too worried about self-preservation; without the protection of his fellow Decepticons, he is incredibly vulnerable.
Worse, he knows he has no place to go.
The jet starts to arc back down toward the earth, the ground appearing black and the sky only a few shades lighter. Something pings on his radar – it's the energy signature of a lone Autobot – and mentally, Thundercracker scowls.
He may not fancy himself a Decepticon, but Thundercracker is no Autobot.
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Their meetings are never planned ahead; they simply happen.
Mirage can't quite remember how things came to be this way. He recalls an evening filled with patrol duty and regrets – a night similar to tonight – and he recalls a solitary jet touching down close by, transforming then disarming himself and extending a hand in a gesture of neutrality. The blue Autobot spy searches his memory banks, and it occurs to him that everything had started with nothing but mutual venting, each 'bot taking turns outlining the irritating difficulties of his respective faction. Complaining had turned to support, and support had turned to –
Thundercracker transforms as he descends from the night sky, carefully and warily unlatching and tossing aside his weaponry. He pauses, watches Mirage do the same with the missile-launcher mounted on his shoulder, then wordlessly approaches. Though these meetings have been going on forever – since shortly after both factions were reawakened on Earth – neither 'bot trusts the other, and these sentiments will likely never change.
The Decepticon jet looks worse for wear; his steps are slow and halting; his red optics seem distant and tired. Mirage recognizes the dents and blast marks that mar the blue seeker's armor – the result of unrest and distrust in the Decepticon ranks – but he knows by now that he shouldn't mention it, that it's not his place to question what goes on aboard the Nemesis – and so he doesn't.
Instead, the spy stays silent, even as Thundercracker takes several large steps forward, closing the gap between them. Mirage has come to recognize the resulting course of a night based on the beginning moments of their weekly trysts – some evenings, they simply talk, and for others, such as it will be tonight, words have no function.
Thundercracker snakes his arms around the Autobot's slender waist and despite his size leans in against Mirage's smaller frame. Optics offline – lips meet – energy fields flare and clash.
Mirage is no Decepticon.
Thundercracker is no Autobot.
For now, however, the insignias displayed upon chest plates and wings no longer matter. The red symbol, unworthy of its haughty wearer, is ignored; the purple sigil, hated by its reluctant bearer, is disregarded. Factions are flouted, leaders are forgotten, and the war is set aside, yet again, if only for an evening.
Fin
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Author's Note – Hope you enjoyed. I haven't updated much on FFN in quite some time, so I'd like to get back into the hang of things. Maybe. Perhaps.