Even before the war, his unique ability had come in handy.
As much as he enjoyed the luxury and class of the Towers, even the most esteemed nobles had to take a break from the rigid rules and social customs. Whenever he wanted to avoid talking to a particularly pretentious lord or being caught with someone he really shouldn't have been with, all he had to do was switch on his cloak and they would be none the wiser.
Of course, it had been most useful during his Autobot spy years. He could sneak into anywhere and up on anyone, being promoted to lead espionage specialist within the first few decades of joining. With the aid of his SpecOps partners, he took down countless enemy operations with startling ease and efficiency. The initial suspicion surrounding him (fuelled by both his occupation and his background) gradually wore down until even his most avid accusers were willing to have him as backup. Because as stuck up and proud as he came off, his ability was something he was eternally grateful for.
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But in the end, his power was his downfall.
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The mission was a mess.
Whether it was down to poor planning, a slip up or downright betrayal, he didn't know. And frankly, he didn't care. There were much more pressing matters to think about than who was to blame. Like getting the frag out of there, for example.
Currently, he was trapped under the ruins of what once was a Decepticon watch tower. To make matters worse, his cloak was stuck running at full capacity (which only further drained his energon levels, considering he was bleeding out fast). Couple that with an electronic scrambler that blocked out all radio communications, and he was well and truly fragged.
Despite his struggles, he couldn't free himself from under the rubble. In theory, he shouldn't have been able to get out even at full health, let alone with the wounds he had. His frame was slender, built for elegance and stealth rather than power. But his desperate desire to survive allowed him the burst of strength he needed to uncover his top half.
His legs were still trapped, but he now had a full view of the battlefield. It appeared the actual fighting was over, and to his spark's relief, he could see familiar figures shifting through distant piles of rubble. He furrowed his optic ridges. It was almost like they were looking for something.
They were looking for him.
Panicking slightly, he tried to move, to make a sound, to give them any kind of sign he was there, but to no avail. It had taken the last of his reserves to free his top half, and his optics were already beginning to dim.
There was nothing he could do.
Shuttering his golden optics, he felt his cloak begin to fade.
By the time they found his body amidst the destruction, Mirage was long gone.