Love will show the way Chapter 10: 10 - Halfway, a transformers fanfic

Everybody hoped for something.

A parent would have hoped for an easier life to his precious child.

A lover would have hoped for a kinder lover to his battered self.

A broken soul would have hoped for a better time to his crushed and lonely heart.

Hope, that need to wait for something to happen, for someone to come, for the fate to smile and finally, finally grant your wishes.

Everybody had it in them.

Hope.

And something to ask for, of course.

Something for which everybody would have waited silently and patiently so that something and someone would answer to their silent prayer.

Who or what, would eventually come to them, well, that depended on what you really craved, what you needed.

Money. Love. Friendship.

There were many things to ask for, but what you really needed; only you could know that.

Just as it was always you, and only you, the one to know what really was important, what was that one thing without which you'd be dead, with your heart in pieces for the grief of not having it with you.

So, what you wanted, what you longed for, depended basically on who you were.

A hopeless man.

A lonely woman.

A gloomy child.

Every need, every wish changed depending on who you were, on what your needs was.

Therefore, if all that psychiatric analysis on human's behavior was true, then, what could the leader of the Autobot want?

What could make the usual strong and unwavering gaze of Optimus Prime hopeless as that of a lost man?

What, or who was behind the lovelorn glint in the once hard and startling blue eyes of the Alien?

What, actually, was Optimus Prime searching for so desperately and fiercely to make him cringe when nothingness was then the only thing he had found?

Those were the question that a baffled and exhausted Sam Witwicky asked, of course only with his mind, at the grim air of an Optimus Prime who, weeks after weeks, seemed to become more and more taciturn, somber, shadowy.

Scary.

And not in a good way, unfortunately.

After all, it was one thing when the leader of the Autobot showed himself appalling and dangerous against the enemy, in that case, the scariness was alright, it was good, but another thing was to be nailed by the harsh and grim electric blue eyes that Sam was used to find kind and gentle upon him.

Anyway, that was an ugly and terrific side of the scariness of which Optimus Prime was capable, something he never knew, but, nevertheless, a side that had made the poor university student shake like a leaf along with an equally scared Bumblebee when they had returned empty handed after every searching.

And that, with his deep horror, had happened all the time, since the leader of the Autobot had sought his help for a confidential mission of which everybody, from Captain Lennox to the rest of the Autobot had been kept in the dark on purpose.

Odd, and a little worrisome that he had been the only one to be chosen, but since he had been used to be involved in odd and dangerous situations, Sam had not given much notice on the matter, choosing instead to follow the towering Alien unhesitatingly, after all, what could have happened to him with the stronger being in the world on his side?

Die of fright every time the grim gaze of the Autobot fell on his shaking figure, that was what could happen to him Sam Witwicky growled mentally to himself as he pulled the confused and silent man he had found in the isolated café in which he had ventured in search of information about the pair of strange men with a little girl the Autobot was looking for.

The reason why Optimus Prime had been looking for them, well, God only knew, he certainly would not have asked for explanations, he cared too much about his health to test himself with the heart-attack that surely, the tense and sharp tone of the alien would have caused him.

So when the people in the little café had informed him that yes, a strange couple of men with a little girl had been there and that the chef had even talked to them, then, Sam Witwicky had not been picky or shy.

He had searched for the man in the kitchen and, without giving him the time to ask for his name and motive, the student had dragged the first good things in those weeks to the desolate open space, at the side of the Interstate 10, where the icy mech was waiting for him.

- Are you kidnapping me? – shrieked suddenly the chef when the view of a towering and menacing truck made him pop out from the state of trance on which he had fallen given the speed of events.

- I'm not – muttered Sam under his breath, pulling the man with a grimace when Al, as he called himself with a shriek, began to yank – Hey! Stay still!

- Yes, you are! I'm going to be kidnapped! Help!

The shrilling scream made Sam cringe, but the truck was too closer, his patience too little and the poor sandwich he had for breakfast too pitiable to let him slow down or loosen his grip around the wrist of the frightened man.

- I've already told you, dude, there is someone who wants to talk to you about those men you met; no one is going to kidnap you.

- Are you from the mafia? - squealed in turn Al, yanking and screaming like a little girl.

Grinding his teeth, Sam tried to curb his hysterics, but the dude was not helping with all that 'help, 'the mafia is kidnapping me and all that bullshit.

Anyway, why the hell would the mafia kidnap a chef of a desolate café of Las Cruces?

What would they have wanted from him? Cake and biscuit with afternoon tea?

Seriously?

And yet, the panicked man did not seem to follow the logic of his reasoning, so that, after a squeal and a whimper, the tired boy could not help himself but come to a halt brusquely and grab the shoulder of the chef in a harsh and jittery grip.

- Listen carefully dude, no one is going to be kidnapped here. All you have to do is tell to my friend the same thing you had told me and you can go back to your fucking kitchen, got it? All I'm asking is some male solidarity man, please, I need this.

After a little more yanking and piercing screaming, the man went from shouting for help to mutter his aversion, until, with a soft murmur to fill the silence, he eventually nodded his agreement.

Sam showed him a wry smile in answer, regaining the pulling while the man kept on babbling about why he had to meet crazy people all the time.

Well, at least, Sam can sympathize with that.

- Here.

With a start, the man raised his frightened gaze on the truck, waiting for someone to come out from that monster, but when no one popped out, he began to eye the psychopath kid suspiciously.

- Now, what?

Sighing, Sam braced himself for what was coming to him, eyeing the yellow Camaro that honked at him as moral support.

- Now talk.

- To whom? – asked the man with a frown.

- To the truck.

The silence that followed his weird request was heavy and enervating, but when the man finally decided to talk, Sam had what he had expected to receive and what, in all honesty, even he would have said in his place.

- You are crazy.

Thanks a lot, dude.

- Yeah, I'm crazy, I know. Listen, dude, just do as I say.

- And why? You are crazy, so why should I listen to a crazy kid?

- Because if you do not – Sam shrieked, by now on the verge of a nervous breakdown- I'll run over you with my Camaro until you will do as I say!

But whatever was the answer Sam thought to receive from the now worn-out man, well, it was not what he had expected.

- What the hell dude! Why are all the crazy people I meet obsessed with cars?

- What-

- Don't talk. I will do as you say, kid, just, be quiet. I had enough of all this anyway – grumbled the chef, spying on his baffled kidnapper with angry eyes before turning, and well, talk with a truck.

- Last week I met a couple of men with a little girl. It was at midnight. How is it?

- Umm…it's okay. Go on.

- Well - Al mumbled without knowing how to continue that odd thing he was doing -Well, as I said, it was a couple of men and a little girl. Listen, kid, I don't' know what else to say.

- How were they? – Sam helped him, searching, meanwhile, for significant movements from the silent truck.

- Well – the chef began, shrugging off the discomfort to be in the middle of nowhere with a crazy boy behind his back and a monstrous truck that for a second, just for a second seemed to growl for his indecision to continue.

- Did your track just snarled at me?

- Bullshit – was the swift answer of Sam – keep talking.

- But-

- No questions dude. Keep talking.

- But-

- .

- I'd have to stay at home – the man huffed, surrendering eventually to the thought that "the faster the merrier".

- Let's see… the men were a pair of twins. Tall. Black hair. Disturbing blue eyes, and man, out like a horse.

- Scary.

- You can say that! – squealed the chef when Sam let slip his remark while the poor man resumed the tale – They were crazy, especially the older one. That one was the worst. You have to believe me, kid, even if they looked alike, there was something in him that made me shiver. A creep, that's what he was, that madman.

- Madman? – Sam could not help but ask.

With a start, as he had just remembered something that it was better to forget, the chef turned his now pale face to meet the curious eyes of the crazy boy with his horrified ones.

- He was completely crazy!

The harsh grip in which the man closed his arms made Sam flinch, but the petrified glint in the wide eyes of Al prevented him from complaining about it.

- He threatened to blow up my car with me inside if I had not made a cake for him!

- A cake? – breathed Sam, dumbfounded by a request that now seemed crazier than his claim to talk with a truck.

- Yes! - was the heated claim of Al, a fearful look on his already frightened face – He was crazy! I told you! He even wanted me to sing!

- Sing what? – Sam asked again, more and more shocked by what the chef was half screaming now.

- A birthday song for their daughter!

- A daughter? Whose?

- Are you kidding me, kid? Who we are talking about? Whose may she be the daughter if not of those two lunatics?

A daughter.

The word echoed in the blank space that now was Sam's head for those that seemed interminable minutes, but, in reality, it was just a handful of second in which Optimus Prime, even as a truck, made his skin crawl when the engine hissed savagely, maybe as a sign to force the man to keep going with his story, a hint that, however, diverted Al's attention from whatever he was going to say.

- What was that?

- What was what? – choked out Sam, pale as a sheet.

- Your truck had just hissed!

- It was your imagination.

- What-

- How was she? The daughter I mean.

- The daughter? – stuttered Al, going back to look him with his eyes big as tennis ball – what about the daughter?

- How was she?

- She was tiny, of this I'm sure – he whispered to himself, frowning when he tried to remember more details – it was hard to have a better look anyhow. Those two crazy men had wrapped the poor thing in an awful huge scar, so little was visible, not that those two would have allowed anyone to get close to her. One of them had even accompanied her into the ladies room!

- Well…

-Creepy right? But even if they were wicked, their daughter was sweet like a candy. She had even apologized for her parent's behavior before leaving. Really, she was the only good thing of that horrible night.

- So, any idea where they would head next? – Sam then urged him, hoping to have finally something to follow in addition to the poor information that they had.

- No, I have no idea, nor I wanted to know at the time. Listen, kid, this is all I know about them, can I go now?

Silently, Sam considered carefully Optimus's reactions, to figure out if what he had found was enough to send away the poor guy, and when the truck backed out with a sharp hiss of the engine, Al flew away as fast as he could from his loose grip while Bumblebee approached him with one of his door opened to let him jump in.

- So…what now?

Silence. Heavy and stiff.

Sam welcomed the chilly behavior of Optimus Prime with an unsure look, one of his foot inside the car and the other still stuck to the road, waiting for something to do and someone to search, or, at least, some more information about those two men with their daughter that Optimus wanted to find so much.

He had to know something more about them, obviously, something that, however, he did not want to share with him or the world.

Why?

What could those people have done to the leader of the Autobot to be stalked in that way?

Was he in search of revenge, maybe?

Impossible.

They were talking about Optimus Prime, the kind, wise and strong leader of the Autobot, not about some stalker or hunter of some kind.

He did not seek revenge.

He did not hunt humans, less than ever little girl with two dads as parents.

But - croaked his mind - he did not even act behind the back of his comrade or behave like a caged animal, or, at least, he should not have.

And yet, here they were.

Him and Bumblebee, in search of a handful of humans that seemed to have unleashed an Optimus Prime much darker and somber than the one they all knew, someone that was better not to anger or antagonize, or even cross in his bad days.

And, as the roaring of the engine awakened the cold rage of a gaze that no one, not even Bumblebee was able to hold, even in his alternative form, that particularly day was, as Sam Witwicky could see in firsthand, the worst of them all.

- Maybe he's just going through a middle age crisis.

He had to admit it.

Perhaps that one had not been one of his smartest remark, nor the right way to break the tense silence that the stiff crowd of onlookers had kept since the leader of the Autobot had returned from his leaks, even more, somber than ever, however, Petr Andronov was too stressed by the current state of things to continue to turn a blind eye or be quiet like his colleague, Kaminari Ishinara, had rudely asked him a couple of hours ago.

So, since he had not done it, be quiet, the irritated woman to his right gave him what he deserved for breaking the grave contemplation of their moody ally.

- That was the most stupid thing you've said, Andronov, and that say it all since everything that came out from that big mouth of yours has the ninety-nine percent chance to be something stupid.

- That hurts lady – whistled Baby Face once the icy voice of the Japanese agent made every man in the room flinch as she had just hit their lower parts. Hard.

A cool gaze was, however, all that the young scientist gave them before turning on her heels and return to work as everyone should do she shouted at them from the hallway, so to avoid being compared to old and chatty spinners that could not help themselves but meddle in the business of an upset Alien robot who, given his current absent-minded state, would have trampled on them without even noticing.

- Someone must go to talk with him.

- Suit yourself, soldier. I just can't wait to see one of you be crushed under Optimus's pedes or fly through the room after one of his careless moves – chewed Ironhide sharply, his imposing form abandoned on the wall not far from where Ratched was analyzing Optimus's brainwaves in search of the reason behind his moodiness.

But the more the doctor looked at him, the more the lack of answer made the grave frown on his flaceplates deeper and more confused.

- I don't understand. There is nothing wrong in his vital signs.

- Maybe it's something psychological? – ventured Captain Lennox after a couple of seconds spent to stare at his alien friend with a worried look.

- Like what? – Epps asked frowning – Some kind of trauma?

- Was he bullied as a kid? - one of the soldiers wondered aloud.

- I'm still of the idea that he is going through a middle age crisis – Petr muttered under his breath, but, just as for all the things he said, there was someone that made him swallow his stupid statement with a swear-word while a troubled Ratchet kept on staring hard to his chief, and the annoyed Russian man searched for some other plausible explanation for Optimus Prime's shift of personality.

- That is not possible. It's true that our life span is longer than yours, but if we had to give him an age through your criterion than Optimus will be around twenty-six/twenty-seven years.

A couple of whistles showed how much that news had surprised the soldiers, especially the Captain who raised a bewildered gaze on the doctor.

- Really? Is he that young?

- Yes, Captain Lennox.

- Then, how old are you? – came the question of another soldier, closely followed by another pair of queries – and Ironhide? Bumbleebe?

- I will be in my forty. Bumblebee, on the other hand, is still a youngling, so he can be considered a teenager, while Ironhide, well, he is the oldest one, he will be in his fifty.

- A grandpa then – Petr joked with a half smile, but, again, he was forced to swallow his stupid saying and voice when the angry eyes of Ironhide made an imaginary hole in his head before the upset transformers, satisfied of the whimpered apologies of the fleshling, brought back his attention on the tall and taciturn Optimus Prime that was still gazing intensely at the world map.

Looking for what, he did not know.

- All I know is that he is keeping something from us – he thought aloud, his faceplates grim and scratched by the frustration that he vented into a growl of annoyance when his old friend and chief let himself be engulfed by the darkness of the hallway without a sound, leaving behind the noisy question and the angry call to which Optimus did not bother himself to reply.

After all, he had not the time to worry about the uneasiness of others when he was too busy to curb his own, badly to more he admitted with a heavy sigh as he advanced rapidly towards the corridors to reach the only place in which he can afford to undress himself from the stoic and somber look and let the loneliness and frustration stain his optics and make his voice plaintive like that of a child.

He needed it.

A moment, just one moment, some outlet for the tangle of disappointment, worry, and sadness that threatened to choke him every day.

How could a human even bear all that pressure, all those conflicting feelings, went beyond his comprehension.

He was becoming too unstable. His feeling too messy. His mood too fickle. His voice too unfaltering.

Optimus Prime felt uncomfortable in his own skin, and he did not like it.

Be so moody was bothersome.

He was happy one moment, then that after sad, then angry, then frustrated and then, happy again, a labyrinth of emotion that he could not control or curb since he had decided to trust the sparkmate's link.

What really it was had been a mystery, at the beginning.

After all, it was an event so rare between his kin, that no one had some knowledge about what it really was, about how to use it.

So Optimus had only been able to guess.

Was it something you could touch? Or maybe it was something more spiritual?

How did it work?

Could she hear him? Could he hear her?

How could he do that?

Could he even do that?

Yes. He could. Or, at least, that was one of the first things he had discovered.

Yes. He could hear Lucile if he had thought hard about her, and that, at first, had not been very difficult.

Embarrassing how easy it had been for him to make her a regular thought, to have a memory of her so clear, strong and limpid in his mind, but when the initial awkwardness had given away to the daze to be actually able to feel her, then, it had been easier to accept his clumsiness and uneasiness.

So, he had kept on guessing.

How could he track her down? What trace has he? What did he remember most about her?

The softness of her gentle voice.

The moment he had thought about that, a faint, gentle whisper had echoed in his startled mind, something too weak and far to believe to be true, to be considered as a proof of the link, as a hint, but when Optimus had begun to pace back and forth to ease his irritability, something strange had happened.

Stronger.

The voice had become stronger two steps back from where he had stopped, so he had believed, or maybe he was simply glitching, but when he had tried his madness, and the voice had become for real stronger as he had supposed, then, he had discovered another thing.

The more he walked with the memory of her voice as his landmark, the more Lucile's voice become stronger, a guess, just as the other ones that had brought him to all that, but a guess that had become a certainty when, in following the voice, he had returned to the glade where Lucile had found him.

The beginning of his new path. A path he had chosen to take, and, that now, he did not intend to abandon.

So, with a proof and a spoor, he had begun to search for her, alone, hopeful to be able to find her.

But he did not.

He never did.

So he had asked for help to Sam, the only one who would not have questioned him, his mood swings, the faint smiles that peeked on his lips or the disappointment that had begun to darken his optics and harden his voice.

Because he had been always close, but never enough, always about to feel, but never to touch her.

It was from that disheartening inability that all his distress, his moodiness, and his stiffness was born, from being almost but never there where he knew, she had been before him, always a step away from him.

And every time his mind recalled another trail to use, every time new features gave a form and a sound at the blurred shape he had tried so hard to grasp, those same fascinating details made his failure more unbearable.

The kind glint of her smile.

The gentle weight of her steps on the ground.

The soft tinkle of a laugh of which he could only listen to the echo that, however, was destined to fade along with her slim shape when he was so close to make that head turn to him.

The sparkmate's link was becoming a blessing and a curse.

A blessing, when the air around him fizzled with the trail of a voice that he could even listen if he concentrated enough, and a curse when the feel to be close to her, but not enough to be able to take her hand and prevent Lucile to vanish, made him growl with frustration.

Halfway.

Optimus Prime could not help himself but feel himself halfway from everything.

From the need to shield her from the harm that could befall on her.

From the obligation toward the twins who had suffered more than he could imagine.

And from his simple wish to return the smile that Lucile always had for him.

Simply, to feel at peace with himself.

That was what Optimus Prime wanted the most, the chance to have a little peace for himself, the freedom to learn what love and be loved could mean for him without war, deaths, sorrow, and obligation to tarnish the only clear thing that belonged to him, that had been thought for him.

And he wanted it.

He wanted his chance.

He wanted Lucile.

He wanted her because she was his chance to discover what happiness, love, sadness, selfishness were.

Because she was, for him, the chance to be free from everything that kept him chained to the ground.

His name.

His role.

His life made of duty and no claim.

And he wanted them.

Yes. He wanted them, he wanted the chance to be unreasonable, selfish, moody, sad and then happy, to be emotional as he was when he thought of her, he wanted all that because it had been pleasant, extremely pleasant, even if at first he had not thought so.

But before, he did not know what was like be something like that, selfish when he wanted something, angry when he did not like something, unreasonable when he did not want to do something.

He did not know, simply, how it felt to be free to try to be what he wanted when he wanted.

Just as he felt now, disappointed, angry, and even annoyed by the heavy steps he heard echoing behind him.

Could they leave him alone? - snarled his conscience.

Or could he not have a slagging minute for himself?

What did they know about what he was feeling?

What did they know about the mess in his head, or the pain in his spark, or the longing for a chance that he would have held and brought near his spark where he would make sure to keep it safe along with his life, if only he had been able to reach for her?

What did they know?

Nothing.

If only…

If only he could find her.

A dejected sigh slipped through his lips when the weight of his failure became too much for his tired mind to bear.

If only he could talk to her.

If only Lucile could wait for him to catch up, then, he could explain himself, his need to apologize to her, to keep her safe along with the twins.

If only he had the chance to be chosen and heard by her along with his words, his promises.

Yes. If only.

But the time was always too wrong, their moves too out of phase, and the place too amiss.

There was no possibility for him to cross again her path, not even by chance, not when Lucile could make her and the twins untraceable.

Not when she still believed him and the world as a danger for her and his family.

Unfair.

It was all so unfair.

The pain she had to suffer for human's madness.

The hate the twins had to face for the fear for the different.

His grief for something that he had only been able to brush with his cold fingers before losing his chance to have something for himself, to know how it would be like.

So what now?

Was it all over? Just like that?

That distressing longing was all that remain to him of something that could have been his?

Only that?

Longing, and what more?

Bitterness for what he had tasted but not hold? Regret for having already lost it?

What remained to him now?

Imagine how he could feel if only he had let himself go?

The thought was so painful and maddening to make him want to scream his rage, but his lips remained sealed and his eyes shut, painfully, because he had not the right to let the world know about his grief, about his emptiness and his need to be heard, and, simply because the steps of those who had followed him were by now too close to him.

And he could not afford to be heard.

Pretend that he had imagined it all.

That was what the leader of the Autobot, what a Prime should have done, what the others wanted him to do if they had known.

Others came always before him, after all.

His pain was, therefore, meaningless, his grief unbecoming, all that distress, useless.

Indecorous.

If someone had found him in that state, doubled over in pain for something so foolish as the longing for love, for kindness, then shame would be everything that would await for him and for such unsuitable behavior.

Prime did not suffer for love.

Prime did not think about anything else than the well-being of the universe, of the balance.

Prime simply did not feel.

They only had to be of use.

Nothing more.

And yet, that part of him that had not been a Prime, that somber, sharp and hard side that his comrades and alley had struggled to recognize, that part, as irrational, selfish and stubborn as it might be, that part would still suffer, and hope, and wait for something to happen, for his chance to came back once again.

Because if Prime had not waited for something like that, Orion Pax would.

Yes. He would wait for that something to come at him, even if it was more suffering, even, if the only thing that had continued to come to him would be still painful as the flash of hurt that made Optimus squeeze his optics shut in discomfort before a strong grip made him turn and face the stiff expression of a rabid Ironhide.

- You owe me a hell of explanation Prime! What the slag is happening to you? What the-

- Hush.

Frozen by the irritated hiss, Ironhide blinked a couple of time to adjust his view and process the brawling expression of a furious Optimus Prime and the growing annoyance in his optics, but when he tried again to be heard by him, an angry growl and a couple of snarls from his once kind and nice chief made him forget whatever curse he was throwing at him.

- Silence, Ironhide. You have no right to demand an explanation from me. Leave me alone.

Baffled by the unexpected exchange of roles, Ironhide found himself at loss of words for a couple of seconds, but when Optimus Prime pulled back sharply his hand from around his wrist, something snapped inside the weapons specialist's mind.

- What the slagging meant to leave me alone? Leave me alone Prime? Seriously? Since when you were this-

The shadow that the leader of the Autobot cast upon him when he towered over the mech in all his imposing form was too sudden and too overwhelming for Ironhide to be able to react or even think straight, so that keep his stunned silence was the only thing the bewildered Autobot could do.

- I did not have time for your whimpering, Ironhide – the leader of the Autobot snarled, a low hiss to swirl in his throat and his angry advance to make the weapons specialist recoil one step at time – I meant what I said before. Leave me alone. I have something more important to do, and whatever it is, it is not of your business. It's mine. So just keep quiet and stay in your place, Autobot. I need to find L-

What spelled Ironhide's metal lips when the voice was too hard to find and the shock was still too strong to overcome, but when the time for Optimus to give him a slagging sense to all bullshit came, what escape from the poisonous mouth of his leader was a trailed whisper and, after a second, his own unrepeatable curse.

- Did you hear that?

The tapping on the keyboard stopped abruptly, as to give time to the busy woman to reply at the whispered question, but instead of the sound of her voice, it was the sharp tapping of her fingers to fill the silence once again.

- Pssss. Hey, Ishinara. Pssssssssssssssss. I said, did you hear that thing?

For a moment, just for a moment, verily too short to be really considered a unit of time, Kaminari Ishinara contemplated the idea to feign ignorance to the insistent question of her colleague, but experience reminded her that if Petr Andronov did not receive an answer to his pointless question, his pout would haunt whoever had ignored him, and the young woman was too tired to take care even of that at the moment.

So, reluctantly, the serious look that she was addressing to the screen of her laptop slipped to her right, there, where the Russian scientist was half turned toward the exit, his eyes set on that something that he had heard.

Or believed to have heard hissed the angry voice of her conscience, but there was not the time for that, she could only hope that all that bullshit ended quickly.

- So?

- Did you not hear that?

- That, Andronov? What exactly is that? – she urged angrily – you know? I'm not specialized yet in mind reading, so-

- I can't explain – the male scientist though aloud, his eyes set on the exit of the room - but it was like a phssspongpu.

Oh for goodness sake!

- What the hell are you talking about Andronov? Phsa… what? Is it even a language? Stop with your mumbo jumbo once for all and – the sudden commotion outside their little lab cut off any curse Ishinara was going to throw at the bewildered Russian man, and even before one of them could ask anything to the hurried soldier appeared on the hallway, a resounding crash made them jump from their chairs while a couple of blasphemies of Ironhide boomed in the base and Kiminari Ishinara, for the first time in her life, acknowledged Petr's words as something plausible and, that god forgive her, as something reasonable.

People's mind was a dangerous place.

Uncharted. Deceitful. And illusive.

A hideout people sought hoping to avoid the harm and, eventually, find an ally to the pain and a shelter against the storm, but, what we believed to be a safe room would soon become a maze with no way out if you had the misfortune to get lost inside, and get lost in there, lose your way, was easy.

Frighteningly easy.

It was enough just a moment of distraction, only one short second of hesitation, to sink and slide down, down, and down, until the scream of fear that had choked your voice in the downhill would become the echo of a chilling terror of which no one expect you will ever know, because you will be alone, in there, or, at least, it would be you and that side of yourself of which not even you were aware because it had always been out of reach, hidden in the darkness, there, where no one expect you could reach it.

Subconscious was the name mankind had to give to that hidden part.

The secret door was, instead, the denomination Lucile liked the most.

After all, it was her right to name the things in her head, to give them a particular form, a particular place and, as in that case, a particular denomination.

Her mind had always been, since her birth, the only place where she could be, do, and see what she wanted, and if she wanted to call it in that way, then she would call it that way and do as she pleased.

It was her kingdom, after all, her citadel, the fortress she had begun to explore and build up brick by brick.

She liked to feel safe. Then her mind would have been made of circular walls.

She liked books. Then those walls would have become a wood bookcase full of books.

She liked to paint. Then, the floor would have become her canvas and her coloring book.

She wanted to be alone. Then, a tall, huge and unbreakable door of steel would be the only entry of her fortress, while, that little hole, the secret door she feared so much, would have remained hidden behind the row of books she would have never moved or opened.

Her fantasy.

The figment of a lonely, powerless little girl who could only dream of a place where to shut herself and be safe, loved and eventually, even welcomed.

It had been so before when she had a capricious mechanical heart that made her unable to do anything besides dreaming.

A fantasy.

A dream.

The only way out from a reality too cruel and unfair for her to accept.

But, as she raised her peaceful gaze from the page of the heavy, old books she was reading for a while, what Lucile faced with a gentle smile was a solid shelf, brimful with books that she would find behind her back if she had turned behind, to her right, if she had turned in that way, and to her left, if she had chosen the opposite side.

And that, that was not a fantasy, or a dream, even if she, at that specific time, was sleeping in the arms of her papa.

No. It was not a fantasy.

Because, if Lucile had stood up, if she had approached the wall, and then, stretched out her hand, then, what her fingers would have touched would be the solid, sleek and cool wood of the shelf that surrounded her little figure seated in the middle of it.

Just as solid, real and true would be every book, edge, and surface she would have touched to test their tangibility.

Because it had begun as the result of an old dream, of a silly wish, but an illusion that, with time, thanks to the change that her body and life had undergone two years ago, when her mechanical heart had come to a halt and something else, instead of blood, had pumped in her coronary, lungs and brain, now had become real.

Alive.

And it was all thanks to that burning, choking and painful thing that her papa had called once Energon, the blood, and life of their mechanical body and at the time of her awakening, at the sudden beat of her new heart, even of her fleshy one.

But she would not lie.

It had been painful, extremely painful for her to get used to her new body and conditions, but as every action leads to a result, even in her case, the result had brought pain, yes, but even changes.

Yes. Changes.

Too many to count. Too deep to look at. But the change that had involved everything.

Her eyes.

Her heart.

Her body.

And, eventually, even her mind.

The quiet, safe and peaceful mind that, suddenly, had been filled with too many sounds, too many voices, too everything to avoid the risk to go mad, but, just as it was right, everything had a balance in their world, and the noise in her busy mind could become a background hiss if she was close to her parents, like if they were the button to turn off the voice and the pain in her mind.

And that discovery had been helpful, so much helpful, since the first months of her new life had been only painful.

A fever.

It had been like have the flu that needed the strongest antibiotics to let her recover from it, and her antibiotics, her medicine had been time, a lot of time, and, above all, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, or, as she had learned to call them, her papa.

Two fathers.

Humans choices and fear had taken away from her a mother and a father, and with time, even a grandmother, but if Earth had not taken her into account as somebody to love and not to leave behind, alone, another planet and another races had considered her worth the price and the time to be loved and to be chosen.

And when that had happened, when someone had peeked behind the yielding smile and smiling eyes, when someone had actually tried to see her without mortal disease, false hopes and acts of mercy to blur her image, then, Lucile, the real broken Lucile had appeared as she had always been.

A lonely, forsaken and heartbroken little child who had only waited for someone to pick her up.

So, if all the pain she had suffered, all the betrayal, the aversion, the hate that she had received since her eyes had changed colors had brought her up to that, to those two gentle and lovely being who had chosen her, then, she did not care about all that.

Pain. She would have endured it.

Hate. She would have ignored it.

Ignorance. She would have forgiven it.

Everything, she would do everything if that meant that her family, that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, her world, would be safe and happy.

Nothing had been more important than that since she had opened her eyes.

So, when she had to choose between their freedom and her own, she had chosen theirs.

When danger had threatened them, she had become the shield and then, the wall to interpose between harm and their body.

When her mind had been chosen as a way to harm, hurt and crush her parents, she had locked herself up and cast out all that voices, all that noisy and the hurtful words that had tried to turn her in a vengeful monster.

And, when that had not been enough when sleep had no longer been possible and silence had become unthinkable, she had filled the shelves of those walls she had erected with books that she would read to be always awake while her body will rest.

So, yes, everything changed.

She had changed.

Her life had changed.

But if there was something that had not undergone any change, then, it would be what had always helped her to survive in the world where her presence had always had a question mark to the end of every sentence.

Her imagination.

Useful, when to reach the door of your own room without being short of breath was unthinkable and imagine leaving home to go play with other children were the only things you could do, but when to that same imagination that had been able to bring fairy tale in that little closed rooms had been given the power to give a form to those fantasies, then, what happened took a particular name.

Magic.

She had become a magician.

The sparkly things her papa had implanted in her chest, the blood that had made her eyes so pretty, the burning feeling in her head, all that had made her a magician.

They had given her the chance to forge her own world, to be special and not strange, odd and eccentric.

So it mattered little all the side effects that had come along that power, the power to do what she wanted, the power to create, all those tiresome things, like the voices, these things were nothing compared to what she had now, what she could do for herself and her parents.

Be useful.

And Lucile had always wanted to be useful, to be somebody to lean on and not only to guard and be wary of.

Protect and not be protected.

Help, and not only be helped.

Live, and not only survive.

She wanted to live.

And life, that was the gift that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had given to her, a chance that the little, sparkly thing that made her heart beat had given to her along with as sense of belonging that she had never felt before, not even, with her Grandma Lucrecia.

Because she was part of something, now, and not simply an addition, an extra.

She had become part of something nice and kind.

Part of a family.

Part of the life.

And, part of the world.

Even if it, that unkind world, was still the world that kept staring warily at her strange form, at her strange eyes, at her strange mind and now, even at her strange family, but that one was a look that Lucile could dodge and even make blind if hatred had veiled that wary gaze, if the eyes of the world had become black-hearted and malicious as the one Lucile brought back to her mind with a shudder.

She could do all that to shield them, and if it were not enough, if hide would not be enough, then, she would fight.

Yes. She would, just like the knight of her book.

Yes, she thought, lowering her firm gaze on the shining blade that the knight aimed to the heart of the black, dangerous dragon, she would fight just like him, with her mind as a sword and her imagination as arrows to shot at the treat.

Lucile was already drawing with her fingers a deep hitch in which let the dragon fall even before he could reach the knight on the other page when suddenly, the combative look of the valiant horseman flickered under a confused look she was forced to raise with a shiver when to tremble was no longer only the knight, but the room.

The shelf.

The books.

And even, the huge, solid, and unbreakable door of steal that now seemed too unsteady before her frightened look.

Because she knew, what could make her room tremble so much.

What could make her, tremble so much.

An intruder.

There was an intruder inside her head.

How, he or she had managed to get in, startled Lucile while her shaky hand slipped under her thick and wavy hear to cover the access the cruel man who had imprisoned her had created to enter and control her mind, so to bend her will and take advantage of her power.

Someone is trying to make me do something bad again whimpered her conscience in a panic while the shivering increased under the vibrations of a voice that became clearer, a little crippled, but too close to her fortress.

Too close to her heart.

He. He was a he.

The timbre was too low and sharp to be the voice a female.

But a he who nevertheless was moving towards her, towards that shaky door on which she imagined metal plates, wooden beams, and pillars to obstruct the passage and load the entry, but it never seemed enough to keep her safe.

Even when the savage dragon in her book appeared before her and the entry, she did not consider that enough, no.

Not enough. Never enough.

Because she was too scared, and if her emotion wavered, so her creation would do.

They would return to be simple illusions, and, therefore, useless, unable to protect her, and then, she will be at the mercy of a new threat again.