LOL. I just noticed that Microsoft Word was auto-correcting Perceptor's name to be Preceptor. I had to go back and fix some chapters because of that. LOL, Microsoft. LOL.

Drew Zeljo: http : / / artistdragon . deviantart . com / art / SOTE - Business - Man - to - You -301328792?q = gallery % 3 Aartistdragon % 2F62185&qo = 1

Mirage

X

Optimus had been awake for a few kliks now. How many? He was not sure. He sat on his berth, staring down at his palms, and a frown was etched across his face. It was strange without Prowl's silent, yet wise presence with them. Optimus rubbed a servo across his chin, feeling a sense of emptiness in his spark. He did indeed miss his dear friend. He glanced to the window, noticing that Arcee had fallen asleep leaning against it. He did not wish to awaken her. Ratchet was also not here—probably with Blurr, it made only logical sense. Optimus frowned, and his engine let out a groan.

Beep-beep.

Snapping his head up, he noticed that the video-pad in the room was flashing. Being silent, he crept across the room, and approached it. He pressed the button under the small, square screen, and two faces appeared—Alpha Trion and Perceptor.

"Sirs," Optimus said in a whisper.

"Good morning, Optimus Prime," Alpha Trion stated calmly.

"Good morning, sir."

"How was your stasis?"

"Well, thank you, sir."

"Where is your crew?" the old mech asked.

"Still in their stasis," Optimus answered softly.

"Oh," Alpha Trion said, "well, when they awaken, we wish to meet you and your crew in a megacycle."

"Um, sir, might I say something?" Optimus quickly interjected.

"Yes, go ahead," Alpha Trion said, nodding his helm slowly.

"Um, my organic friend, Sari, she needs to return to Earth for a brief period."

"Oh? Why so?"

"Well, our fuel cannot feed her," Optimus quickly explained. "It could make her sick or kill her. She needs to return to her home to fuel up."

An expression of understanding spread its way across the old mech's face. "Ah, that makes sense," he said around a chuckle. "She is organic, she cannot eat our fuel." He chuckled some more. It was a low, homey chuckle that only somebot or somebody wise could utter. "Of course, will it take long?"

"With Omega Supreme and the Space Bridges? No, not long," Optimus said with a smile. "So, a megacycle, sir?"

"Yes, that would be correct."

"Okay, yes, thank you, sirs. We won't take too long."

"I believe you, Optimus Prime. Come to the Council's room. We will speak with you then."

"Yes, sirs."

The screen flickered off, and Optimus turned to his sleeping crew. He let out a sigh, and rubbed his servos together. The day's barely started and it's already begun. He clapped his servos loudly, and called in a loud voice.

"Okay, everyone and everybot," he boomed. "Time to get up."

Bumblebee stirred, and Sari, who twitched on the yellow Autobot's rounded chest, slowly opened her eyes to stare at the Prime standing proud and tall in the room. "What time is it," she said, sitting up, and rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands.

"Eleven," Prime answered with a tiny smile. "We slept in."

Bumblebee groaned, optics opening as he stared at Optimus. "Ugh, I don't wanna," he said, servo falling in front of his face.

Sari chuckled, pressing her little hands to his chin. "C'mon, time to wake up," she said, a little grin on her slender face.

He smirked, his golden digit prodding at his friend's head. "Alright, alright," he said, his engine yawning as he spoke.

Bulkhead groaned, turning onto his side as his optics slowly opened. "What time is it?" he asked, groaning loudly as his processor began to slowly turn on.

"Eleven," Sari answered, sliding down from Bumblebee's stomach, and he sat up.

Bulkhead yawned deeply, and slowly sat up. His servo rubbed his neck as his legs dangled from the side of the berth. Bumblebee pulled his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his kneecaps, and his optics darted around the room. It seemed that he was looking for Prowl, only to frown, and hang his head. Sari frowned with him. It was empty without Prowl. Optimus approached the window, nudging her shoulders gently with his gentle servos.

"Arcee, Arcee," Optimus said softly.

She shifted in her ridged seat, letting out a soft sigh in her deep stasis. Optimus shook her again, and this time, her optics slowly opened. She looked at him, and smiled at him. "Good morning," she said, flexing her nimble digits and her engine let out a yawn.

"Good morning," Optimus said with a smile.

Acree glanced around, taking in the sight of the room and those in it, and slowly blinked her optics. "Where is Ratchet?" she asked, looking up at the Prime.

"Still with Blurr, I presume," Optimus answered.

He took a step back to allow Arcee to stand from her seat. She stood up, stretching her legs and shifting her back, a small cracking sound coming from her plating.

"So, what are we doing, Boss-bot?" Bumblebee inquired, placing Sari onto his shoulder.

Optimus arched an optic ridge to the small yellow Autobot, and a smile tweaked at his slender lips. "We have a date with the Council in one megacycle," he said. "But first, we need to go to Earth. I suppose Sari would be hungry."

Sari grinned, and nodded her head. "Yep," she said, patting her stomach as if to emphasis the point.

Optimus chuckled.

Cliffjumper felt like a prisoner.

In fact, technically, he was a prisoner. And it disgusted him greatly. Ever since as long as he could remember, he knew that prisoners (and Decepticons, of course) were the scum of Cybertron, and he hated them more than anything else. That was why he wanted to be an agent to hunt them down. Of course, his anger would not allow him to be one (Solarburn had worried that his temper would jeopardize all he knew if he were to be allowed to be a secret agent). It made him mad, but he knew that the good doctor was right. However, he became a data-collector—and a slagging good one at that! Digits tapped at the metal table beneath him all in agitation and anger. He felt disgusting. He was innocent. He never meant to hurt Blurr.

Cliffjumper hung his helm. All this time he was serving under a Decepticon. A slagging Decepticon. All those stellar-cycles ago, he arrested the wrong 'bot. That slagger framed Wasp, and Shockwave rose through the ranks, becoming the most-liked Autobot around. Longarm was kind, caring, generous—the type of 'bot you wanted around when you needed help. And to find out that it was all a façade, it sickened him. Ever since others on Cybertron found out about this, they looked at him differently—like he was part of the whole thing. He could hear their (policebots') whispers:

"Do you think he was part of this?"

"Cliffjumper? Naw. I read that he hates Decepticons. For Primus' sake, he doesn't even like Neutrals."

"But Shockwave was such a good actor when he took on the 'Longarm Prime' persona. Don'tcha think he could do the same?"

"Well, now you mention it . . ."

It made him sick inside. He was a good Autobot. Cliffjumper could not and would not be anything else but that. An Autobot. He was a proud Autobot, always on the edge when it came to finding Decepticons and tossing them into prison and throwing away the key. He loved it. And for others to accuse him of being what he hated most—it infuriated him.

His servos coiled into fists, and his dentals gritted. He wanted a can of oil. And a long stasis. It was too fragging early to start this frag.

His helm snapped upward as the two metal doors opened. And there was that 'bot he hated just about as much as he hated Decepticons—Mirage. His body was very sleek with broad shoulders and thin legs—his metal hide practically glowed in the light of the room. It was a godly glow that could only be produced by numerous megacycles of waxing. A large arrow-shaped obstruction fitted the front of his chest and stomach. Sharp blue optics flickered to stare at the little red Autobot, and a sly smile creased his grey lips.

"Hello, Cliffjumper," he said smoothly, his servos gripping a data-pad and a stylus.

Cliffjumper's frown creased firmly, his right optic twitched, and his fists shook. "Get out," he grumbled.

Mirage sighed, shifting his hips to the side as he tapped his stylus to his chin. "Oh, Cliffjumper, Cliffjumper, let's not get into a fight," he said slowly, waving a digit in the air. "I'm here to help you, believe it or not."

The red Autobot twitched more violently this time, and without a word, he stood up from his chair, and slammed his fists against the thick-plated glass (the type of glass that one could see out but not in) that was situated in the wall to the right of him.

"Get him out," he snarled. "I know you can hear me!" He pounded his fists onto the glass more. "Don't ignore me! I hate this slagger!"

Mirage sighed again, and took his seat at the table. "For Primus' sake, Cliffjumper," he called, his highly-cultured voice smooth as purified Energon, "come and take a seat. I just want to ask you a few questions."

Cliffjumper snapped his head around to glare at the blue Autobot. "I don't wanna talk to you about this," he hissed through gritted dentals. "Send in somebot else!"

"You don't have much of a choice upon the matter."

"You asked 'em to allow you to interrogate me, right?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Yes," Cliffjumper seethed. "It does. I don't wanna to talk to you."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you must," Mirage said, voice calm. He crossed his legs, and leaned back in the chair, growing comfortable. "Come, sit." He tapped at the table's smooth surface. "Now, let's try to talk like civilized mechs without your servos locking around my neck."

Cliffjumper stared at the white and blue mech that sat perfectly in the chair with a calm smile on his face as he twiddled his stylus between pure white digits. The red Autobot's servos dropped to his sides, grunted, shuffled over to the chair, and plopped down in it. He frowned, lancing his digits in his lap as he stared blankly at Mirage.

"Thank you."

The red Autobot rolled his optics as he drummed his digits together. Mirage tapped at his data-pad, probably pulling up some documents or Primus-knows what on that blasted thing.

"How is Blurr?" Cliffjumper demanded.

Mirage glanced up, staring at the red Autobot. "Last I heard, he was online and resting," he answered, returning to read his data-pad.

Cliffjumper visibly relaxed. That was better than being offline.

"It says here that you've been working under Longarm for a few centuries," Mirage said, arching an optic ridge. He already knew that, but he felt it wise to state it aloud.

"Yeah."

"It also says that you went to a mech called Solarburn for your oilholism and temper," Mirage said coolly. "Longarm—or should I say Shockwave—suggested, before you went to work under him, that you should seek help."

Cliffjumper's upper lip twitched. "Where are you gettin' at?" he snarled, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

Mirage blinked, staring at the red Autobot. Solarburn, so the records said, was a good psychologist. Apparently he had helped Cliffjumper, but the poor 'bot hadn't changed much. Well, other than him not drinking large quantities of oil and sending himself into a stupor, and for him not throwing punches at random strangers in a fit of rage and breaking Primus-knows-what, Solarburn had done well to fix him up. Behave like a "normal" 'bot, per say. "Did you like Longarm?" Mirage asked, avoiding the first question altogether.

"Yeah, I respected him," Cliffjumper said, hissing. "I thought he was a good mech!"

"So, you had no idea that he was a Decepticon?"

"No," Cliffjumper snapped, leaning against his chair. "I respected the slag outta 'im." He turned his helm away from Mirage's optics. "I thought he was the type of 'bot that I—that . . ." He paused. "I respected 'im so much." Cliffjumper hung his helm.

Mirage recalled the times that he had met Longarm (when he was not harassing Cliffjumper), and he liked the 'bot. He thought that he was a good mech. It stunned him too that he was a Decepticon.

"Think back," Mirage said. "Did he do anything that would be suspicious?"

Cliffjumper hummed in his throat, and drummed his digits on his lap. "He changed his passwords a lot," he said, glancing up at the ceiling in thought.

Mirage scribbled on his data-pad. "How many times would he change his passwords?" he inquired.

"Um, a lot," Cliffjumper said, throwing a servo dismissively in the air. "I dunno. All I know is that he was always asking me to change this password, or that password. 'Oh, Cliffjumper, I have a new password for you even though I changed it just yesterday!'" He scoffed, shaking his helm. "I always thought that he was more paranoid than me. I didn't think much of it."

"So, this was a constant thing?"

"Pretty much."

"Why did you think he did that?"

"I dunno. He was Head of the Intelligence Agency. I thought he did that he did that for protection reasons."

Mirage hummed in his throat, stylus tapping against the data-pad. Cliffjumper was silent, looking over the blue and white Autobot before him. He was surprised that the Tower-brat wasn't harassing him yet (he liked to do that to poor Cliffjumper). He was surprisingly professional—cool, calm, and collected. Mirage blinked, leaning forward as his data-pad slipped downward onto his lap.

"I suppose you knew him well," he stated.

"Hmmfp, I thought I did," he grumbled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"Did he do things in a set pattern?"

"Yeah. I could read him like the back of my servo."

"What would he do?"

"He would come in, check in, say hello to me," Cliffjumper said, recalling all the steps that the average solar-cycle was with Longarm, "we'd chat, I'd tell him his daily schedule, and he'd go in his office and work. That was it."

"So, he didn't deviate from that pattern?"

"Not really," Cliffjumper said, licking his dentals. "If he did, it was weird. But, I overlooked it." He shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't think much of it. I liked the 'bot."

Mirage looked him over, and nodded his helm. "What were Blurr's feelings towards Longarm?" he asked, shifting his weight on the chair he was perched on.

"Blurr?" he asked, arching an optic ridge. "He worshiped the ground Longarm walked on." Cliffjumper scoffed. "Could've sworn that he loved Longarm by the way he would talk about 'im. Blah, blah, blah, blah—he would always talk about 'im."

"Did he hold romantic interests for Longarm?" Mirage asked, arching both of his optic ridges. If he did, what Shockwave did would be made all the worse—a lover doing that to another lover? Sickening.

"Pfft, like I would know," Cliffjumper said, throwing his servos into the air. "I wasn't interested in Speeder's personal life. I never asked."

Mirage blinked, frowning as his digits brushed against his chin and lips. "How do you feel about Blurr?" he popped the question.

Cliffjumper froze, optics narrowing directly at Mirage. He was silent. The red Autobot knew what he was doing—a classic interrogating skill: entrapment. Even if Cliffjumper really was telling the truth that he had no idea that Longarm was a Decepticon, another possibility was that he knew that the cube was Blurr, and threw him away with that knowledge. Cliffjumper restrained his anger, and in response to that, he released a grunt.

"He was a good 'bot."

"Really? You thought that."

"Yes, he was a good 'bot. He did his job well and had an optimistic look on life." Cliffjumper's optic ridges furrowed. "He was a good 'bot."

"Did you ever think that he was annoying in any way, shape, or form?"

Cliffjumper twitched in anger, gritted his dentals sharply, and in a fluid motion, he stood up from his chair and smashed his servos onto the table roughly. His chair fell backwards, landing with a loud crackle. Mirage barely moved—nothing new from Cliffjumper. It was embarrassing how used he was to Cliffjumper's violent antics.

"Look, I know what yer doin'," he snarled, pointing an accusing digit at Mirage's faceplates. "I had no idea that the cube was Blurr. I had no idea that fraggin' Longarm Prime was a slaggin' Decepticon! I had no fraggin' idea! I am innocent!" He paused, engine wheezing, chassis trembling. "I never knew this. And neither did all of you. I am innocent just as much as all of you." Cliffjumper's digits curled into a fist, and an uncharacteristic begging expression appeared on his face. "You have to believe me."

Mirage was silent, drinking in Cliffjumper's current state with quite surprise. From behind the thick-plated glass, Autobots were preparing to enter the room to forcibly hold Cliffjumper down and contain him.

"Mirage," a voice, Cheetor, said through his comm-link, "do you want us in there with you?"

Mirage did not verbally respond, but he held up his servo, and waved it down in a dismissive manner in the direction of the thick-plated glass. Cliffjumper twitched, staring at the blue and white Autobot with curious and suspicious-gorged optics. Mirage closed his bright blue optics, and nodded his helm slowly. He then leaned in, optics now open, and he spoke in a slow, low voice:

"I believe you."

Cliffjumper twitched, shock flooding his systems. "Eh, what?" he said, leaning closer to Mirage.

Mirage smirked at the red Autobot's stunned expression. "Did I just blow your processor, Cliffy?" he taunted, chuckling deeply as Cliffjumper growled at the nickname. "Listen, no matter how much you distrust me and hate me, I know you well. You wouldn't abandon the Autobots."

Cliffjumper stood there for a moment, just staring at Mirage, who pulled back and reclined regally in his chair.

"Right your chair and take a seat," he said, lifting his servo in the air.

Cliffjumper seemed to be stunned, but he did what the Autobot asked of him. He sat down, body erect, and servos in his lap. Mirage tapped at his data-pad with a stylus a few times, and then he slipped the small pen into a slot in the data-pad. The blue and white Autobot stood up, discreetly pushing in his chair, and glanced down at Cliffjumper, who was regarding him with a mystified and leery gaze.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Oil was the first thing that came to mind, but he knew that he would be denied that. "No," Cliffjumper responded.

"Okay," he said. The Autobot paused at the door. "You do realize that you will have to testify in court, right?"

"Yeah," he grumbled.

"Okay, then," Mirage said, pressing at the sensitive pad key to open up the double-doors. "I'll see you in court."

Cliffjumper bobbed his helm, still looking at him with distrust. Yet, something in his sky-blue optics held a hint of hope and thinly-lain trust in them. Mirage bobbed his helm, and left the room as the doors closed and locked tightly behind him. Cheetor, a skinny, sleek Autobot bearing a similar model as Blurr, rested against the wall, arms crossed, and a frown on his features. He was a bright sunny-gold with black spots that dotted along his slender frame, and a hint of bright green was splashed along his abdomen.

"Hey, you okay, Mirage?" he asked, waving a servo towards the elegant Autobot.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mirage answered, rubbing his stiff neck. "Cliffjumper is speaking the truth."

"Are you sure?" Cheetor said, lips curling upward.

"Yes."

"He still has to go to court."

"Oh, I completely understand that," Mirage said, offering the data-pad to the golden Autobot, who took it from Mirage's grasp. "But I know he is innocent."

Cheetor looked at the data-pad in his grasp, and arched an optic ridge. "If you're certain . . ." he began.

"I am very certain," Mirage stated, placing a servo to his chest. "If there's anything that Cliffjumper loves more than his greasy oil, it's the Autobots." He blinked slowly, surprised that he was talking well of Cliffjumper. Normally, he did not do such a thing. "I highly doubt that he would abandon us. After all, he was not the only 'bot that's been tricked by Long—Shockwave, we all have been tricked by him and his dangerous and spark-stabbing lies."

Mirage frowned at the thought. He had met Longarm a few times prior, and what he had thought of the mech was simple—he liked him. He had a positive, honest opinion of "Longarm Prime." Part of him still liked the façade, and that part of him wished that this wasn't happening. But life wasn't very fair, was it? He glanced up to the clock on the wall, and hummed lightly.

"I have a meeting to make," Mirage stated bluntly. "So, forgive me, but I must depart."

Cheetor blinked, and nodded his helm. "Yeah, okay, see you then, Mirage," he said, shifting on his pedes.

"Very soon, my friend," Mirage stated, a brimming smile on his face as he walked away from the policebot.

The noblemech walked in a quickened pace. He didn't want to be late, for being late was shameful, or so he thought. After all, he had a date with incapacitated and basically half-dead Ultra Magnus and the berth-ridden Blurr. The Council wanted updates upon their situations, of course.

Mirage has a TFA model. Look it up on Transformers Wiki. He looks good. Hrrrrrgh.

So sorry, the sound that came from my mouth wasn't human.