Chapter Eleven
Life Unexpected

I'm so caught up in you
Little girl
And I never did suspect a thing
So caught up in you
Little girl
That I never wanna get myself free
And baby its true
You're the one
Who caught me, baby you taught me
How good it could be
.38 Special, "Caught up in You"

How to describe the transformation sequence? The best Flare could come up with, when asked about it by Spike, was that you took your awareness and stuffed it somewhere else. In her case, she exchanged the sensation of arms for those of her wings, which were usually secondary. Her first experience with transforming was frightful, especially with all the moving, shifting and rotating body parts. After a while, she got the hang of it: the rotating of her lower torso, the folding of her arms, the lowering of her head into her chest; the wrap-around plate and the eagle head that snapped down. Viewing the world from behind diamond-shaped golden optics was not that different from the ones she usually had. Her center of gravity was different, being balanced on clawed feet and decidedly lower to the ground.

But, by God – how she loved to fly!

Getting coordinated was a mass of bumps, bruises and more than one fractured limb, but with Powerglide's enthusiastic persistence, he soon had her chucking herself off the top of Mt. St. Hillary only to transform in mid-air. Now that little stunt caused quite the stir between the jet and Ratchet, who had him up against the wall for putting her spark in danger. But it was Flare herself who insisted that she needed to learn how to pull it off, even though she liked the idea no better than he did. "What if I'm climbing and I fall? Do you just want me hope for the best?"

Begrudgingly, Ratchet conceded to her insane logic, and the challenges continued, though not as often.

One day, some two months following her confirmation, after a session with Powerglide that had her doing barrel rolls and somersaults, Solarflare decided to spend what remained of her free time perched on one of the great orange boosters. She'd taken to doing this for a while now, just to watch the scout crews come in for the night. Red Alert had protested profusely, claiming that she was obstructing the cameras and created a target for Decepticon laser fire. Optimus Prime and Prowl mulled this over and told the security director to stuff it – though not in those words.

She perched on the lip of the center booster, swinging her legs idly, watching the steam curl from her heated armor in the crisp January air. The patrols wouldn't be back until late tonight; there was a rumor going around that Megatron was thinking about making a move on a new breed of generators in upper Washington. At this moment, Trailbreaker, Hound, Gears and Skyfire were camping there, keeping a steady optic on the facility. She'd relayed several messages from them to Optimus over the last week.

Comm duty. That in of itself was interesting. With Blaster as her tutor, she found herself immersed in a world of voices all over the airwaves. It was daunting at first, and she'd almost lost her mind among the patterns, but Blaster had been able to save her skidplate each time – though, it left her sorely drained. Slowly, she was learning to isolate parts of her consciousness (how, she didn't quite know) and carry on several conversations, or tasks, at once. Blaster was impressed, and left her to her own devices – which allowed him to focus on the finer frequencies, ones she could not reach and had not been built for. Ones that the Decepticons would be using to ferry information back and forth.

"It's getting cold, little one; surely you don't want your circuits to freeze?"

Pulled from her reverie, Solarflare parted her knees and looked down over the booster to see Mirage standing directly underneath. The spy was carrying some overlong tube under one arm and a tripod in the other.

"Oh, I don't think there's frost on my butt just yet," she called down with a chuckle. "Whatcha got there?" It was unusual to see Mirage carting around anything but his rifle unless the situation called for him to shift some muscle.

"Something for you. Come down and see."

Flare's crest perked in curiosity. They had had minimal time to talk over the past couple of weeks, each with their own agenda to attend. Sometimes, it was a quick chat over morning Energon, but even then Mirage seemed as guarded as he had been when she first began hanging around the Ark. Too bad Hound wasn't in the area. Still, this afternoon, the spy appeared to have regained some of his old affability.

Extending her legs so that her feet pointed out, Flare lifted herself up and off the booster. With a little shift of her hydraulics, she pushed herself off, falling about a hundred feet or so downwards, her wings stretched out to slow her descent. Mirage's shocked look was well-worth the effort as she landed gracefully at his feet.

"Is that a cannon?" she queried, craning her neck to get a better look at the odd contraption he held.

"Of a sort," he replied, quickly regaining his composure. "I had Wheeljack cobble it together for me the other day. I thought you could use a little target practice."

Puzzled, she peered at the tube again. "You're not still upset that Prowl taught me how to fire?"

There it was, that slow smile. "No. Not when I can take the time to fix his mistakes." And the grin became wider, almost mischievous. "Actually, this is for altmode practice. Later, I want to work with you on your pistol and wrist-guns."

Reflexively, Solarflare turned her forearm over and cocked the panel on the top back. The whole plate that made up her upper forearm lifted with a slight hydraulic whine, revealing the tri-barreled fire pellet gun underneath. Just as quickly, she settled the panel back into place. "What are you going make me do?"

"Follow me."

He led her down the shale slope and into the shooting range. While she watched, he set up the cannon and tripod. As he worked, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Bumblebee and Spike ambling towards them. Spike was grinning from ear to ear and waved; with a smile, Solarflare waved back. "Hi!"

Mirage turned at her greeting; was it her imagination, or was he frowning? She couldn't tell for certain, because he ducked his head and went back to work. "Hiya, Flare!" Spike called out, coming to a stop with Bumblebee beside her. "What're you up to?"

"Mirage had Wheeljack build me a cannon to help with target practice."

Frowning with concentration, the little yellow Minibot peered at the construct. "What does it fire?"

"Boulders." Mirage stood and dusted himself off. "Why don't you two make yourself useful and collect some. All different sizes."

Spike brightened and immediately sprinted off, Bumblebee ambling along at a much leisurely pace. While the boys went to town among the rock field, Solarflare turned to the Ligier. "Is something wrong?"

He looked up, brow ridges raised. "No. Why?"

Folding her arms, she watched Spike scurrying around and almost crush his foot under a particularly large rock. "You seemed a little testy with Spike there."

Mirage straightened, paused. "Well," he began, seeming to choose his words carefully, "I assumed we'd be alone."

Instantly, her heart softened. "You miss me, don't you?"

There was a stiffening of his shoulder plates at her words. Flare watched him, wondering if she'd somehow said the wrong thing. Rubbing the back of his neck in a decidedly human manner, Mirage shook his head. "I do," he slowly admitted. "It was … different when you were human, somehow."

A lot of things were different when I was human, she reflected quietly, fanning her wings in an effort to collect her thoughts. She opened her mouth to tell him that, when Bumblebee and Spike came jogging up with their first armloads. The spy perused them and selected a small rock, about the size of her spread hand.

"Transform, Flare. Let's see how this goes."

What chance for a meaningful conversation was lost in the ensuing practice. Mirage stayed on the ground while she winged overhead, zooming after – and crushing with her talons – each boulder he fired her way. They were never in the same place; some he set high, others were lobbed low, forcing her to fold her wings and add power to her boosters. Others were shot in quick succession, sometimes in a line, some spread out.

Poor Spike and Bumblebee were sent out time after time to grab more ammunition. Flare felt sorry for them, even called down to the Minibot that they could leave if they wanted to; but to her surprise, he relayed that they were having too much fun.

As darkness began to settle over the Ark, and the puffs from Spike's breath grew longer and larger, Mirage called a halt to the exercise. Bumblebee helped the Ligier pack the cannon away while Flare tallied her successes. Out of over two hundred lobbed her way, she'd managed to pulverize almost sixty-percent. Not bad for her first time, she congratulated.

"How's school, Spike?" she asked the teenager as they walked back to the Ark proper.

"Not bad, I just wish you had more time to help me with my English."

The grey femme laughed. "Sorry I never got to help you finish that other project."

Spike grinned lopsidedly and shrugged. "It's okay. Hound helped a little."

They parted in the main bay: Flare to the berthing level, Mirage, Bumblebee and Spike somewhere else. The avian femme felt quite proud of herself for what she'd accomplished. It'd been a long time since she felt content about her place in society. After two months as an Autobot, things were finally beginning to mesh. She considered herself part of the team, and surprisingly, so did they.

"Hey, babydoll!"

Flare paused at the elevator, her hand on the panel; Jazz, the other black and white mech in the Ark, bumped against her playfully, his visored face split in its usual infectious grin. Unlike Prowl, this monochromatic Autobot was nothing but fun; Flare always liked to be in his presence. He flattered her outrageously, and she in turn.

"A few of us are gonna hang out in th' rec room. Wanna come?"

"And do what?"

Jazz laughed. "Whatever y'wanna do, sweetheart. Me'n'Smokescreen are gonna set up a poker game. You play?"

Solarflare leaned up against the wall and grinned, shaking her head. "No, I never learned."

"Well, I'll tell ya what – Sunny's cooked himself up a new batch o' high grade. You keep our glasses full an' I'll teach ya as we go along. How's that?"

Though she was tired, she couldn't escape the gravitational pull of Jazz's smile. "All right; you got me."

"Awesome. Now, you just latch that delicate little hand around ol' Jazz's arm and we'll arrive in style."

It was amazing to feel all of her exhaustion evaporate once the game got underway. The Porsche, Sunstreaker, Smokescreen, Sideswipe and Wheeljack sat around a table in the middle of the rec room, a pack of oversized cards in their hands. For "good luck", or so Jazz claimed, he had the femme hang over his shoulders so she could watch what cards he played. This, of course, elicited catcalls from Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who tried to ply her with high grade so that she would grace their noble forms for a while. Solarflare merely laughed and refilled their mugs before returning to Jazz's side.

As the night wore on and the mechs subsequently became more and more drunk, the stories they told grew increasingly raunchier in the Cybertronian sense. Somehow, Flare found herself perched on Jazz's lap, drinking and laughing outrageously at the faces Sunstreaker was making as he told a story of how he and Sideswipe had once duct taped Prowl to the ceiling of his office.

"An' then – an' then –" the golden Lambo recounted dramatically, his malleable facial plates screwed up in a wicked parody of Prowl's austere mien, "ol' Prowl woke up. He wuz so rippin' tha' shook 'imself loose and fell wi' a biiiiiiiiig SPLAT on th' floor. Poof! Duct tape all ova th' place. An' there's Prowl … he couldn't move … he'd stuck 'imself t'gether! Whaaa!" Slamming his drink on the table, Sunstreaker held out both his arms, waving them around as if they'd been cuffed together.

The table broke out into big belly laughs; Wheeljack was so drunk by then that he fell over and stayed on the floor, his earbulbs pink. Flare laughed so hard that she spilled her drink over Jazz's lap, but the saboteur was too far gone to give a whit.

Sunstreaker noticed and tried once more to entice her to grace him with her presence. "C'mere baby; I need th' shower better'n'Jazz does …"

Giggling until her servos hurt, Solarflare shook her head. "Nuh-uh," she chastised, slurring her words and wiggling a taloned finger at the Lamborghini.

"Pweeeeeeeeeease?" Sunstreaker leaned his elbows on the table and fluttered his optic shutters, pursing his lips in an outrageous manner.

It was all too much. Flare howled in glee – and discharged her eye-lasers, right into Sunstreaker's shoulder. The blast was low-powered because she was still working on her aim, but as drunk as he was, Sunstreaker went head over skidplate, still laughing despite the burn-mark on his golden hide.

"WHOA!" Sideswipe hooted, pounding the table in surprise. "Baby, hit me!"

Shaking his head, Smokescreen began picking up the discarded poker game and stuffing his credits into subspace. "Well, gentlemechs and femme," he pronounced clearly, for he had only had a few drinks, "I think it's time to call it a night."

"Awr, Smokie, where's your sense of adventure?" the red Lambo wheedled, prodding his brother with one foot. The blue car merely smiled.

"On the floor with Sunstreaker and Wheeljack, who seems to be snoring …" There was a pause, and sure enough, a low, rasping sound was issuing from the vocalizer slits in the inventor's wrap-around mask. "C'mon, we can do this another night. You two have patrol in the morning."

Sideswipe made a rude noise that seemed like it was coming from the top of his helm-horns. Jazz only chuckled and gently lifted Flare from his wet lap. "Smokie's righ'," the Porsche conceded. "Let's wrap 'er up. Y'all clean an' I'll escort th' lovely Miss Flare t' 'er quarters."

" 's fine wi' me," Sunstreaker mumbled from his prone position on the tiled floor. "Jus' give me a kiss g'night an' I'll be happy."

Tottering on her oversized feet, the high grade numbing all reason, Flare wandered over to where the Lamborghini lay and gave him a small peck on his right vent. The golden warrior hooted. "Better watch it, baby, or I'll start stalkin' ya fer more." With a giggle, Flare patted his cheek and slowly wound her way back to Jazz.

"You wish, Sunshine."

"Oh, I wish, baby," he called after her as Smokescreen began wiping the table clean. "An' I bet ol' In-vis-ib-le wishes he'd gotten some of you, too …"

Too intoxicated to take in the full meaning of Sunstreaker's drunken proclamation, Solarflare leaned on Jazz' arm, the saboteur, while still quite plastered, was perhaps the most sober of them all, baring Smokescreen. Together, they navigated the intricate maze that the Ark halls had become, riding up one too many levels and then coming back down when they realized they had gone up to the bridge. Jazz gallantly dropped her off at her door, pinched her tailfeathers and danced on down the way they'd come.

Breathless, Flare missed her combination twice before getting it right. She stumbled through the entrance and had enough strength in her to shut it before falling dead into recharge on the floor.


The night was not been kind to Mirage. After parting company from the grey avian femme, he and Bumblebee took the boulder cannon back to Wheeljack's lab; the inventor was not in residence, which was a good thing, considering how many times he asked for volunteers for his outrageous experiments. Wise mechs always avoided stopping in unless they wanted to walk away with burnt digits or worse, a hole in their armor from a small, accidental chemical explosion. The yellow Minibot said his goodnights and went off to do some late-night homework with Spike. Mirage shook his head; his fellow Autobots coddled that boy far too much, giving him ideas and more help than they should with his schoolwork.

Leaving a note for Wheeljack as to how to improve the trajectory of the construct, Mirage gently faded out, as he was wont to do as the hours dwindled. Having nothing better to do, he walked up and down the various levels of the Ark, not so much as eavesdropping (he never did that unless it was a matter of business) as trying to organize his thoughts. He just so happened to pass by the rec room and was in time to hear Sunstreaker's comment.

The Ligier threw himself against the wall as Jazz and Solarflare stumbled out, chattering drunkenly to each other. Shuttering his invisible optics, Mirage dropped his head to his chest, groaning.

"Y'think she'd want any of us?" he heard Sideswipe slur to his brother.

"If you ask me," Smokescreen commented lazily, "I don't think she sees any of us in that way. Aside from Astoria and that alien Seaspray hung out with, what human views our metallic structure as desirable?"

Sunstreaker made a rude noise. "No one asked ya, skid-face. She's too grey for my tastes, an' as for Invisible … He's always followin' her around like some turbohound lookin' for a bowl of oil. I thought he was bad enough when she was pink, but now …"

You're better than this, Mirage told himself, but still, he listened with an ever-tightening chest to their insults.

"Bah," Sideswipe scoffed, "you'd do a lamppost if it had an interface port …"

Something clattered and crashed as the yellow twin went after the red one for his remark. Mirage took the opportunity to get to his quarters before he heard anything more. Once the door was shut, he sat on his berth, looking around at the remnants of his former Tower life: battered hunting trophies, holograms of the parties he'd attended; a few readers of old Cybertronian poetry, their authors long since turned to scrap in Megatron's wake lined the top of his desk.

This was all he had, all of what remained of who he had been. Of a life and a people buried under their own hubris. As he stared at these remnants of former glories, he was no longer filled with pride; instead, a deep sadness filled him. It was not the homesickness that had plagued him these past three years, but a different kind of hollowness. It was as if these trophies no longer meant as much as they had; as if he wanted and yearned for something else.

Some unknown force directed his hand to the top drawer of his desk. Inside were several Polaroids and a hologram. He remembered the Polaroids – they were from that time in the park, when he had suddenly, and uncharacteristically, lifted the then-Alina from her backyard and went strolling in the darkness. She had found these in that filth-human's den after Mirage had sent him on his way. She'd subsequently given him a half-dozen, while she kept the others. Idly, Mirage ran his slim black thumb over the edge of the Polaroids and tucked them back into the top drawer before pulling out the hologram. Hound had taken it, somehow without the spy noticing: there he was, leaning up against the rock of Mt. St. Hillary, pointing at something over the clear horizon; Alina was perched on his shoulder, her head pressed against his.

In a fit of emotion, Mirage chucked the hologram onto the floor, watching it clatter and spin, the lights flickering in distress. What are you doing? he cried inside. What on Cybertron are you thinking? She's not for you – you would never know how to treat her right. All you know is how to use and discard. It's just as they said … she doesn't see any of us in the way she would a human male. There's no point in trying. Be grateful that she's still around and not gone, like that pile of rotting flesh in the coffin you and Hound said good-bye to. You have something you never had in your whole life … don't waste it, don't push it away with these stupid thoughts.

You can't have her … let someone who can give her what she needs …

He couldn't deny the urges that pushed him to seek her company, to snap and snarl at Spike and Bumblebee when all they wanted to do was help. Did she mean more to him now that she was a femme and not a human woman? Certainly, he didn't find himself wanting her when she was no larger than his forearm …

But, he did want her – her company, her words, her mere presence. She took away his sadness, his loneliness, his pain – all without ever knowing what an impact she was making on his cold spark.

You can yearn for her all you want, he snapped at himself, but face the truth – this time, you can't have what you want. No amount of credits will buy her attention. She's an Autobot now, with responsibilities and duties, as you have.

And, perhaps, that's what confused him the most. She was becoming one with her new body and thus needed less and less aid from those around her – especially him. When she moved, it was with a grace he'd never seen in a Tower-born femme – a confidence and acceptance of her situation and her place within the Ark hierarchy. No more hitches, no more tangling of the wings in door wells and around corners. It was as if Alina-the-human no longer existed. Mirage sincerely doubted he could cast off his former self for a human body if the tables were turned.

Recharge, his internal system insisted, and reinforced the command with a chart in the lower right-hand corner of his optics. With a ragged sigh, the Ligier reached down and scraped the hologram off the floor, turning it around to see if there was any permanent damage before slipping it back into the drawer. Turning off the light, he stretched out on his berth and slowly shut down.

Mirage

Light, soft hands touched his cheek; the Ligier moaned and turned his head to see a small, raven-haired woman perched by his side. " … Alina?"

She didn't answer, just continued to let her hand run up and down the side of his face. Optic shutters fluttering, he tried to reach out and take her fingers away – but he couldn't move. Trapped in his own body, he watched as her features shifted, stretched, became more angled – grey and black and white. Luminous golden optics winked coyly in the darkness.

Mirage

"I can't love you," he told the image. "I can't … I can't give you anything. I don't know how …"

Mirage.

Mirage.

Raj

The Ligier jolted into awareness, arms flailing. One hand hit the nightstand, the other scraping along the wall. Sensitive armor tingled in places he'd long forgotten during the war. "I can't …" he gasped, "I can't …"

Again, he tried to slip into darkness, only to be haunted by ghost wings, golden suns, and a shadow with large, pointed ears. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant night.