Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, I make no profit from this.
The priest, chapter 2
Finding his way to the Autobot headquarters was not difficult. Getting inside was more so.
All new recruits were expected to start with basic combat training and he had no desire to waste his time on that. Being merely one more nameless soldier would serve no-one, he wanted to be somewhere that he could make a difference. Besides which, he would prefer to be in a position where he could take some responsibility for the lives he would inevitably be compelled to take; he would not kill innocents.
Careful research had identified the best option, and the use of almost every credit he had stashed away paid for the upgrades that would ensure his success. He merely had to be accepted into the role which was why he was now here in this office, drawing on vorns of experience in working with the highly ranked to conceal his anxiety. This had to go well.
"I wish to join your unit."
The ex-Decepticon looked at him sceptically.
"My unit? What unit is that?"
"The one euphemistically called 'special' operations. I could be of use to you."
"I doubt it." Curveball snorted.
"Then you would be wrong." Mirage told him coolly.
"Look... what did you say your name was?"
"Mirage."
"Fine. Look, Mirage, you're a Towers mech. Go back to your prayers and parties and hunts and leave the dirty work to us low-lifes."
"I have already left them. I know what I want."
Curveball folded his arms, considering him for a moment.
"You've got to know that High Priest Dias has declared the Autobots heretics and the Prime a fake. Aren't you worried he might be right?"
"The role of the priests is to connect all Cybertronians to Primus and to serve the Prime, not to question those two tasks. The seniors know this but they are cowards and fear this Prime's warrior nature: there has not been a warrior Prime since Straxus who nearly destroyed us. They fear Optimus will do the same."
"And you don't?"
"I do not believe it is our place to choose."
"Isn't that heresy itself, though? Going against the decree of the High Priest?"
"Yes." Mirage admitted.
"So you've recanted your vows?"
"I am not a priest."
"So you've exiled yourself, and now you want shelter from us?"
"I have skills to offer. I..."
"Why my unit?" Curveball rudely interrupted. "There are recruiters everywhere - why come to me?"
"I am no crude soldier. I have no intention of becoming cannon fodder for Decepticon target practice, or of wasting time inciting riots in the streets. What I offer is more refined than that. I am an excellent shot, with skills developed in the hunt; I am swift, I can outpace many so-called racing models; I am versed in..."
"Get to the point. Give me one reason why you're so special. One good reason."
Mirage stared at him for a moment, aware that everything now depended on this demonstration, then vanished.
Mirage held perfectly still as the agents arrived and made their reports, blessing endless vorns of tedious ceremony that had taught him to quiet his systems and trained him out of any habits of fidgeting.
The range of mecha reporting to Curveball surprised him. Their accents and frame models were representative of the entire planet, and almost half were femmes. There were even three with the precise syntax and intonation of the Towers, and those caught his attention. One he vaguely recognised as a servant, though could not place exactly which House the mech worked for, but the others were entirely unfamiliar.
Based on the information the last of them presented, it seemed he may even be an ordained priest - no servant could have been in a position to attend such meetings. He was musing on that revelation when a hefty dock worker swaggered in and went straight to the sideboard to pour some energon out of the decanter there.
"Y'want some?" he asked.
"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow." Curveball told him, apparently unconcerned at this disrespectful behaviour.
"Aw, boss, you know I jus' love surpassin' your expectations."
"I had noticed." Curveball agreed, accepting the cube handed to him. "Who is the third one for?"
The stranger, sat on the edge of Curveball's desk, staring straight at Mirage over the rim of his cube.
"Very funny. It's for your spy. Who, by the way, is gonna be polite an' introduce himself soon or I'm gonna start thinkin' he's here uninvited."
Mirage gaped. This mech could not possibly have seen or heard him, so how did he know he was here? Curveball just shrugged, glancing to the left of where Mirage actually stood, to where he had been when he had cloaked himself.
"Might as well present yourself, Mirage, there's no point pretending when he knows you're here."
Disengaging the disruptor field, Mirage watched the newcomer carefully for some sign of shock, but it seemed as though this mech had known exactly where he was.
"He's not bad." he commented to Curveball, looking over Mirage critically as if inspecting a new drone. "The tech's nice too, but then Towers can afford the development costs, eh? Shame he won't work out."
Stepping forward, Mirage glared at him.
"What makes you so certain of that?" he asked frostily.
The mech considered him for a moment, then set his cube down on the desk and straightened to his full height before speaking in a clear and pure Towers accent.
"Do you believe, perhaps, that you are the first of your type to approach Curveball and offer assistance? Such an assumption would be foolish. Others have made the attempt and have failed because to them it is merely a diversion. A time filler. To do this work you must truly dedicate yourself to it, to the exclusion of your vows, something much more difficult to do than to promise. I doubt very much that one so exalted as yourself could survive the transition."
"You are from the Towers?" Mirage whispered, trying to reconcile the frame with the incongruent syntax.
The mech snorted and headed for the door.
"He's slaggin' a waste o'your time, CB. Put him outta his misery before he gets himself killed. Or someone else. I'll make my report later, when we're alone."
The door closed and Mirage turned to Curveball.
"Who was that?"
Curveball smiled.
"My best agent. Meister."
"How did he know I was here?"
"No idea. That's what makes him the best. And you've caught his interest, at least, and that's impressive for any new recruit. So, lets talk about finding you some work to do."
Mirage thought he had prepared himself for this change. He had known that there would be few of the luxuries he was accustomed to. But this was one step too far.
Sitting miserably on his bunk he rubbed at his plating in a poor effort to remove the layer of grime he had accumulated just by being in this lower level smog. He desperately needed to wash, a proper and private wash, but that was simply not possible.
Bad enough that there were no private rooms, bad enough that the fuel served in the commissary was less than seventy percent pure, but he had never anticipated the horror of being spattered in the filth of others who were sharing the same cleaning space. And for some reason he had not yet discovered, each Autobot was only permitted one session in the racks per orn unless they did a double shift. Worse, as part of the special ops unit he did not even have the option of requesting extra duty shifts: his work was assigned as Curveball saw fit, and so far the CSO had given him nothing to do other than to settle in.
"So I hear the boss's taken you on after all."
Mirage looked up at the familiar accent, expecting Meister, but instead found himself looking at a sleek white racer with black detailing.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
The racer sat down at the end of his berth, putting his pedes up on a spare chair and folding his arms.
"Nope, ya don't. Name's Jazz."
"Oh. I thought... Forgive me, it doesn't matter."
Jazz looked amused.
"Thought I was someone else? Who knows, maybe I was. Maybe you were, too."
"I beg your pardon?"
"CB knows all about ya, Circadian."
"My name is Mirage. You have me mistaken for someone else."
"Yup, that's it exactly." his companion nodded agreeably.
"Please leave me alone, I do not appreciate your company."
Jazz's grin widened.
"Appreciate it or not, mech, you an' me we're gonna be seein' a fair bit o'each other. Least til you're settled in an' he's happy t'let you run on your own."
"You mean until he trusts me."
Now Jazz laughed out loud and clapped him on the back with entirely inappropriate familiarity.
"That mech don't trust nobody. Never will, either. Now come on, we got work t'do."
"An assignment?"
"Of sorts. You'll see."
Jazz worked for the quartermaster and had been ordered to purchase various items. He also did a bit of work for Curveball on the side, and the CSO had asked him to show Mirage around. Mirage's role was to track him as he did his errands, noting down details about every contact without being seen.
It was more difficult than it sounded. The streets were crowded and Jazz was forever stopping abruptly or ducking into alleyways or jumping onto transit shuttles without warning. Twice when Mirage lost him entirely he would pop up again and draw attention to himself - calling out to a friend or enthusing loudly over a purchase.
It gave Mirage the demoralising sense that he was being toyed with.
When Jazz finally led him back to a cafe near the barracks and gestured for him to come out of the shadows, he was so exhausted he did not even protest the unpleasantly familiar pat on the shoulder.
"Not bad, not bad at all! Course, half the time you were spotted, but..."
"By whom?" Mirage protested indignantly.
"Doesn't matter who. Here, lets get somethin' t'eat. This place does the best sulphur ices in the district. On me; you find a seat."
Unhappy, Mirage looked around the room for an empty table but could not see one. Most of the tables were designed to seat at least ten mecha and there was someone already at each booth. Jazz joined him again after a moment, laughing good-naturedly and pulling him over to a table where there were two spaces free on the end then immediately began introducing Mirage to everyone else there.
Mirage ended up sitting next to a bulky cargomech named Surelift who chattered almost continuously about an upcoming festival. He endured it silently, eating his meal and conceding that it was quite good, relieved when Jazz finally rose and made their apologies to the others then guided him out.
"Right. You gotta go report in to Chief Curveball. I'll see you tomorrow an' we'll do it again. See ya!"
Tired enough that even the thought of the communal washracks no longer worried him, he headed to the main office block in the heart of the Autobot compound and found that Curveball was indeed waiting for him. But the questions he was asked had nothing whatsoever to do with the trip around the city: his supervisor wanted to know every detail of the mechs they'd eaten with, and to his shame the only one Mirage could name was Surelift.
"First lesson, then." Curveball grunted at him. "Watch everything and everyone all the time. My staff are never off duty. Now get out - do better tomorrow or I'll send you to Ironhide and see if he has a use for you."
Leaving the office Mirage paused in the corridor trying to remember why he had ever thought this move was a good idea.