Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.
Important Note: I started this series of fics before revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an A.U. 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB or whatever follows fic.
Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copyrighted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this but wish I could.
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Full Velocity: Finding Salvation
Chapter 21: Mistakes
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Simmons could hear the singing from the hallway. Calling the noise singing would be a stretch, more like caterwauling. One would think that sultry voice could carry a tune, but Sira had a vocal range of about four notes and all those flat.
He looked in. From his angle in the hallway, Simmons saw Sira bouncing behind the stovetop, keeping a beat only she could hear. Tucking his newspaper under his arm, he decided to mix work and pleasure.
Clearing the last step on the stairs, a smile spread along his lips. Usually, he couldn't get this close to the woman without her acute senses alerting her. Today though, Sira wore earbuds while she sang, totally unaware she had a watcher.
Leaning against the railing, Simmons wanted to see how long it took her to notice him. He admitted to himself, he enjoyed watching her dance to the music while she cooked. Rarely did he ever see her relaxed and happy, a nice change to her typical snappy, hyper-vigilant attitude. He wondered if the joy came from the absence of Smith or general solitude.
The military boys may say they accepted the resident non-human, but Simmons saw the wary looks, the sideways glances, and the safer distances. Without a doubt, Sira noticed the changes and tended to stay away from the Special Ops team. The Autobots appeared to treat her as an accepted member or accepted annoyance, depending on the mech. Personally, he preferred her company over the people he worked for; the feral honesty she liberally dispensed came as a fresh breeze against the bullshit of Washington. Anyways, during his years at Sector Seven, he met scarier beings than Sira.
Simmons liked being on the outside of this hodge-podge group. He could sit back, observe the dynamics play out and all without personal involvement. Right now, though, he needed to get involved.
"I've been through the desert on a horse with no name. It felt good to be out of the rain. In the desert, you can remember your name cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain. La la lalala."
Shaking his head in mirth, he headed towards the woman.
Sira raised her head and sniffed. "Simmons." She pulled the earbuds out and fumbled with the iPod.
He needed to remember to skip the cologne. Simmons took a seat at the bar across from the cooktop. "So kitten, someone slip you some catnip? You seem cheery today."
He could have sworn a ghost of a smile dusted her lips before she snarled, showing him her vicious teeth.
"I was in a good mood, then you had to kill my vibe." She pulled out a cup and filled it from a carafe. Sitting the coffee in front of him, she followed with a sugar dispenser, cold creamer, forks, and spoons.
Sitting his paper on the bar, Simmons added the creamer to his cup, forgoing the sugar. A plate containing eggs and buttered toast appeared before him. He covered his surprise at the offering of food. "What, no Meow Mix sprinkled on top?"
"Unsophisticated oaf! Those are best served in a bowl with warm cream." A smile pushed the fake frown off her face.
Sira returned to the skillet, shoveling the rest of the eggs on a plate. Then she buttered a slice of toast. "Be glad you showed up when you did; I planned on eating all of this before heading to bed."
He used his fork to gesture at the meal between them. "You realize that when you turn thirty, eating like that will go directly to your ass, and those luscious hips will spread as wide as a barn door."
She laughed. "I have already turned thirty, and I burn calories like you lose hair from the top of your head. So, did you spend your weekend writing down all the stupid cat jokes you could think of?" Leaning towards him, she snatched his newspaper up and unfolded it.
Simmons shrugged and took a bite of the eggs, resisting the urge to pat the growing bald spot age had bestowed upon him. Since "the Incident," a weird comradery formed between him and Sira. Perhaps, the fact he completely protected her furry ass or saw her in her natural form connected them. Whatever the reason, he enjoyed their odd friendship.
From behind the rustling paper, she threatened. "The first time I hear the words: pussy, pussycat, puss-puss, or any variation thereof, I am going to flatten that beaky nose in such a way that the doctors will be picking bone shards out of your tonsils." She leaned around the paper and smiled coyly, complete with fluttering eyelashes.
The line had been drawn, and there went half of his material. "You know you're pretty good with the scary threats. Do you have a list written down somewhere?"
Turning to an empty space on the counter, Sira laid the paper flat and tore out part of a page. "So why are you here? You don't come around just to be sociable." She folded the paper to its former shape and tossed it back to him. The stolen section creased and tucked into her back pocket.
"It's about your little friend Randy Smith. Seems he got a little handsy with a secretary, who happened to be the second cousin of a White House staffer. That, along with the tarnish from his actions here, lead to his dismissal from government employment."
"Awe. So sad." Sira sipped her coffee, her expression resembling the Cheshire cat and precisely the opposite of her words.
"He left with full retirement to keep his mouth shut." Simmons ate more of the eggs, savoring the perfect texture.
"Well, that part sucks ass." Sitting her cup aside, the woman started eating her own meal.
Wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, Simmons continued. "Smith has a new hobby. It's called Earth for Humans dot org. Nice graphics, blog, pictures, all in all, a well-designed website. They are devoted to humanitarian efforts."
The merry twinkle in Sira's eyes froze and hardened. She delicately chewed her bite before responding. "I assume humanitarian doesn't involve building schools or administering vaccinations."
"Sister, you are correct." Gobbling more of his breakfast before it became cold, Simmons continued. "Humanitarian efforts involving saving humans from aliens. They focus on how the Earth is being overrun by said aliens and how the government isn't protecting the citizens. It's becoming a rather popular place for conspiracy nuts and the generally paranoid to hang out and trade information."
"Can't you shut him down for divulging secrets or something?" Her voice held a subtle growl.
"Nope, he hasn't given any specifics. Hell, he hasn't even said he used to work for the DIA. If we shut him down, he could holler about his civil rights being violated. Not a noise we want to hear right now."
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Enjoy your eggs, Reggie." Sira stood and headed towards the stairs.
"Where are you going, sweetheart?"
"To kick Optimus in the foot and say, 'I told you so.'"
It would be an interesting argument to watch, but his sense of self-preservation kept him sitting on the stool and enjoying a free meal. Simmons leaned over and flipped through the newspaper to see what she ripped out.
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Curled in the driver's seat, Sira did not have her hands on the steering wheel or pay attention to the road before her. Excitement set her foot into motion, and she struggled to keep from tapping it against Optimus's floorboard. The folded slip of newspaper safely tucked in her pocket.
"I want you to be cautious. Constantly observe who and what is around you." The Prime's disembodied voice advised.
Shifting, Sira smiled and patted the dash. "I will be careful. What has you so worried?"
Pensive silence filled the space around them, the only sound were Prime's tires humming along the road. Finally, Optimus spoke. "There is evidence of more Cybertronians coming to Earth. They do not answer our hails, and their trails quickly disappear. Fellow Autobots would join us, Neutrals would be cautious, but would contact us…."
"And Decepticons would avoid you," Sira added. "Evidence of more Decepticons is bad, but do you really think they are going to attack the museum?"
A sigh resonated through the cabin. "Doubtful. If they were amassing for an attack, their target would be the base or Washington. Someplace more strategic. I am more concerned about Randolf Jerome Smith. His behaviors make me think he will seek revenge."
Sira's mood darkened, the scar along her side, though white and shiny, still pulled when she moved a certain way. A cold reminder of her vulnerability. The man knew what she was and what she could do; therefore, she lost the element of surprise that sent others running. No, Smith would not give her the chance to run or fight. His attack would be fast and lethal.
Staring out the window, Sira saw nothing; her thoughts turned to the recent past. "I will be careful," she promised.
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Sira felt nearly naked without the weight of her backpack and sword pressed against her spine. Years ago, she had learned the hard way that museums liked to use metal detectors to keep weapons out. Glancing around she found several blades, encased in brittle glass, that would suffice if she really needed one. Strolling through the museum, she listened to the soft words of reverence drifting among the artifacts. Soft words anyways, the reverence part evaporated when a young voice asked, "Why is that man wearing a dress?" Several visitors chuckled at the child's question.
Sira moved away from the gold and gem-encrusted collar, weaving her way through the crowd of people. While most people drooled over the gaudy pieces of wealth and royalty, she barely gave the treasures a passing glance. Over her life, she handled, created, and sold enough precious metals and gemstones to compete with everything on display here. What she wanted to see lay deeper in the exhibit, and she moved steadily towards it.
Passing by canopic jars, the gawks of disgust amused her. She wondered if these patrons realized what would happen to their own bodies after death. Exsanguination, openings stitched shut, saturation with embalming fluid, and finally plunked into an absurdly expensive box did not sound very different than the ancient Egyptian mummification process.
Around her, small statues, combs, ornate bowls, children's toys, papyrus scrolls, relief carvings, weapons, all the trinkets of a bygone civilization, bereft of the lives that created and used them. Now, these artifacts served as curiosities, traveling the country for people to ponder.
Sira paused at the mummy of a small cat; a wry smile quirked her lips. Next to the desiccated body, a statue of Bastet mirrored the pose. Oh, to be worshiped and honored. While a pretty piece of art, the ode to the cat goddess was not her goal. Sitting near a wall, mounted on a pedestal to raise her higher, the lion goddess Sekhmet impassively observed the throngs of people gawking at her extinct culture.
The article in Simmons's newspaper focused on the flashier artifacts, but the goddess waited in the background. This carved statue of black granite enticed Sira to rub shoulder to shoulder with strangers and feel the press of humanity around her.
Posed on her thrown, an ankh in her left hand, the lion-headed goddess stared with unblinking eyes.
Standing back a bit, Sira resisted the urge to run her fingers along the dark stone. Wrapping her arms around her, she contemplated the ancient statue. Her thoughts twisted from the chisel marks to wondering if the deity was once a real person.
The weight of not knowing about her own kind pressed on Sira. Day-to-day existence kept the lonely thoughts at bay, but she still felt adrift among humans. Had her people once walked among humanity, revered as gods? Had they been feared and hunted as monsters? Or both? Did her people still live, tucked away in hidden pockets? Or was she one of the last?
"Are we sisters?" she asked in the throaty, guttural language her father had taught her, the only connection to her own kind.
A gentle cough pulled Sira from her thoughts. Scenting the air quickly, she regretted it. The smell of dozens of soaps, perfumes, colognes intermingled with sweat, dust, rot from the mummies, and at least one dirty diaper. Her head swam from the sensory overload. Cupping her hands over her mouth and nose, she inhaled her own scent. Glancing around, she noticed a bi-speckled, old man stood beside her. His watery, gray eyes stared at her as he offered her a kind smile. The air around him buzzed with vitality.
Fake sneezing into her palms, Sira hoped to avoid explaining why she had her hands cupped around her face. "Sorry, dust." She added and casually crossed her arms.
"Understandable." He waved away her sneeze. "You appear quite taken with the statue of Bastet." His voice, cracked with age, held traces of an accent not found on this continent.
Sira looked at the statue and back to the man. "I believe you have been misinformed. That isn't Bastet. That is Sekhmet. Bastet doesn't wear the sun disk and cobra crown."
The man smiled, and the gesture deepened the creases in his face. "Ah, an educated Lady. Tell me what else you know about the Mistress of Dread."
Sira knew a lot about Sekhmet. Over the years of trying to learn about her people, she spent a significant amount of time focused on the lion goddess.
Leaning towards the man, she said, "Mistress of Dread, Avenger of Wrongs, Before whom Evil Trembles, Lady of Pestilence, all names addressing her. Warrior goddess of Upper Egypt, and one of the sun deities. Her skin was said to shine with the brilliance of the sun. Her breath became the hot, dry wind of the desert. She could call forth fire and used flaming arrows to slay her foes, hence the name Lady of Fire. As The Protector of Kings, she stalked the land and slew anyone who rose against the Pharaoh. Her clothes were dyed deep red with the blood of the wicked." She smiled and offered a tiny curtsy "Ta-Da."
The old man chuckled, merriment shining in his eyes. "But the educated lady has forgotten, Sekhmet was driven insane by her own bloodlust and almost slaughtered all of mankind. Not a very noble trait."
Sira shrugged. "Have you been to a Wal-Mart on Saturday? It's an understandable reaction to humanity in general."
The elderly man laughed in agreement. He held out a liver-spotted hand. "Dr. Marshgood, expert in antiquities and all things dusty, musty and moldy."
Sira took his hand and found it surprisingly firm. "Sira. Little formal education, but exceedingly well-read. I just came here to see her." She pointed towards the statue.
Dr. Marshgood gave her a curious look. "Are you one of those neopagans that worships the older pantheons?"
Turning her attention back to the statue, Sira shook her head. "No, I'm not sure who I worship, but not any manmade deity. So, don't worry, no bowls of beer or dead goats to clean up later."
"Oh, thank God," the man exalted. "When we were on exhibit in Tampa, someone kept trying to release snakes to appease Apep. It became ridiculous. Though a mysterious pint of beer would be welcome around closing time." He winked at her before patting her shoulder. "I must be off to give a talk about mummification and all its gory details. Enjoy the rest of your visit."
Sira patted the hand. "You have fun with that. I might watch if you pull someone's brain out their nose."
XxxX.
Optimus Prime tried to wait patiently, but unease prickled along his wires. Nothing had happened. Nothing showed on his scans, and no one reported any activity. Even the police radio frequencies remained oddly quiet, but something worried him. He did not like how far he had to park from the museum. Construction from the revitalization project blocked most of the downtown area from larger vehicles, forcing him to drop off Sira and wait for her to call him when ready to leave.
When she showed him the newspaper article, he almost told her no, but he did not have any valid reasons to deny her. She lacked any ties to her own kind, and to withhold any opportunity to explore possible connections would be cruel. Optimus doubted she would learn much about her species on this planet, but without proof, he kept his suspicions to himself.
Instead, he drove her here, choosing to serve as chauffeur and protector rather than delegate the task. He thought overseeing her trip into town would ease the tension in his hypercoils; it did not.
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Sira stepped into the bright sun. She saw what she came here for. Joy did not lighten her heart, she did not receive any grand revelations, but she had not expected any. She simply wanted to be near an image like her. Perhaps people in ancient Egypt knew of her kind, or maybe they were all tripping on 'shrooms and making up shit.
Intending to call Optimus to meet her, Sira pulled her phone from her back pocket. She couldn't see the numbers on the screen due to outside glare.
Sighing, Sira slipped down an alley between the museum and law office, seeking shade to see her phone. Leaning against the wall, she pulled up her contacts and scrolled down to the one labeled "Orion". About to dial Optimus, she paused as movement caught her attention. Further down the alley, a small child shuffled. Several seconds ticked by, and no one showed to claim the little boy.
"Well, shit," Sira muttered to herself. Pocketing her phone, she slowly walked towards the child. "Hey there. Are you alone?"
Deep, terrified eyes looked at her. "Do you know where Mommy is?"
Crossing an intersection between the buildings, Sira looked both ways for inattentive parents. Abused and overstuffed trash dumpsters spilled their contents onto the concrete, power boxes clung to their buildings, and random pipes jutted from walls and disappeared into the ground. Designed for service access between buildings, no one used the area for commuting. Just she and a child populated the maze.
Sira neared the child and squatted, wanting to look less imposing. She took a long look. Definitely a little boy, but she had no idea his age. She had almost no experience with babies or children. Grime smeared his shirt, partially obscuring the cartoon dinosaur. Sand-colored hair blew softly in the wind as tears cut wet trails down the child's face. He gave a shuddering breath, and a snot bubble formed on the tiny upturned nose.
"Ew. Let's see if we can find your parents." She smiled her kindest smile in hopes of not frightening the little boy. She held her hand out and motioned for the child to come to her.
"Do you know where Mommy is?" The boy stared through and past her as if she were not there.
Sira narrowed her eyes and scented the air. Mouth slightly opened and head raised, she sniffed again: dirt, concrete, rotting food, urine, rat feces, and nothing else, no sharp smell of human. Her heart skipped faster, and she glanced around again.
Rocking back on her heels, Sira tried to figure out what her senses told her. A child, lost and alone, stood in front of her, but a warning crept up her spine. She could not leave the little boy alone. Maybe she should take the child and head back to the museum, turn him over to his own kind. Standing, she stepped towards him, and he didn't follow her movements. She reached out to stroke the tear-stained cheek. Her hand met not soft, wet flesh but empty air. Without resistance, her hand slid right through the illusion.
Sira did not hesitate; she turned and bolted away from the nonexistent child, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and it. A roar of rage echoed along the brick buildings, and monstrous footfalls vibrated the ground. She did not know where or how the mech hid his presence and did not care. Unarmed and alone, she did the only thing she could; she ran.
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