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.

XxxX

Full Velocity: Finding Salvation

Chapter 26: Mirror

XxxX.

She died, yet she could not remember. Shouldn't she remember something like that?

Nestled within the Prime's arms, she tried to recall her life. As he carried her through the corridors, disconnected images flickered across her mind keeping beat with the pedfalls.

A dark haze clouded her memories, only allowing shadowed hints at her past. A face came forward, the man she called "father." Hollow cheeked, and deeply lined eyes stared at her as they played cribbage in front of the fire. The following day, she found him dead. He drifted back into the darkness.

The shadows receded, and abandoned buildings morphed and folded, one after another. Slums and derelict places where they once lived. Ghostly pains from an empty stomach reminded Sira of years scraping for food.

Jewelry glittered and sparkled around her. Gold polished to shine like the sun, and a rainbow of brilliant gemstones pushed the shadows further away. A tiny emerald, cradled in simple, unadorned white gold, dangled in front of her thoughts, the first piece of jewelry she made and sold.

A face of black stone with unblinking, unseeing eyes. A lion goddess of fire, fury, and vengeance. The goddess did not speak or even care; she only waited.

A million memories exploded open at once. Her only lover. Her home in the Appalachian Mountains. A father's brutal anger at her failings. Simple house chores. A truck she bought, events, and people that defined her life. She shuttered her optics and pressed her face against the flame-painted chest. The rush of recollection hurt; each memory burned as it settled into her mind.

Before her stood a child that wasn't a child. A little boy, dirty and lost, crying for his mother and Death answered that plaintive wail.

Sira gasped and twisted in the Prime's arms. Her body burned as pain exploded through her. She screamed through clenched jaws as the recollection of Death came, slipping into her mind like dark snakes slithering through the summer grass. Blood red optics filled with violent delight fell upon her. Running as fast as she could through a forgotten place, hiding, waiting, knowing Death stalked her. Claws of metal tore at her. Then, Optimus gently held her while the world slipped away.

"Sira." A voice called to her. "Sira," the word vibrated through her and pulled at her.

Opening her shutters, she struggled to focus on the present. Lifting her head, Sira realized Optimus still held onto her. Around them, bright white tiles echoed every tiny sound. She breathed rapidly, and her heart – no, pump sputtered in her chest.

"Sira?" the Prime asked. "Do you need Ratchet?"

"No. No, Ratchet. Too many memories all at once." She clenched her jaws and buried her face in the chest of the mech holding her. She scrambled to clutch him, curling her fingers against the angles of his metal armor.

Calmly, as if he were talking about the weather, Optimus stated, "That might be your spark chamber and the memory core of your processor linking. The processor and spark, or soul in your case, work in tandem. You cannot have one without the other. Ratchet could tell for certain."

Peeking upward, Sira opened her shutters. "What the fuck?" she moaned. "It hurts. It physically hurts."

"I have only witnessed one other transference, and the symptoms were similar. He complained of experiencing physical pain. While you were unconscious, the processor gathered data, but I think consciousness triggers the largest transfer. Again, speculation, Ratchet would know."

Sira contemplated Optimus's words as she listened to the steady thrum of his pump deep in his chest. The slow cadence lulled her into a trance as the overwhelming shock of pain and memories released its hold. She tried to ignore the implications that her whole life was nothing but coded bits of data, streaming through a computer in her head. The burn of anger ignited from her fear.

Finally, shaking herself out of the trance, she squeaked out, "I want to see what I look like."

The arms around her tightened.

"I want to see," she repeated, the words sounding more robust to her audios.

Optimus sighed and carried her forward. He stopped and turned.

Tentatively, Sira turned to peek and see what lay before her. They stood in front of a series of mirrors that ran the breadth and width of a wall. In the reflection, Optimus held a small mechanoid, child-sized when compared to him.

It took Sira several seconds to realize she looked at herself. "Put me down." Not a request.

"Can you stand?" Optimus hesitated.

"Put. Me. Down." She did not know if she could stand or how long it would last, but she did not want to be held like a child anymore.

Slowly, the Prime lowered her. He kept hold, supporting her as she found her footing.

Sira stood on shaking legs, trying to make sense of what they had done to her. God, this could not be her, for an alien stared back from the mirror. Her legs gave out, and strong hands arrested her fall. Optimus lowered her and she sat on the slick tiles.

The Prime chose to sit nearby, his back pressed against a wall. The mech stayed within an easy reach of her. Sira wanted him to leave and give her privacy. She could not voice her desire; the words became too complicated to bother with. Instead, she ignored his presence.

Sitting in the Autobot's communal showers, she stared at the being in Sunstreaker's mirrors. Was this really her? Had they really turned her into one of them? She didn't want to be one of them; she wanted to be what she had always been. They could transfer her soul into another body, but the Autobots could not save the old one? It didn't make sense. Was this her only option for the rest of her life? How long would she live? Optimus guessed he was over nine million years old. Ratchet and Ironhide - far older.

Panic bubbled within Sira. Scared and overwhelmed, she shuttered her optics until the pounding in her chest subsided. Time passed by as she sat on the cold floor, her optic shutters closed. Balled fists began to ache from the strain. She wanted to scream, to pound her anger into the floor, or the wall, or Optimus. Yet, she could barely speak or stand. She had to choke down the rage and keep it locked within. Eventually, the flood of emotions subsided. The constriction in her chest loosened, and the need to throw her vehemence at the nearby mech diminished slightly.

Inhaling and exhaling became her entire focus. The rush of air in and out of her body slowed as her thoughts slowed. The hum of gears nearby announced Optimus's movement. Raising a shaking hand, she asked for him to leave her alone. She tolerated his presence but just barely.

Sira knew she was postponing the inevitable, hiding her eyes – optics – from the thing that scared her. Instead of a scary movie or grisly scene, she could move past, allow time to remove it for her; the reflection in the mirror would always be there. Even if she refused to look, she would see her hands, legs, and body. She would notice the change every second of every day for the rest of a potentially very long life.

Another inhale and another exhale, she opened her optic shutters to stare at the reflection in front of her. Shifting awkwardly, Sira managed to curl her legs beside her and sat straighter. She needed to become accustomed to this new body; it might be sometime before she accepted it, if ever. With her arms slack to her sides, she tried for an overall impression of this new form.

Dainty. Dainty and shiny.

The copper hue of her body shone in the light like a new penny. A few spots offered a touch of silver, but only barely. She shimmered when she moved, all bright and polished. She did not admit it out loud, but she liked the color. With Optimus seated behind her, she appeared tiny next to him. Even seated, his height loomed over hers. Twisting, Sira reached behind her to touch him, to spread her fingers around his knee. She could not. Her fingers were not long enough to wrap around the joint.

"Sira?" the word carried hesitancy and concern.

A smile attempted to move the metal of her face. "I am tiny. Will I get bigger?"

Statue still, the Prime answered her question with a flat, emotionless tone. "No. The lack of resources created size restrictions. On Cybertron, you would be considered small, but not abnormally so." He seemed to add the last part as a consolation prize.

Pulling her hand away from the mech, she focused once again on her reflection. Her form had a smoother, sleeker shape and without stuff, no tires, no side-view mirrors, no headlights, just a naked frame. "Am I naked?"

"No, you are not naked." A touch of humor colored his response. "Currently, you are a protoform. As you learn to control your frame, you will pick an alternate mode. Your programming will build your armor. The process is very costly to us, requiring huge energy and resource reserves, so we choose carefully."

"Can I be a jet?" Sira asked, her gaze finally settling on Optimus without anger rising within her.

"No. You lack the programs and capabilities for flight."

She perked up. "Perhaps a metal cat?"

The Prime shook his head. "You are not a beastformer. Your frame is designed as a ground vehicle, a small one at that."

Pouting, she returned to her self-examination. Holding out her arms, she noticed they were long and slender. Fingers, four of them and an opposable thumb on each hand. Her wrist flexed and bent in a way she found familiar. Along the tops of her hands, a pattern caught the light. Delicate curls and loops traveled up her arm and onto her torso.

Scrambling for footing, she tried to stand. The slick tiles and new body made the simple act a struggle. Optimus offered her a hand to pull herself up with, but he did not stand or attempt to lift her. She had to do this on her own.

Finally, getting her balance and feet stabilized, she followed the etched pattern in the mirror. Across her arms, over her chest and abdomen, then down and around the hips and legs. She liked the legs. The graceful curves reminded her of a dancer's legs. Very nice. She almost smiled when she saw her feet. They resembled paws, metal cat's paws. No wonder she struggled to stand. Unconsciously she attempted to move on human-like feet with balls and heels to carry weight. Cats walked on their toes. Digitigrade feet required shifting her weight and center of balance. Doing so made all the difference; she could stand without needing Optimus's help.

Walking closer to the mirror, she touched her face and frowned, then smiled. Watching the individual facial plates shift to make the expression she wanted. Her face did not emote as an organic one. It made her wonder how much harder the Cybertronians had to work to communicate with body language like humans. It took an effort to wiggle her nose. She couldn't stick out her tongue. Opening her mouth, she found metal plates with sharp edges for nipping and textured grinding surfaces for chewing. In her lower jaw, something like a tongue flopped around.

Briefly, she wondered if she would live long enough to forget her old body.

XxxX.

Sira wanted to try walking. The new femme addressed her new body like she did everything else, immediately and with determination. They walked along the corridors, Sira teetering on weak legs, he next to her in case she fell. As they strolled, Optimus watched her improve her gait and balance. Unexpectedly she stopped and sprang forward. Covering a considerable distance, Sira landed and toppled face-first onto the floor.

"Too soon," she mumbled, picking herself up as she waved him away.

He kept his distance as she asked, but his pump had jumped when she did. Now, he had to calm his systems and allow her to make her mistakes, even the painful ones.

They continued walking until he noticed Sira venting hard. She needed a break to cool down and rest. Overexerting the femme would have Ratchet on his aft.

Optimus took her to his office, where they could sit. A great expanse of the empty desk now separated them. Neither had said a word since he pulled a chair out for her.

Sira stared at him, and several times she moved as if to speak, then did not. Instead, she turned her attention to her hands, slowly wiggling and curling her fingers. Finally, she looked at the wall, "You look different," she muttered.

"So do you," he responded in a smooth baritone.

A glare shot his way but quickly faded. Sira sighed and demurely sat her hands in her lap, a frown turning her facial plates downwards. Thoughts raced behind her optics, their presence shifting the color from brilliant green to forest shadows and back. He wondered if she realized she wore her emotions for all the universe to see.

Optimus leaned forward and rested his hands on the surface between them. He wove his fingers together. He needed her to know why and accept her new life. The sooner she let go of her past, the quicker she would adjust. "Sira, I am sorry for what happened to you. If there could have been any other way, I would have chosen it, but your organic body was dying. I acted out of desperation, and if you are angry with me, I understand but do not be angry with anyone else. They only followed my orders." He watched the femme closely, trying to see what direction her thoughts churned.

Focused on the middle distance between them, Sira slowly spoke. "I am angry. - I am scared. I do not know what to think. Honestly, I can't think right now." Her speech came in choppy blocks of words. Her shoulders hunched in defeat, and she looked at her hands in her lap.

A deep sigh rattled the Prime's frame. "I fear I have failed you."

The copper head snapped up, and green optics glowed brightly. Sira quickly reached forward to lay a hand on his. "You did not fail me, Optimus," she said as she touched one of his fingers.

That contact immediately affected Optimus. The warmth of her electrical field pulsed along his hand and slipped up his arm. His engine rumbled as he leaned back before thinking how Sira would perceive his actions. Too late. She pulled her hand back and quickly returned it into her lap. The heat from contact faded. Her head dropped as she averted her gaze. The Prime knew that gesture from before; she wanted to hide behind her hair.

He wanted to explain she did nothing wrong, and her touch was welcome. Yet, he could not compose a reasonable sentence without sounding a fool or a pervert to use the human term. Words failed him, so he sat in silent frustration.

It took several minutes for Sira to speak. "Now what?" She kept her head bowed, talking to the floor.

"What do you mean?" Optimus asked softly. Leaning forward again, he laced his hands on the desk. He wanted to reach across the surface and touch her, simply brush his fingers along her arm.

"I have no clue how to be …" Pulling her head up, she motioned to herself and to him.

"First, you are going to learn how to control your vocal processor. The only thing I can suggest is using it. Eventually, Ratchet will want to run a full diagnostic on you, which will probably happen soon. As you become accustomed to your new form, we will teach you what you need to know. Sira, I – we are going to help and guide you. No one expects you to figure this out on your own."

Sira planted her face into his desk and banged her forehead several times.

He did not know how to respond or help her. Gaping like a siliconcarp he stood and leaned over the desk. Shoving a hand between her helm and the hard surface, he wanted to keep her from hurting herself. "Sira?" he called.

Resting her cheek against the back of his hand, the femme responded. "I'm good. Just had a moment." Sitting up, she pushed his hand away. Sira did not look at him; she stared at the ceiling. "I am dependent on you. I do not know how to live like this. I don't know your language or society. What if you go back to Cybertron? Am I left behind, or do I go? Do I even want to go?"

As she spoke, Optimus slid back to his chair. He scrutinized her face, watching for any warning of violence or erratic behavior.

"What am I? I look different than the rest of you," she asked and slumped over the desk. Sprawling out, the femme rested her head on her arms and stared at him.

Reaching over, Optimus stroked her helm, unsure how to answer her question.

"What you are is under medical care. Optimus, could you stop petting the femme so I can take her back to the med bay for observation. She is in a weakened state, most likely overwhelmed emotionally, and doesn't need you bothering her," Ratchet stated.

A pitiful whimper slipped out of the femme. Tilting her head, Sira glanced at the medic standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. She sighed and sat up.

Optimus let his hand slip from the femme. Sitting straighter, he squared his shoulders and prepared himself for Ratchet's chastisement.

"What am I?" Sira asked again, her optics flicking between the mechs.

The medic entered the office and walked past Sira. He patted her on the back, then chose a spot on the wall to lean against. "You are basically a femme, but with a few modifications."

"Okay, what is a femme?" Sira crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on top.

Optimus watched her optics dim slightly before answering the question. "Femmes are a sub-group of Cybertronians. Typically, they are smaller and lighter than mechs. They possess many qualities humans would consider feminine. It made sense to give you a form that you would be the most comfortable with."

"So, I'm a female robot?" She stretched her arms out, then curled them back into a pillow for her helm.

"No, you are a female who is now a femme." Ratchet informed. He watched the femme intently.

"Ratchet, please make sense." Sira sighed.

Prime interceded, not wanting an argument in his office. "Sira, you are thinking of femmes as female. We do not have sexes, you know this. Instead, think of them as the equivalent of an ethnic group. Although, this is a greatly oversimplified analogy. Like Earth, Cybertron has several different groups that make up its population. Mechs are by far the most common. There are also seekers, femmes, and minibots, to name a few."

Sira raised her head, her optics brightened slightly. "Elita-1 was a femme, wasn't she?"

Sadness and longing washed over him. Grief tightened around his chest, but Sira deserved answers. "Yes. Elita was the femmes' leader. Even after her death, they continued to ally themselves with the Autobots. They remained loyal and true until the end."

"What end?" By now, Sira lay on one shoulder with her arms stretched out in front of her. Her optics unfocused.

"As far as we know, they are all gone, slaughtered by the Decepticons." Optimus watched Sira's optics dim and then darken. Running a hand affectionately down a limp arm, he looked at this CMO. "Was that really necessary? I do not believe she would have caused you much trouble."

Ratchet plucked a small black device off Sira's back. Then he began repositioning the petite femme so he could move her. He hooked one arm under her knees, another behind her back, and lifted. "This way is less stressful to her and to me." With the protoform safely in his arms, the medic turned back to Prime. "You told her about Elita?"

"The topic came up in conversation, so yes, I told her."

The medic looked at his friend for several minutes before he spoke again. "Optimus, you two were close when Sira was organic. She may seek out your guidance and - comfort while she adjusts. If this is not something you want, then I would suggest distancing yourself."

"I am well aware she is vulnerable right now. I assure you I have no intentions of betraying her trust or friendship."

XxxX

Author's Notes

Thank you to everyone reading my indulgent dive into this fic before I complete HOTF. If you have questions, ask.

d8rkforcen1ght7: Thank you. This has been an exercise. I have had some amazing teachers over the years, and writing like any art form takes practice.