Ep. 1.5 - SOMA - (Closed)

[Deleted]

The white robot bowed again.

"If you have further questions I don't mind answering them the slightest - you have every right to be sceptical of everything you've seen so far, particularly given the unusual circumstances," he said. "I can only hope I will provide answers that will help to clarify things a little. It's not my intention to be obfuscating. I just don't want to put any of my colleagues at risk by speaking out of turn. But let's see..."

He paced back and forth in front of Mirage, turning one way and then the other. He held the datapad tucked under his arm as he did so, and pensively clasped his chin between his fingers.

"Well, to answer your first question, we have been following the front line of our war for some time now," he said. "Ever since the launch of the Ark and the Nemesis, really. But even before that we studied Earth with a great deal of curiosity. It was, of course, one of the primitive worlds chosen to be stockpiled with energon when the war depleted supplies back home on Cybertron. And Alpha Trion himself took a great interest in the blue planet, for reasons we have yet to divine. He could be a rather inscrutable bot at times."

The white robot came to a halt and smiled a little mistily into space, as if recalling a fond memory.

"That said, going back to my initial answer, we have been trying our best to keep track of the war as it unfolds on Earth." He wobbled his hand back and forth. "With, er... arguable success. Earth is a long way from Cybertron, and while we have a collection of excellent minds at our disposal, our resources are severely limited. But we have our supporters, those who wish to see us survive so that we might protect the data archives and the vast intellectual history of our planet for future generations to come. If our race survives that long."

He sighed. A flicker of remorse passed across his yellow optics. "It was one of those supporters who placed that datapad for us, a long time ago. He was afraid to give it to you in person, because he feared that such a gesture would raise questions about his disappearance after the Exodus - questions he felt ashamed to answer. He is a good Autobot. He didn't want anyone to believe he had abandoned his fellows just to help a bunch of, in his words, 'glitch-headed scientists'."

The white robot crooked air quotes around the phrase and looked amused.

"So, he hid the datapad in the location you found it and left it there, intending to one day guide you to it without giving himself away. Undisturbed, it rested there for months. Only recently did we remotely activate the datapad and it's message to you after we discovered that our poor friend had been dreadfully injured, and was incapable of passing it on to you for us. I'm rather worried about him. He was our stalwart defender for a long time after the Exodus. We rescued him from a medical camp in the Polyhex Dead End and restored him to full functionality. He was so badly damaged. He chose to repay us by serving as our guard. Frankly, I think we bored him terribly, but he stuck with us stubbornly through some very bitter times."

With a bright smile, the white robot gestured to Mirage. "You must know him. You're, er... you're walking around in his body as we speak. In this simulation, I mean."

[Deleted]

He watched the white mech carefully as he began to pace, his optics tracking his every movement, out of habit more so than any suspicion what the other mech was going to act against him. He seemed...harmless enough. Mirage still couldn’t help but wonder if he was being fed lies, if this mental projection was truly the work of MECH after all, but after weighing his options, he decided to give the white mech the benefit of the doubt for the time being. He could sort himself later on, when he had all the pieces to this confounding puzzle and could make a more sound decision on the matter.

Until then, he absorbed the information offered to him, taking in all that he could, storing away every detail in a mental folder to be later examined for inconsistencies. Insofar...things seemed to add up. It made sense that Earth would be a planet of some interest, given the energon deposits stockpiled upon it in the past, and its present role in the war. He supposed it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for the planet to be monitored, despite it’s far distance from Cybertron.

Especially, as the white mech’s words seemed to imply, one had an agent working upon the planet itself.

Mirage’s optics irised, glowing faintly brighter as he stared at the other mech with a look of dawning realization. He spoke of a supporter - someone on Earth. An Autobot. Someone who was tasked with ensuring he received the datapad and thus was made privy to the information he was currently being told.

His hands clenched slightly behind his back as he realized, before the white mech specified, who the person in question must have been.

The message in Air Raid’s field hadn’t been from MECH after all.

It had all been a ploy, a cleverly crafted ruse, and Mirage had unwittingly played his part exactly as he was meant to - he had gone to the peninsula alone and investigated the area, embarking on what he had been lead to believe was a twisted scavenger hunt orchestrated by MECH.

Mirage blinked twice, slowly, before breathing out in a hushed, almost awestruck tone: “Oh, but that is clever.”

He drew himself to his full height, unclasping his hands from behind his back to bring them to his front. He examined his --Air Raid’s hands-- and took a moment to stare at the limbs which were not his own, allowing the information which had just been revealed to him to sink in, before slowly dropping his borrowed arms back to his sides.

He looked back to the white mech with a newfound respect, his gaze thoughtful, calculating. This mech, and presumably those he worked with and for, were remarkably clever. In his experience, clever mecha also tended to be some of the most dangerous mecha, which did little to assure him that having dealings with them would not result in dire consequences for himself. Then again, the very foundation of his specialization was built upon the threat of dire consequences, so that wasn’t really much of a deal breaker.

Nodding towards the other end of the hall, Mirage swept an arm out, gesturing forward as he offered the white mech a faint, perfunctory smile.

“Well. With those immediate concerns addressed, I suppose I would not mind continuing this discussion elsewhere.”

He paused for a moment, then added in a slightly more severe tone: “Though I reserve the right to take my leave whenever I so chose, as promised.”

[Deleted]

The white robot beamed.

"Of course!" he said. He held the chipboard to his chest, his golden optics bright. "I respect that. Actually, given the distance separating our physical selves and the relatively weak power source of the datapad, we may find our conversation cut abruptly short anyway if the connection is lost. If that does happen and this simulation ends rather abruptly, then I do apologise in advance. We have an excellent physicist among our numbers, and he is working hard at a way to improve our subspace transmissions via miniature wormholes braced with negative mass cosmic strings, but sending a signal to Earth still drains our limited resources quite severely and I'm babbling again, aren't I? This way!"

He motioned for Mirage to follow him with a crook of his hand before turning to the holographic map of Cybertron. A gentle motion of his glowing fingertips dismissed the projection, and then the white robot began to walk towards the other end of the corridor.

Their footsteps rang against the polished floor as they walked. Mirage's strides would be longer and heavier than he was used to, while on his back vents restlessly shifted open and shut to allow cool air to breathe through his high-performance flier's frame. His upright wings twitched with every step, as if searching for the wind.

Tiny lights and monitors glittered along the darkened corridor. The white mech trotted ahead of Mirage, his own strides neat and quick.

"We'll go downstairs to the projection room," he said. "It's one of the few areas of the University that survived the bombing of Iacon intact. The upstairs levels are a shambles. I was particularly stricken to see the observatory destroyed. It was a lovely spot, an excellent place to sit and look out over the city and compose your thoughts."

He gestured to the gloomy corridor. "The rest of the facilities are in poor shape. We've got the filtration systems working at least to clear centuries worth of dust from the air, and there is backup power thanks to a scavenged generator or two. Some of the laboratories are filthy, but functional. About the only thing we can say is working as it should is gravity."

He laughed ruefully. "I suppose the war has taught us all how to make due with what we have left. Do you miss it? Cybertron, I mean. As it once was. A strange question perhaps, but I've encountered many Autobots here in the ruins who can only look upon what is left of our planet with despair and loathing. It... makes me a little sad."

[Deleted]

Mirage could not help but raise his eyebrow slightly at how…verbose the white mech was, despite how little time they apparently had to speak with each other. He would have thought the stranger would have been more prudent, choosing his words more carefully and succinctly, knowing time was off the essence. At any moment, it seemed, they could have had their conversation cut short, and Primus only knew when they would next be able to come in contact with one another, assuming they ever could. He still was not very sure of what the exact science behind the transmission was, and so he had no way of knowing whether or not the datapad could be used to receive new messages, or if it simply had a one time use. He certainly hoped it was the former rather than the latter - he highly doubted that the limited amount of time they had to discuss matters would be sufficient enough to allow for him to ask for and be told a satisfying amount of information regarding the mission he was being offered.

He was not about to sign himself away on an assignment he did not know all of the particulars of. Especially not when the secrecy with which it was being presented to him implied that, whatever it was, it probably disagreed somewhat with standard Autobot ethics. It would require him to work “outside the fringe of the Autobot military ranks” or so the white mech had said. Mirage suspected that was simply a polite way of saying he would be required to take actions which would likely not be looked upon fondly by the command cadre of Omega One, particularly Optimus. This was more than a little concerning for him, though truth be told, he would be a liar if he claimed he had never acted contrary to what had been commanded of him by his superior officers or expected of him by his moral peers.

He was not a mech who was staunchly opposed to dirtying his hands or his conscience; he was a special operative after all, and he had the unconventional sense of ethics required of a mech expected to achieve morally questionable goals by dubious means. He simply took issue with signing away his time, and potentially his life, to a task he did not deem worth the risk or deserving of any sacrifice he might have to make.

If he was called to bloody his hands, or his body, he damn well wanted to make sure the call he was answering was worth it.

And so he followed after the white mech, intent on seeing where it was this trip down the rabbit hole would lead him. He took languid, measured strides, attempting to match the smaller mech’s shorter steps by walking at a slower pace. His gait felt off, his legs oddly shaped and more difficult to carry than what he was used to, but somehow he managed to move with something resembling his usual grace. The oddly shaped limbs were far easier to adjust to than the wings - he had no equivalent for the appendages on his own frame, so he hadn’t the slightest idea how to move or carry them. They seemed to have a mind of their own, twitching faintly at odd intervals.

Fortunately, he did not have to focus upon the discomfiting, dissonant feeling of residing within a frame that was not his own as the white mech--chatty as ever--decided to ask him a question. One that actually gave him pause, causing him to halt mid-step, as if taken aback by the question. He faltered for only the span of a spark-pulse before making a smooth recovery, continuing on as if he had never hesitated in the first place.

“Yes, for the most part.” He replied carefully, measuring his words. “I mourn the loss of our culture, our legacy, our home...however, at the same time, I am well aware that the world I mourn for is far different than the world which the vast majority of our population lived in.”

He scoffed quietly, smiling without humor.

“Perhaps the loss of our world truly is the tragedy I believe it to be, or perhaps nostalgia has altered my memories, making the planet and its loss seem greater than it ever actually was.”

He shook his head, optics offlining briefly as he chided himself for waxing philosophical at a complete stranger.

“Being the sentimental mech I am, I must admit I favor the former thought over the latter.”

[Deleted]

The white robot paused when Mirage paused, politely waiting. And when Mirage flowed smoothly through the question and returned to his former pace so did the robot, his head canted as he listened to the Autobot speak.

When Mirage finished he laid a hand over his own chest.

"You know, before all of this I never thought myself to be the sentimental type," he said wryly. "I was scientific caste, and considered myself a staunch rationalist who stood firmly upon the side of purely cerebral intellectual reasoning. I certainly never believed I could be swayed by the 'romantic' thinking that said that our deeply stagnating society could be a product of that path of logical thinking, and needed to be balanced by art and emotion and an exploration of a diverse ethnic identity."

Despite the air of humour to his word his golden eyes shone with regret. He gestured to the hall, from which their voices echoed back to them in hushed and hollowed out tones.

"And then the war happened," he said. "And as a survivor I now find I grieve the loss of what once was - all of it, from the great scientific achievements we accomplished to the leaps and bounds we achieved in the cultivation of our identity and culture. Once, I would have only have mourned for the former. Treading in the long dead ashes of a civilization millions of years old, and knowing that it was once ours, has changed that perspective. I think... well, for me at least, I think a point was reached a long time ago where nostalgia could no longer touch upon my memories of our home. It is very hard to paint a rosy recollection over these greyed out ruins, where death and dust lie so thickly. And even harder to see the loss of the planet as anything less than crushing. And... and..."

They had reached the end of the hall.

The white robot trailed off. All at once he came to halt in front of a sealed door, the datapad clasped to his chest.

"And here is the lift," he said.

A wave of his hand activated the glowing pinpoints in his fingertips. An instant later the door slid open with a hiss. The inside of the lift glowed with soft blue backup lighting.

"We have diverted some power from one of our generators to power this lift," he said as he stepped inside. He turned and made room for Mirage, his fingertips hovering over the buttons. "Really, I suppose that since we are both currently existing within a simulation I could have just programmed everything within it to be fully lit and powered and bright and radiant, a resplendent picture of what Cybertron once was."

He smiled, a little sadly.

"But I believe in maintaining a fidelity to how things exist now, as they are, no matter how cold or dark or bleak. Maybe I just wish to impress upon you the severity of the situation back here on Cybertron. I hope you won't think less of me for doing so. We just... desperately need help right now."

[Deleted]

Mirage smiled a faint, rueful smile as the white mech spoke, unwittingly expressing thoughts and sentiments uncannily similar to those of his sole audience. He remembered all too well how he had gone through a similar shift in mindset, how the war had shaken his beliefs, torn them from their roots, and given him little choice but to examine their irrevocably changed world from an entirely new perspective.

He had been so blind, before the war, before the home which had sheltered him was destroyed and he found himself viewing the world, not from high up in the immaculate, sun-kissed towers, but from the blood-soaked ground that their foundation was built upon. He had known that there were flaws with their government, with the laws which divided their society and reinforced the pervasive idea that some mecha’s lives were worth more than others, and yet he had done so little to challenge them. He advocated for civil liberties, voted in favor of proposals and mandates which he believed would help improve the quality of life for the lower classes, voted against those which he found to be unjust and unfair, but he did very little more than that. In hindsight, he realized he had played too passive a role, that at the time he had felt he was being quite generous in his actions, when, at best, he was simply being a halfway decent person. He never pushed for change, never thought himself capable--despite his high social status--of swaying the minds of the Senate, even if he felt urgent need too.

Which, it pained him now to admit, he hadn’t. It hadn’t felt urgent to him then. The troubles and injustices the caste system had caused never touched him, or his cohort, or those he cared for. They were distant from him, from his rose-tinted reality, and it was only through hear-say that he knew of the suffering of those in the castes below him, and even then it was difficult for him to imagine the full extent of their woes. He hardly had want for anything, and rarely did he ever suffer hardship or anything remotely resembling tragedy, and so it was difficult for him to even comprehend the lives and experiences of those who were not fortunate enough to be blessed with noble birth. He had the cognition to realize that they weren’t very pleasant lives at all, but he lacked the personal dealings with suffering required to actually understand the full extent of just how terrible living in the lower castes truly was. With no frame of reference to draw from, as he had never known pangs of hunger, or the agony of loss, or the pain of devastating injury, he simply could not quantify the suffering faced by the poor primus-forsaken sparks that had the misfortune of being below mid-caste.

At the time, he understood little more than that the living conditions for the lower castes were poor, and that helping those less fortunate than oneself was a kind thing to do. And so he passively signed his approval when such legislations that might improve their quality of life came about, mistakenly believing in his naivety that the issue he was advocating for was far less significant than it truly was, that the brutality and injustice suffered by the lower classes was simply an unfortunate twist of circumstances rather than the direct result of their corrupted social order.

He voted in favor of change, but did not fight for it. He advocated for civil liberties, but he did not believe fiercely enough in the notion to actively speak in favor of it. He had been too far up in his tower, in the echo-chamber of structural-functionalist views he called his home, to notice just how many of the nameless cogs in the machine of their society were being broken down, swept away, and replaced without a single care--and part of him loathed himself for it.

There were mistakes which could be excused, and those which could not. Mirage doubted the voice of a single Towerling could have swayed the Senate or forced their hands to abolish the caste system before its toxic nature poisoned their world from within, but the fact that he hadn’t even tried was something Mirage would never forgive himself for.

The nameless white mech was far from the only high-caste mech to have regrets for what part they played in the downfall of their world, whether through action or inaction. Mirage was all too familiar with the special kind of guilt carried by those whose voices would have actually been heard and listened to had they spoken out against the injustices plaguing their society, but for one reason or another, did not speak. Hence why he understood, a little too well, why the white mech chose to simulate Cybertron as it was, rather than what it once had been. There was no need to lie about the reality of the situation, to paint a pretty picture over the devastation which made up their homeworld--not when Mirage was keenly aware of it, not when his feelings of longing for his home were always accompanied by the guilt of knowing he played a part in its downfall.

Thus, he faced the simulated ruins as they were, allowing their weight to settle over him, to press down upon his shoulders and remind him of what once was, and what might never be again.

It seemed the white mech had succeeded in his goal of impressing upon Mirage just how desperately he and his needed assistance. With flying colors.

He stepped into the elevator without hesitation, taking care to duck his head, as he was not yet used to his increased height, and had absolutely no desire to make a fool of himself by putting a dent in his forehead as he walked through the door frame.

He turned, careful not to accidentally strike the other mech with his wings as he turned to face the doors as they closed. He did not speak a word until he had settled himself, feet spaced apart at just the right distance, head held high, but not overly so. He looked for all the world as if he hadn’t heard a single word of the other mech’s sparkfelt speech - exactly as he intended to.

Only when he felt he looked suitably unphased by the white mech’s words, as to not give him the impression that he was a bleeding heart which could be easily manipulated by exploiting his sense of sentimentality, did he finally speak.

“Assuming your goals and interests do not conflict with my own...” He began, measuring his tone so that it came across as neutral rather than heartfelt. “...I would be glad to offer whatever assistance I can.”

It was then he at last looked at the smaller mech, casting a sideways glance his way as he allowed the corner of his mouth to take a small upward turn.

“However, until I know just what it is I am getting myself into, I promise nothing.”

[Deleted]

The white robot's optics brightened. For a moment he held his datapad tightly and rocked on his feet and looked giddily thrilled. Then he seemed to catch himself and embarrassedly did his best to regain his composure.

"That's fine!" he said hastily. "Really, I understand. And I don't want to put you in any sort of awkward position. Perhaps I can better explain just what we hoped you could help us with..."

He touched the keypad on the lift and the door closed with a soft whir. The blue light enveloped them both.

"Really, the thing we are in dire need of right now is what we've always sought in some form or another," he said. "And that is intelligence. With most of Autobot Command either dead or fled from the planet, we must gather it ourselves. We glean whatever we can using whatever technology the clever theoreticians and engineers at our disposal can cook up, but frankly there is no substitute for good old fashioned footwork."

The lift began to descend, gathering speed as it went. It raced downwards at a smooth pace, offering little sense of how swiftly they were moving.

The white robot gently leaned one shoulder against the wall. He sighed.

"Unfortunately, to a mech we're all scientists," he said. "We know how to interpret and disseminate intelligence, but not how to go out and actually get it. So far we have relied heavily on the assistance of our off-world supporters to provide us with information on the war. Like poor Air Raid."

He looked morose. "He knew that we are deathly afraid that Megatron and his warship might return to Cybertron one day. So he took pains to keep us informed on the war's progression on Earth. Only recently did his reports stop arriving. That was when we investigated his status and discovered that he had been injured."

The white robot looked up at Mirage a little timidly.

"We're little more than beggars and scrapers now, eking out a thin existence in the Undergrid, but nonetheless we have all come together to form one of the greatest scientific think tanks that Cybertron ever produced," he said. "We have little of value to offer you, but... perhaps we can offer an intelligence trade instead? If you can provide us with information on the Decepticons and their warship, or whatever space bridge program they might be concocting, then whatever raw information you pass on to us we can turn over to our scientists and distill into valuable data to give back to you. For example, we've heard of the human organization known as MECH. I understand that they are the ones responsible for Air Raid's status."

Proudly, the white robot tapped a finger to his own chest. "I am our leading expert in neurology, neurosurgery, and the Cybertronian brain module. I feel confident that if you were to provide me with medical information on our friend Air Raid's current condition, I could help diagnose or even treat it. Maybe I could even unravel what MECH has done to him, and reveal what they might plan to do to more of you in the future. I would be glad to do so. It would be nice to assist my fellow Autobots, even when I am so far away."

[Deleted]

As the lift began to descend Mirage stood neatly in place, as still and poised as a statue while the white mech beside him spoke. Even in a simulated reality, in an uncomfortable and strange frame that was not his own, that he didn’t know quite how to carry with his usual grace, he wasn’t about to let himself suffer from poor posture.

He tilted his head a bit, just enough to comfortably look at the other mech without having to completely turn himself around to face him, while shooting his features into a look of quiet but polite interest. Outwardly, he seemed only mildly intrigued by what the white mech had to say, but inwardly he was entirely captivated, his attention riveted to every scrap of information being made available to him. As a veteran of his trade, he knew better than to let even the slightest detail escape his memory, as his experience showed that even the most (seemingly) mundane and trivial string of words could prove to be extraordinarily useful.

One simply never knew what would become relevant at a later date, so it was best to not omit a single factoid, as to not unwittingly squander information that could later be of vital importance.

Of course, it wasn’t terribly becoming to stare at someone as intensely as they were listening to them when they were hanging of their every word as intently as Mirage was, hence his less-than-captivated expression.

Everything, from Air Raid’s involvement with the insofar nameless group, to the little tidbits regarding the nature of said group’s work and their current circumstances, was carefully sorted and filed away in a mental folder for later perusal. Even the white mech’s tone of voice and his seemingly sincere displays of emotion were noted, if only because Mirage was simply in the habit of searching the features of his subjects for signs of duplicity.

It wasn’t until the white mech made his offer, proposed a trade of services, that Mirage’s expression finally changed. His optics brightened a bit despite himself, his wings (which he still hadn’t the slightest idea how to control) perking upward slightly in an open display of interest.

He realized a moment too late that those damned appendages had given him away, breaking his indifferent facade before he could even make an attempt at feigning enough disinterest in the deal to encourage the other mech to increase his offer.

Damn. He supposed he would simply have to take what he could get - not that the possible restoration of Air Raid’s mind was a small profit, by any means. Mirage simply couldn’t help himself at times. He may have had a great deal of his polished knocked off by the war, but he was still a mech of noble birth, and so being a canny, savvy business-mech was practically in his blood.

Reigning his traitorous wings back under control, flicking them back into their proper place, Mirage admitted defeat, dismissed his plans of bartering with the white mech, and instead offered him a smile which bordered on warm.

“...I must say, you drive a hard bargain.” He replied wryly, his quiet smile lingering a moment or two before his expression sobered.

“In all seriousness, I would be more than happy to offer my assistance without condition...however, given the unfortunate condition Air Raid has found himself in, I hope you’ll forgive me for finding your offer of exchanging services far too tempting to pass by.”

He paused, his mind going back to the mech in question, to his pitted face and ravaged frame. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, something unreadable passing over his expression for the briefest of moments before he looked back to the white mech, his neutral mask fixed back into place.

“If it can possibly restore Air Raid’s mind, and help eliminate the threat MECH poses to us, then I will help you in whatever way I can.”

[Deleted]

When Mirage looked back down at the white robot at his side, he would see that the mech was looking up at him with uncertainty. The expression vanished behind a wide smile when the spy agreed to help.

"Oh, that's wonderful to hear, thank you!" said the white robot.

He swayed from foot to foot in irrepressible delight, his golden optics glowing. "Oh, this is brilliant. I'm really not exaggerating when I say that this is some of the best news we've had in years. For ages we've been isolated here on Cybertron, in the University and the grid beneath it, scrounging whatever we can - to have a capable new ally is a real boon for us. I can't wait to tell the others. They'll be thrilled. I must introduce you. I'll connect them to the simulation and we'll - oh, wait, I've been rude again, haven't I?"

The white robot laughed and slapped a hand to his forehead. "All this time I've been talking your audial off, and I've never once introduced myself, have I? I'm sorry, I get so distracted - let me fix that right away."

He shifted the datapad to the crook of one arm and lifted one small hand. He hesitated, and then in the blue-lit darkness of the lift he timidly extended it to Mirage, as if he were unsure whether or not the elegant spy would be interested in shaking it.

"My name is Soma," he said. "Well, er, actually, to be honest with you that's not my real name. The Decepticon scavengers who remain on Cybertron are frightfully keen to get their claws on any medic they can find, so I try to avoid using my real name in case they should ever discover a way to listen in upon our communications. I was a bit of a well-known surgeon once in certain circles. But 'Soma' is the name of my oldest pet project, and the one dearest to me, so I suppose it's as good a name for me as any. It's nice to meet you, Mirage."

[Deleted]

Mirage couldn’t help himself. In the face of such a gleeful display of celebration, he simply had to smile, the corner of his mouth lifting upward despite how valiantly he tried to fight off the urge. It wasn’t very often mecha expressed their joy quite so openly, particularly not the battle-hardened mecha he was so often surrounded by. It was refreshing, honestly, meeting someone who somehow had enough liveliness in them, despite the wear the war suffered onto them, to bounce from one foot to the other in an open display of positively giddy joy.

Then, abruptly, the mech seemed to realize something and his exuberance came to a brief halt.

Mirage inclined his head, his treacherous wings flicking upward slightly in curiosity before he forced them still. When next he and Air Raid spoke--and by God, they would speak again--he was going to have to ask the mech how he managed to live his life with these blasted things broadcasting his every emotion for all to see. (And, just in case he ever found himself inhabiting an aerial frame once again, if there was any way to keep the bothersome things quiet.)

Hoping the slight wing-flick did not telegraph his curiosity too loudly, Mirage watched the white mech closely, his optics trailing down to the hand extended out to him as the white mech offered both it, and his name.

There wasn’t a single moment of hesitation before Mirage reached out to shake the hand extended to him, his fingers curling expertly into a properly-tightened grip despite how their unfamiliar bulk made them feel clunky and graceless to him.

“The pleasure is mine, Soma.” He replied, idly wondering if there was any significance to the pseudonym.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me for not asking your name at the onset. I assure you I am usually much better behaved.” He added, sounding both apologetic for his own rudeness and amused by the novelty that was apologizing for being rude to a mech who had just done the very same thing.

Withdrawing his hand, Mirage returned it to its proper place against the small of his back, his other hand gripping lightly at his wrist to hold it in place.

“Now,” He began, breezily changing the subject. “I believe there were others you wished to introduce me to?”

[Deleted]

For a moment the white robot looked dazed, as if he had not expected his shy handshake to be firmly accepted. Then he blinked.

"Oh! Yes, there are!" said Soma. He wrapped both arms around the datapad again and held it to his chest, his optics alight. "There are quite a number of us still alive even after the patrols and the shortages, thank Primus. Anode and Vertex, Falx, Diode, Redlight, Helical, Axon - er, well, maybe not Axon - but Ion and Rivet and - Degauss! Degauss will be so pleased to meet you, I can see it now. It's been so long since we've seen another Autobot, even in a simulation. This is a bit of an exciting day for us. You'll have to forgive our enthusiasm."

He laughed, just as the lift gave a soft whir and sank to a halt. A chime rang out.

"Here we are," said Soma. He touched a button on the pad and eagerly motioned for Mirage to follow. "It's just this way. I'll take you straight to the projection room. Everyone should be waiting there. And then I'll show you the theatre room! I think a mech of your background might like it. It was a real marvel once, even though it's currently in a state of ruin. I only hope..."

The lift doors irised open.

Bright light spilled through them. It rushed over Soma as he walked forward into it, his voice fading into the distance as the light swallowed him from sight. It flooded over Mirage and streamed through his optics and into his brain, blinding and white -

- and then -

Mirage's universe switched back on again.

----

The world returned in a roar of white light.

It left him lying stranded on the floor of a dark building. He was lying on his back in a puddle of rainwater and thin filth. Directly above him was a cracked ceiling, pitted and streaked with grime. Torn and tangled electrical wiring dangled from the holes and swayed in the blustery drafts. He would distantly hear the sound of rain drumming into an unseen roof. More water gurgled through holes in the crumbling concrete walls.

As Mirage returned to his senses, he would soon become aware of a voice speaking to him. It was quiet and wavering at first, as if he were underwater.

"Mirage? Mirage! Mirage, are you all right?"

Someone was kneeling in the rubble beside him. A moment later an Autobot's blue head leaned over him, its yellow optics anxious. "Mirage? It's Wash. Can you hear me?"

Something was clutched in Mirage's hand, held to his chest:

A datapad, still glowing.

[Deleted]

Anode, Vertex, Falx, Diode, Redlight, Helical, Axon, Ion, Rivit, Degauss...and Soma. He would have to look into those names when he returned to the outpost, do a bit of investigating to see if there was any information regarding those mysterious persons which might give him a better idea of who it was he was dealing with. As much as he wanted to trust Soma’s word, and as much as he believed the mech was unlikely to deceive him, it never hurt to do a background check. After all, he of all mecha would know that all it took to craft a lie nearly indistinguishable from the truth was a bit of wit, a healthy dose of carefully fabricated evidence to support one’s claim, and enough acting talent to confidently and believably appear honest sincere.

He very much doubted this Soma person had misled him, falsifying his true intentions to further some ulterior motive, but even so, Mirage was reluctant to let himself be taken for a fool. Should he find anything….unwholesome about the mech and his comrades which damaged their credibility, he would be well within his rights to break off the arrangement.

However, he hoped rather fiercely that this was not the case - for the sake of both their rag-tag groups of stranded survivors.

It was this thought in mind that Mirage shifted his attention towards the elevator doors, his optics flicking away from Soma as he turned, curious, to see what it was that awaited them on the other side.

Instead of a corridor, his optics were met with a harsh, blinding light which flooded into the aging lift, then into his optics themselves, then into his very mind. The former was rendered sightless, the latter thoughtless, and then his consciousness was turned on its ear as reality once again saw fit to bend around him however it pleased.

As the blinding white light finally gave way, allowing him the privilege of seeing his surroundings once more, Mirage couldn’t help but wonder if he were in yet another simulation, though he could not for the life of him understand why that Soma fellow would deign to do such a thing as this when he was so eager to introduce him to the rest of his colleagues.

That left only one other option, and in his groggy, foggy-minded state Mirage felt he could excuse himself for thinking a very inappropriate word unbecoming someone of his stature as this realization dawned upon him.

He would have been more upset to find himself lying flat on his back in a pool of murky water and grime had he not been consumed by the god awful feeling of having been cut off in the middle of a pivotal moment. It was frustrating beyond Mirage’s ability to summarize in words, even if had his full wits about him - which he didn’t quite, not within his first few moments of waking. It took a few seconds for his mind and his senses reorient themselves to their new surroundings, to adjust to reality after being fed false information from the simulation. It was still a jarring process, even though he had experienced the world shifting and splitting numerous times within the simulation itself. Though he wished it were otherwise, it just wasn’t a process one could easily get used to.

Struggling to clear his vision, it took him a moment longer than he would have liked put a name to the yellow optics peering down at him, to the voice calling his name and questioning his well-being. Once he put a name to the face, he felt a momentary flicker of concern, wondering how long he had been unconscious for. Then, after the concern, came a sharp but fleeting feeling of guilt as he realized Ratchet was probably fretting terribly back at the outpost, thinking he had allowed him to walk into some sort of terrible fate in his place.

It was this thought which spurred Mirage’s foggy mind back into full awareness, his optics finally focusing themselves so that he could get a proper look at Wash instead of simply staring at him with a blurry, half-vacant stare.

“...Well. Apparently I hadn't walked into my doom after all.” He said slowly, trying for a wry tone and succeeding only in sounding vaguely dazed.

[Deleted]

While the disorientation of the separation of his consciousness from the simulation would linger with Mirage for a minute longer, his body felt perfectly fine. Aside from a scratch or two in his paint where he had collapsed on the hard stone floor, his self-diagnosis reported no injuries or neural anomalies. Whatever connection had been made between his brain module and the datapad, it had withdrawn again like a polite guest, leaving no unwanted traces or code behind.

Speaking of which...

The datapad lay flat on his chest, protected from the water that dripped from the cracked ceiling by his hand. Blue glyphs glowed on the screen:

CONNECTION LOST
SCANNING...
SCANNING...
UNABLE TO RECONNECT AT THIS TIME

Wash did not seem to notice it. Rather, his attention was focused anxiously upon Mirage's face. He knelt at his side in a puddle of rainwater, his hand half-raised in readiness to pat the spy on the cheek. He slumped in relief when Mirage focused his optics upon him instead.

"Thank Primus," he said. "For a moment I thought I was going to have to alert the rest of the base. When you didn't make a report back Ratchet and I came looking for you. We got worried."

Wash rubbed rain off his optics with his thumb. The blue Autobot was dripping wet, his plating streaked in grime. He leaned back onto his heels, and in a worried voice he said, "Are you all right? I've been trying to wake you for the past five minutes. Your - doom? What happened to you? Was it some sort of ambush? Wash it MECH? The 'Cons?"

[Deleted]

Though the all-clear from his self-diagnostic systems should have come as a relief, Mirage couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled that he had come through what he had completely unscathed - not because he worried there was something secreted away inside his mind that his internal scans couldn’t detect, but because it was rather disquieting to think that someone had managed to develop technology which could remotely project a cybertronian’s consciousness into a simulated reality, without leaving a single trace of their manipulations whatsoever.

Mirage felt a shiver creep down his back, and was unsure whether to attribute it to the chill which had creeped into his frame while he lied on the rain-soaked floor, or to the thought of how easily, and horrifyingly, such technology could be misused.

Shaking his head, both to bring his mind more into focus and to shoo away the unpleasant thoughts now stirring in his mind, Mirage shifted, attempting to push himself upright. He slid his arms back, propping himself up on his elbows as he gingerly eased himself up off the rain-soaked ground.

If Wash looked, he would find Mirage’s hands empty, the datapad he once held against his chest now missing. He had subspaced it unthinkingly the moment he became aware of its presence, instinct prompting him to hide the little device as if it were some sort of incriminating evidence. By the time he had moved his hand from his chest to set it against the ground, the datapad had been safely stowed away, out of sight.

He could only hope Wash hadn’t taken notice of it before then.

As the other mech spoke, asking him questions he wasn’t quite certain how to answer, Mirage made an effort to push himself to his feet. He took his time, his movements slow and unhurried. He sat upright, made a point to inspect himself for injury, then took a moment to brush a bit of grime off his shoulder with a frown of distaste.

He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was stalling for time, attempting to give himself a few moments to come up with a convincing cover-story to explain what had just occurred. Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much he could say for himself. Telling Wash the truth was out of the question---his arrangement with Soma hinged upon his ability to work outside of Optimus’ command, to complete tasks for which the Prime likely wouldn’t give his approval.

He felt it was rather obvious that he couldn’t go behind the command cadre’s backs and perform tasks for an outside party without their knowledge, if beforehand he let them know that was exactly what he intended to do. It just went without saying.

Hence his need to lie through his teeth.

“I am quite alright, thank you.” He began in a mild tone as he finally pushed himself to his feet. Murky water dripped unpleasantly from his frame, and he frowned down at himself, displeased with the state he found himself in. “...Though, I could stand to be a little less bedraggled.”

He paused to brush a few water droplets from his chest and shoulders before looking back to Wash, his expression apologetic.

“As for what happened...I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.”

He cringed slightly, as if reluctant to deliver such an unsatisfying response, before gesturing around the room.

“I followed a signal into this room, and then...I woke up on the floor. Clearly something must have happened in the intervening period, but what exactly, I cannot rightly say.”

His gaze went distant for a moment, his field flickering with a mixture of confusion and concern as he seemed to puzzle over the situation in his mind, attempting to fill in the blank spaces in his memory. He made a point to flash a cursory glance around the room, looking as if he were searching for some sort of detail he might have missed, before finally turning his gaze back to Wash. He feigned a forced-smile, attempting to look as if he were hiding his confusion and concern behind his usual calm and collected mask.

“If it is any consolation, I don’t believe any harm has been done to me, though naturally we will need Ratchet to confirm that.”

He paused, then cringed, as if a sudden thought occurred to him.

“...Speaking of; we really ought to inform him that I haven’t, in fact, met an unexpected and grisly end. Primus knows he must be suspecting otherwise, given all that’s happened.”

[Deleted]

Wash slowly rose to his feet as well. The blue Autobot was streaked in rain and dirt, his expression haggard with worry. In one hand he gripped a hand-held scanner. It gently glowed.

He looked Mirage up and down, anxiously looking him over for signs of injury. But aside from a few scratches the spy was unmarked, his pristine finish little worse for wear. It would take a while to clean off the grime that the rainwater had trickled into his joints, but there was no damage to suggest that anything about his story was a lie. Eventually Wash nodded, his face a little less pinched and a little more relieved.

"Thank god you're okay," he said. "I was getting frantic. I just about had a spark failure when I chased your signal inside this building and spotted you lying on the floor. We'll go straight back to base and get you checked out, see just what the hell was responsible for knocking you out like that. I didn't detect any strange signals on my scanner, just yours - and I feel fine myself. But, uh, now that you bring up Ratchet..."

Wash nervously glanced back at the gaping hole in the wall.

"Uh, well, he might not be able to give you that full system scan right away. You see, uh, he and I followed your signal here together, but when Ratchet approached this house, well..."

Through the hole in the wall, Mirage would be able to see the falling rain. It hit the muddy ground hard enough to raise a clinging layer of fog. The sky was still dark; little time had passed since he had first entered the house.

He would also be able to see...

Something lay on the ground just outside the hole. It lay on its back, motionless. Rain drummed into its white and red plating.