[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Moonlight Sonata (Open) - week 1, day 1

[Deleted]

It was around the fifth time he had tried to cycle down to no avail that Mirage finally recognized his loosing battle for what it was and conceded to the fact he was not going to be getting any sleep that night.

He was not, by nature, a restless mech. While the war had certainly made a fine mess of the minds of the majority of his peers, Mirage prided himself on being more or less intact, psychologically speaking. His restlessness was not caused by nerves, or night-terrors, or guilt, or anything else a therapist might check off their long list of diagnostic criteria. No, the reason Mirage could not seem to sleep this night was far worse than all that, in his opinion. There was nothing anyone could do to relieve him of his affliction, nothing any therapist could say which would ease his heart and mind.

He was feeling nostalgic, which to Mirage was a most terrible thing indeed.

What an awful, absurd, completely useless feeling. He hated it. He loathed it with his entire being. Were it a person, he would plant a bullet between its eyes so that it could no longer plague him during those quiet, fragile moments when he allowed himself to think of what Once Was, and what Might Have Been.

Mirage simply could not stand to be in his own company when he was in this sort of mood. It was pathetic, wallowing in his own wistfulness, longing for a time and place that he could never return to. It was beneath his dignity. He simply did not do pity, whether it came from within or without. It was an affront to his pride either way, and though Mirage's ego was far from fragile, he refused to take any injury to it lying down.

Hence why he stopped lying down and instead went for a late-night stroll around the base. He would have preferred to go for a drive, but considering the late hour, he quickly dismissed the idea. There wasn't much hope of finding a partner to accompany him this late at night, and he wasn't about to go knocking on doors. He could think of no one who would appreciate being woken up just for a casual chat - well, except for Bluestreak perhaps, but Mirage really did not want to sign himself up for an all-nighter. He simply wished to clear his head a bit.

With this thought in mind, Mirage made his way to the rec-room. A little late-night news could be just the distraction he needed.

[Bluestreak]

As Mirage rounded the corner of the hallway, he would see a blue-toned flicker light spilling out of the rec-room door.

Someone was also up and about this late at night. Which wasn't out of the norm. The base was full of mechs coming and going, especially now that they were paired up, and weren't allowed out on their own. There had been a constant shift in patrols; where they had felt more spread out, more open, now they were on a set and schedule that didn't have much leeway. It lent the base a far more military feeling than it had had in a long time.

The light was accompanied with the sounds of power tools and hammering. Voices rattled instructions off; pour that concrete, no no, put that beam here, put that other beam there - ah, did you just drop that?! It sounded as if there was some serious construction going on within, yet there was no bright flash of a torch, or the ring of metal on metal.

Nor were the voices familiar to him; they didn't belong to any Autobot Mirage knew.

When it cut to a commercial, he would realize that it was the television. With Raf's clever abilities and Ratchet's technical knowhow, the base did have a cobbled together, large screen that now played cable television. Many of the mechs though considered the content either completely baffling (they had no idea of the concepts being shown) or they sat and watched it raptly in fascination.

Bluestreak was the latter.

You learned an awful lot about a culture by the entertainment, and he loved it. He'd watched an awful lot of programs from all across the galaxy. The one thing he'd realized after all this time was that talent shows were universal, and a lot of talents were incredibly weird.

Right now, the gunner was sitting at one of the tables, elbows down, chin propped in his hands as he focused on the television. The doors behind his shoulders twitched and settled. Beside his leg, his ever-present rifle resting on the stock, barrel up. The safety was obviously on; and the weapon's charge pack didn't seem to be loaded.

It was an episode he'd already seen, sure. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd seen it more than once. Then again, after a while, Holmes on Homes started blending together with the sheer amount of wrong ways they built things. That was like - it was like back home, in a way. There had been those beautiful, gorgeous structures, reaching for the sky, gleaming and glittering with light. Every night when he'd driven home over that bridge, he'd always taken at least one moment to admire how beautiful the city was. How he couldn't believe his luck that he lived in an amazing place like this.

Yet they had been in no shape to withstand the attack. Not much of the city had. The poorly built buildings had collapsed into the solid ones, cracking and crashing down, folding in on themselves. One after another they fell until there was nothing left.

The silver mech shifted slowly in his seat. He brought up a hand to rub at his nose, trying to reset his thoughts onto something else. They'd been sneaking in more and more recently and the lack of being able to just go and drive by himself was oddly wearing on him. Bluestreak loved company. He loved chatter. Yet at the nights like these, when he couldn't shut down without bolting back on line in a weird, hazy panic, struggling with the fact that there were no windows in his quarters...

He just wanted to go for a quiet drive. Feel the road under his tires.

Show up at her house maybe. Knock on the door, and ask to come in.

[Deleted]

Mirage noticed the light spilling out onto the floor before he heard the low murmuring that accompanied it, and for a moment he was given pause. While he hadn't exactly expected to be the only person up at such a late hour, he had assumed (perhaps foolishly, he realizes in hindsight) that, like him, most mecha would prefer to languish in their quarters until such a time came that they could no longer stand the sight of the same four walls any longer - at which point, naturally, they would wander the halls just as he had without any true aim or destination in mind.

Perhaps it was a foolish notion, thinking he was more likely to run into someone in the halls, rather than the rec room. After all, there weren't many mecha as prone to roaming aimlessly as he was, and unlike him most mecha had the incredible ability to forgo wandering entirely in favor of knowing where it was they wanted to be right from the onset. Mirage would almost envy them that, if it didn't seem quite so boring. Where was the fun in that, always having one's mind made up? Oh, of course it would come in handy at times, when making split-second decisions, but on the average day to day - Well, Mirage imagined it didn't leave much room for spontaneity.

He preferred the freedom indecision gave him; he never knew where he would take himself until he was there, and the time spent in between was in its own a way a small adventure. It was Mirage's own little way of asserting his own control over what direction his life would take, the world (and by extension his very life) being as chaotic and unpredictable as it was. He could do very little to force things to go according to plan, but he could always chose the course he went down. He didn't necessarily need to know where it lead, or if he would enjoy his final destination - simply knowing that it was by his own will that he was moved was enough.

Of course, this penchant of his to live according to will and whim is what lead him into situations such as this, where he found himself potentially trapped in a conversation with Bluestreak, so perhaps this particular philosophy needed some reconsideration.

It wasn't that Bluestreak made for unpleasant company, exactly. No, the young mech was a pleasant enough individual to spend time with, assuming you enjoyed conversation. Excessive conversation. The sort of conversation where there is little pause for breath or contemplation or even a word in edgewise. Typically, Mirage would politely decline such a venture, but...well, he honestly had absolutely nothing better to do with his time, and misery did so love company. If Bluestreak was up at this hour, he was likely just as desperate to kill time as he was.

Quietly, Mirage made his way into the room, careful not to make his presence known. It was terribly rude of him, not greeting the other mech right away, and even ruder still to activate his cloak and shroud himself from view, but he was an actor at heart, and it had been a painfully long time since he had made a dramatic entrance.

Drawing in his field, Mirage made absolutely sure the quite flicker of amusement humming around him could not be felt at a distance before ever-so-carefully making his way to the table where Bluestreak sat. Then, without preamble, he made himself comfortable in one of the empty adjacent seats and dropped his cloak.

"Appalling architecture, isn't it?"

It was a horrible abuse of his stealth training, yes, but what was the point in being able to come and go as he pleased if he couldn't use it to have a bit of fun?

[Bluestreak]

Bluestreak was lost in his musings, so Mirage's abrupt appearance across the table from him had an rather electric effect.

The silver mech threw his hands in the air, and squawked like a chicken. He windmilled his arms, flailing frantically. There was a long screech as his chair across the floor and then tipped backwards. His doors flapped a few times as his fingers landed on the table, and he clawed at it with wide optics, blinking over at Mirage as if he was totally aware as to what was going to happen in the next few seconds.

It was the look that most Earth cats gave a phone-camera wielding maniac right before they ended up in a bathtub full of Mister Bubble, their mistake videotaped for all the internet to see and laugh at. 

With a resounding shriek of metal, the chair slid backwards and fell straight over, with Bluestreak still in it.

For a long second, there was only the sound of the silver mech's intakes rasping in and out as he lay flat on his back on the floor. The television prattled on and on about the the correct way to set on roofing tiles, and how the waterproofing material was made from recycled materials.

Then Bluestreak craned his head up from where he was lying. His feet draped over the edge of the chair wiggled for a second; then he shook his head with a laugh.

"I kinda like it," he admitted with a sheepish grin, lifting one hand up. "The architecture, I mean. That's got a nice peak on that roof and I like the windows. Wish they'd show more places from with floor to ceiling windows but I understand why they don't, they're so expensive to heat. Have to admit, I'm not thinking about what I was thinking about, so that's good. Sort of. Not really. Kind of. Nope, still thinking about it, ah well."

He was. Trying not to think about it sort of put it right in the forefront of your mind. So much for sitting and trying to shake away the thoughts in a home and garden television. Not that it was helping tonight. He focused on the ceiling for a moment, watching the light from the screen flicker and gleam across the metal above him. Faint hues of blue and green drifted by, touching on every little rivet and some exposed conduits.

Quickly he realized how close the ceiling felt, as if it was pressing down on him, and shuttered his optics to drive away the sensation.

"Haha, you just scared the living heck out of me, well, I think I'm still living anyway, let me check," he offered cheerfully, and then lifted his hand and put it on the curve of his glossy silver chest. Underneath the metal was still the swish of his main pump, although it was still running faster than usual. His optics opened again and he ducked his head, peering up under the brim of his red chevron.

"Yep, still alive, I'm good at that."  

Slowly, Bluestreak moved his arm and braced his hand on the floor, and then he levered himself upwards, scrabbling back onto his feet. He reached for his gun first, picking it back up, and then lifted up his chair and set it back down on the floor.

Then he settled himself back into it with a gentle thump and rested his elbows on the table.

"Haven't seen you for a bit," he said. "Been out patrolling a lot lately?" 

[Deleted]

In contrast to poor Bluestreak's rather animated response, Mirage sat perfectly still, unmoved by the young mech's flailing or his unfortunate loss of balance. He merely raised his brows, watching with a dull sort of amusement as Bluestreak recovered on the floor, gaining his wits about him one rattling breath at a time.

To his utter lack of surprise, the chatty little sniper began prattling on the moment he realized he was in no real danger, and that he had been startled half to death not by a foe, but a friend - or, well, an approximation of a friend. Mirage wouldn't go so far as to consider himself anyone's bosom buddy, per say, but he liked to think he maintained a cordial acquaintanceship with most of his comrades, Bluestreak included. Granted, they rarely spoke (or rather, Mirage rarely spoke - most of his conversations with the young mech tended to be fairly one sided) but that didn't mean they didn't have a rapport of sorts.

Still, Mirage supposed scaring the daylights out of the poor mech would have been a touch more tasteful if they were on better terms. It was one thing to poke fun at a good friend who knew you didn't mean them any harm, it was another to do the same to a veritable stranger who couldn't say the same with certainty.

Feeling a touch remorseful (only slightly so), Mirage offered Bluestreak a small, pleasant smile - a rare treat, when it was genuine.

"I'm a spy, Bluestreak. Not being seen is my forte." He replied, sounding both amused and little proud.

 "But to answer your question...no. I'm afraid I haven't been out and about much as of late. The partner-system has put a bit of a stop to my nightly strolls."

[Bluestreak]

"Haha, yeah, I know," the sharpshooter laughed. His doors lifted in a friendly shrug before he leaned down and made sure the rifle was propped handily against the side of his chair once again. The mech automatically double checked; of course the safety was on, but it was more of a habit. Drop your weapon, check again, always be safe, never be sorry that you overlooked something. There were no excuses for an accident with a rifle like that.

He waved his hand. "I know, I know. You're always not being seen, that's your job, and you're good at it. I mean I just hadn't seen you around, not that I hadn't seen you seen you, and wow, that is totally not coming out the way I mean it to, so I think I'm going to give up on this point of what I mean because you knew what I meant."

A grin, and the silver mech's doors lifted. He leaned back a bit in his chair, careful not to push his weight too far. No sense ending flat on his back again. Once was bad enough, twice in a night would be embarassing if he wasn't going to go flop himself down somewhere and try to shut down.

Not that it was going to work. He'd been trying off and on for the last six hours or so. It pretty much meant that he was going to give up, do his shift, and then try again until finally he was simply too tired and needed a recharge so badly that he'd slump into the sort of shut down that was born out of heavy exhaution. Sometimes it worked better like that.

"Yeah," he said suddenly, shaking his head. "I kinda- same thing here. Been a bit tough. Really need to go for a drive, take a break, get out of here."

"I know it's a lot to ask for, because I know this base is really nice, that the humans have helped us out an awful lot. We have shelter, we have safety from the Decepticons - well, not that that's quite as important with the truce... er, for now anyway."

Bluestreak drummed his fingers lightly on the table and ducked his helm as if he was settling under the weight of his own words. He seemed to be watching that motion of his own fingers before he realized he was totally speaking and rudely not looking at Mirage. Manners, Bluestreak. Manners. He knew for a fact that Mirage appreciated those. The sharpshooter certainly wasn't a Tower mech by any means. He'd been just an average mech, with an average job, and had faced the threat of not making rent on his apartment a few times when his job was slow.

However it drove him crazy when people went out of their way to be rude to someone just because they'd been living in the Towers; most of the Towers folk he'd met had been decent.

He offered the white and blue mech a little smile.

"I just miss windows, miss looking out of a window."

He glanced towards the screen. "I'm sure it's worse for you," he admitted. "I mean I always work with partners, that's my way of doing things out in the field. You really don't."

"You doing okay?" he asked suddenly, with obvious and honest concern.