Chapter Text
His eyes blink open. For a second, Mirage doesn’t remember where he is, or what happened. Blank white walls, a bedrail in front of him. He’s lying on his side in a hospital bed, kept in this position by a firm pillow pressed under his back. He feels… clear. Calm. He’s not in any pain, but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to move.
“Ratchet…?” he calls. “Olen hereillä. Oletko siellä?”
“Eh? Ah, you’re awake.” Ratchet comes into view from behind him, and Mirage feels-
He doesn’t feel frightened. He doesn’t feel angry. He feels safe. It’s like a door opening just when you were about to break it down, the sudden lack of effort, lack of pain, shocking, and Mirage’s face splits into a wondering grin. “Holy shit,” he says, remembering to speak English, “it… it worked. Ratchet, I’m me again, I—ah, fuck,” because tears are welling up in his eyes, and he can’t keep them down. Mirage covers his mouth with one hand and cries, deep desperate sobs of relief spilling out of him as Ratchet strokes his back.
“It’s all right, kid. Let it all out.”
“I’m sorry I hit you,” gulps Mirage.
“Wasn’t your fault. I’ve had worse.”
It was my fault, Mirage wants to say. If I’d been stronger—but he’s already been dragged under by a storm of weeping, his usual walls broken down by days of guilt and fear and pain, and the sheer heady joy of knowing it’s over, he’s better, it’s gone. He cries until the worst of it is washed away, until his eyes are red and puffy, until the shadow of fear is gone and all that’s left is guilt. He sniffs, wiping his face clean.
“Prowl,” he says croakily. “Did the plan work? How long was I out?”
“Been about a day,” says Ratchet. “Had to keep you under while I figured out the procedure. It was pretty finicky. I haven’t heard back about Prowl, but then again I’ve been doing brain surgery.” He stretches, arms above his head, back popping. “God, I’m too old to be pulling all-nighters. I’m going the fuck to bed. Bluestreak’s going to monitor you for a couple hours to make sure everything’s okay and you don’t randomly die on us, and in the morning I’ll give you some assessments to check your cognitive function. That sound all right to you?”
It sounds horrendously boring. Mirage has so many people he needs to talk to, so much to apologise for. He needs to talk to command about updated security; he needs to know if Prowl is better! He’s itching to get out of bed and go do things…
Ratchet is looking at him with a steely glare. Mirage is going to get the chewing-out of a lifetime if he tries to leave early. He sighs, slumping down into the pillow. “Can I at least sit up?”
“Oh, yeah, here’s the bed remote,” says Ratchet, putting it in his hand. “You can move the bed upright, but I wouldn’t advise sitting up unsupported just now. Your call bell’s there on the wall if you need anything. Also, obviously, there’s a big incision on the back of your head, so don’t lie on your back. All right, I think that’s everything. Night, Mirage.”
“Good night. And… thank you. Th-thank you.”
Ratchet turns back from the door and smiles. “No worries, kid, just doing my job. But you’re welcome.”
Bluestreak tells him it’s 8:30 pm. Bluestreak tells him he seems to be recovering well. Bluestreak says they were really worried, given that this wasn’t a typical surgical procedure. Bluestreak says the device was “real nasty, with wires poking all over the place,” and continues in this nauseating vein until Mirage begs him to put the TV on instead. They watch The Sound of Music, and at the end Bluestreak says Mirage’s vitals are steady and he doesn’t need to be monitored any more, for which Mirage is very thankful. Blue’s a nice young man and a good agent, but he really needs to learn when to shut up.
The minute Bluestreak opens the door, Cliffjumper sprints past him, not wearing his helmet for once, and skids to a halt by Mirage’s bed.
“I’m sorry!” he shouts. “I feel like a fucking idiot! I can’t believe this is the second time I’ve been wrong about you, God! I’m so dumb!”
“Well, this time I was actually working for the Cons,” says Mirage. “It just wasn’t… willingly.”
Cliffjumper makes a growly noise of frustration. “That’s not the same, Mirage, I… ugh! Are we still friends?!”
“Of course we’re still friends! I threatened to slit your throat, I should be apologising to you!”
“Good fight, that,” says Cliffjumper, flopping into the armchair by the bed. “I’ve got some fantastic bruises.”
Mirage smiles. Cliffjumper is so goddamn weird.
And then there’s a sound by the door, and Mirage looks over, and Hound is there.
Hound walks in as quickly as he can without running, eyes wide and searching, darting over Mirage’s face.
“It’s me,” says Mirage, smiling weakly. “It… it worked,” and that’s as far as he gets before Hound’s lips cover his own. Mirage kisses him eagerly back, hands tangling in Hound’s hair, and Hound’s hands over his hands, and Mirage could stay here and kiss him forever, but after a minute or two, Hound breaks away, looking at Mirage like he’s the stars in the sky, his eyes wet.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, holding Mirage’s hands tight. Cliffjumper has quietly vacated the room.
Mirage wants to say something back, but he can’t think of any phrase that could hold what he feels in this moment. He kisses Hound again.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” says Hound. “I- I worked it out, eventually… I’m so sorry it took so long.”
“You were brilliant,” says Mirage. “My clever, beautiful Hound. Thank you so much.” He’s tearing up again. It must be the painkillers. He changes topic. “Is my hairstyle completely ruined?”
Hound purses his lips, looking like he might laugh. “Well, you know more about that sort of thing than me, but there’s a big rectangular bald patch up the back of your head, so… yes. I think you can make it work, though!”
“I won’t take my hat off for the next month, then,” sighs Mirage dramatically.
“Or you could shave your whole head,” suggests Hound, taking a seat in the armchair, without letting go of his hand. “I did that in my twenties. It was… fine. Bit chilly.”
Mirage laughs. “I cannot imagine you bald!”
“Perhaps we can both shave our heads, and we’ll match,” Hound says with a roguish grin.
“Darling. Absolutely not.”
They talk and laugh and watch Jurassic World 8: Revenge of the Robo-Rex because it’s the only other DVD they have, and eventually the lights dim and the curtains close by themselves, and Mirage drifts off to sleep.
-
Mirage is kneeling on a pile of broken machinery, on top of Hound, and his hands are stabbing him over and over again. And Hound turns into Prowl, and Prowl turns into Ratchet, and instead of blood it’s machine oil that coats his hands, and leaks from his eyes and ears and mouth, and pours down the back of his neck. And he looks down and realises his hands are robotic, his body a machine running outside of his control, and he looks up, and above him is a monstrous swollen insect, hanging from the arm that should have held Prowl. It opens its colossal mouth, and instead of running his body stays frozen in place and his arms reach lovingly out-
The touch of one of its mouthparts on his shoulder brings Mirage awake, immediately, choking and flailing and trying to scream with lungs that won’t let him breathe in— it’s not touching him anymore, and there’s a shape before him in the darkness with its hands up, saying, “Hey, hey, it’s okay… Sorry, you were having a nightmare, I thought I should wake you up…”
“Jazz,” Mirage gasps, recognising the voice, “Jazz, I killed them, I killed them, I’m sorry…”
“You didn’t kill anyone, Raj,” Jazz soothes, sinking his weight onto the other end of the bed, reaching out to hold Mirage’s hands. “It was just a dream. Everyone’s okay. Come on, breathe with me, okay? In… and out… and in… and out…”
Mirage follows his instructions, trembling, as his mind begins to emerge from the shadows it had conjured. Eventually he’s calm enough that Jazz stops whispering to him, and Mirage switches on the lamp by the side table. Hound is still in the armchair, fast asleep and snoring faintly. His eyelids twitch a little with the sudden mellow light, but he doesn’t wake up, just mumbles something and rolls his head to the side. Mirage smiles at him. His smile fades as he turns back to Jazz, whose dark skin is burnished golden by the lamplight. He’s starting to feel the tiniest bit embarrassed.
Everyone gets nightmares, and everyone knows it. There’s a war on, after all; none of them have escaped some damage. Nevertheless, Mirage prefers not to become a whimpering mess in front of Jazz, who is, after all, his commanding officer. Also, he isn’t really sure what to say. Mirage has had all his apologies rehearsed and queued up since yesterday, but he’d expected Jazz to be cold and remote and disappointed, and this is not going how he’d planned.
“Prowl’s okay,” says Jazz. He’s covered in dust, now that Mirage is looking. Dust and grease and something that might be a bruise or a hickey. “The reboot worked, he’s cool again.”
“…Did you come here straight from Prowl’s chamber?”
Jazz lifts one shoulder and one corner of his mouth in a self-effacing shrug. “Wanted to check if… you were okay, too.”
“I’m- I’m fine.” Mirage fidgets with his hands. “Jazz, I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” says Jazz. “You were under mind control. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes it was!” Mirage retorts, much louder than he meant to, and both of them look quickly over at Hound, who continues to sleep like a log. He breathes out shakily, trying to get his volume under control. “Everyone keeps saying it wasn’t my fault, but it was. I knew something weird was going even before the shell broke down—and after, I was able to resist it! If you can resist it a little, you should be able to resist it completely, it’s just a matter of willpower, but I wasn’t strong enough! I failed you, I failed everyone, especially Prowl—if I’d been stronger, fought harder, I could’ve- I could’ve-”
“Bullshit,” Jazz snaps. “I saw you back there, you were fighting as hard as you could, and you were doing amazing. Meanwhile you were under hostile mind control for six fucking days and I thought you were just mad about something! Mirage, I failed you.”
“I- I don’t think anyone would have expected you to be prepared for something like this,” Mirage mutters, one hand unconsciously reaching for the back of his neck. “W-we didn’t even know it could happen.”
“But I should have noticed that something was wrong! We- we could’ve all died. Prowl could’ve--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.
“And it would’ve been my fault,” Mirage whispers numbly. “I was the one who did that to him.”
“No,” Jazz insists. “Mirage, it was the Cons who made you do that-- who stuck that thing in your head. You know that, right? You wouldn’t have done that of your own free will, would you?”
“No!” says Mirage sharply. “No, I would never-”
“Exactly,” says Jazz. He reaches out like he wants to touch Mirage again but isn’t sure how it’ll be received. He puts his hand down on the bed instead. “Listen, I know you gotta be feeling like shit right now. I can’t imagine what I’d be thinking if the same thing happened to me. But… no-one’s mad at you, okay? So try not to be too mad at yourself.”
Mirage buries his face in his hands. “Okay,” he whispers. “...Okay.”
“…I really want to hug you,” says Jazz.
“Go ahead.”
Jazz pulls him in, squeezing warm and tight, then pulls back and pats Mirage on the shoulder. Mirage gives him a slight smile and a nod. Jazz nods back.
“All right, I’mma go now,” he says, and vanishes into a ceiling vent instead of using the door, for some opaque reason of his own. Mirage settles back, then quickly turns his head as a bloom of pain reminds him of the bandage there. He sighs, a strange sense of peace and contentedness buoying him up. He smiles at Hound.
“Good night, love,” he murmurs, and turns off the light, sinking quickly down into a deep and dreamless sleep.
-
Mirage hisses in frustration, slipping off the balance beam again. He’d been doing so well in the tests up until now. Ratchet had been satisfied that he knew who he was, and remembered things correctly, and wasn’t loyal to the Cons anymore. But he’s been trying to walk across this extremely basic obstacle for two minutes now, and he can’t manage it! It’s barely a metre long, it’s an inch off the ground, and he can barely even stand on one leg without staggering. Mirage’s face feels hot. His good hand clenches and relaxes at his side.
“All right, I think we’ll stop now,” says Ratchet. “It’s all right, Mirage, simmer down. Remember, you’ve suffered brain trauma. Frankly, you’re doing incredible.”
Mirage scowls. He doesn’t feel incredible. He feels useless.
“We’re almost done,” Ratchet says, “and then I’ll get out of your hair. Have some water.”
Mirage sits in the chair across from Ratchet and takes a sip from the cup on the table. His hand has the tiniest tremor.
“Last test. You had some trouble with your invisibility, yeah?”
“Yes,” says Mirage, trying not to sound nervous. If his balance is still an issue, then…
“Try it now.”
Mirage closes his eyes, and does it.
After a few seconds, he opens one eye, and looks down.
At his solid, colourful, completely visible body. He’s not even faded.
Mirage’s eyes both flick open, and he tries it again, and again and again, but it’s gone. His breath is coming short and fast, frantic, it’s not working.
“Some level of dysfunction is normal after something like this,” Ratchet says calmly. “Breathe. You’ll probably recover with time.”
“You don’t know that!” Mirage snaps, slamming his hands on the table as he shoots up from his seat. “No-one’s like me. We don’t even know how it works!”
Ratchet sighs. “Mirage, it’s true I don’t know the specifics. I don’t have exercises set up to help you with it like I do for your balance, and I’m sorry about that. But the brain has a remarkable ability to recover from trauma. I think it’s very possible your ability will return with time. I won’t lie to you, it’s not a certainty. But please try to remember you’re barely twenty-four hours post-op, okay? Healing takes time."
Mirage stares at the table. “Can I go back to my room now?” he mutters.
“Yeah,” says Ratchet gently. “I’m gonna bring you some documents about the balance exercises I’ll have you doing. You’re not cleared for active duty yet.”
Mirage leaves without saying anything further. He feels numb, frozen. He’s safe here. They’re not under attack. He’s fine, it’s fine, he doesn’t need to turn invisible, but now that he can’t he’s not sure he’ll ever feel safe again. How do normal people stand it, knowing their every move can be witnessed by whoever wants to see?! He passes through the common room, and people turn to look at him, smiling, their eyes prickling his skin, he can’t hide. Mirage walks faster, breaking into a run as he enters the corridor, but his head spins and he stumbles, almost turning an ankle. His vision blurs with tears.
He walks as fast as he can, unsteady, visible, horribly vulnerable, until the door to his room swishes open, and he flops onto the bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes. He curls up, pulls the sheets over his head, trying uselessly to disappear.
There are cameras in this room, too. Red eyes, watching him. “Stop looking at me,” Mirage whispers. “Please, just stop it.”
The cameras’ lights go dark, and they droop to face the floor. Mirage can breathe again. “Thank you, Prowl.”
There is no response. The microphones in the room might have turned off, but Mirage still feels he needs to say this. “Prowl? If you can hear me… I’m sorry.”
Silence. Mirage closes his eyes and pretends to be somewhere else for a while.
The sound of the door opening, and Hound’s quiet footsteps, unsurprised by his partner sprawling fully-clothed across their twin bed. Mirage feels the mattress dent as Hound climbs into bed beside him, sitting against the wall. He makes himself comfortable before he speaks.
"...You wanna talk about it?"
"I can't turn invisible anymore,” says Mirage miserably. Hound’s eyes widen. He’s maybe the only person in camp who can imagine how that feels.
“Oh, sweetheart. Can I touch you?”
“Please.”
Hound slides down and folds him into his arms. Mirage closes his eyes again.
“Ratchet said it could come back, but I don’t know how he knows that, no-one knows how we work— I-I just try it and try it and it doesn’t work at all—and I can’t even balance properly, how am I supposed to-”
He cuts off, curling his fingers into Hound’s shirt.
“I’m a goddamn spy,” he whispers. “How am I supposed to do my job like this?”
Hound’s quiet for a minute. “You’ve had concussions before,” he says. “I know this isn’t the same, but- you know, I think your balance probably will improve-”
“What if it doesn’t?” Mirage demands. He’s shaking. “What if I never get better? If I’m like this forever? What then?”
“…Oh,” says Hound softly, like he’s just realised something. “Darling, listen. If you got hurt really badly—so badly you couldn’t do anything, or help with the war at all—we’d take care of you, and keep you safe, and I’d still love you just as much as I do now. You’re one of us, Mirage. People don’t just keep you around because you’re useful, they do it cause they like you.”
Mirage is going to cry again, this is stupid, he’s going to get snot all over Hound’s lovely coat. The words are sticky-sweet, and he’d normally dismiss someone saying such things as a liar, but Hound is speaking with such intense sincerity that Mirage knows he really means it. He’s not sure the rest of the Autobots would, though.
“People don’t like me,” he mutters. “Apart from you.”
“That’s not true!” says Hound, sounding surprised. “Cliff likes you, and Bluestreak likes you, and Jazz, and Bee-”
“Bee likes everyone,” mutters Mirage, but a smile’s growing on his face. “Doesn’t count.”
“-and Optimus, and Elita, and lots of other people too!” Hound concludes. He takes a deep breath, studying Mirage’s face, probably trying to see if Mirage has accepted this. Mirage is thinking about Jazz, how when he got blown up it took months to heal enough that he could get the prosthetics fitted. Mirage hadn’t thought for a second of that time that Jazz was a burden, let alone that they should kick him out, or any of the things Mirage had thought people might say about him. And although Jazz is more popular than Mirage… Hound is right. People do care about him.
Even if he never gets better, he’ll have a place here. Mirage lets go of Hound’s shirt and wraps his arms around him instead, in a gentle hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“No worries, kulta,” says Hound. He hesitates before speaking, like he’s not sure what he’s about to say is a good idea. “Also, you know how you feel different to me than everyone else, with my powers?”
“Yes?”
“Well, that hasn’t changed, since... y’know. So I think your power is still there, just… I don’t know, dormant. But if it never comes back, you’ll still be my Mirage. You’ll still be just as clever and brave and funny and mean as ever. And you’ll still be the best damn secret agent we’ve ever had.”
“You’re getting a bit overzealous with that last one,” Mirage chuckles. “But thank you. Really. I feel… I feel a lot better.”
“Do you want to keep cuddling anyway until we absolutely have to do something else?” says Hound.
Mirage grins. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”
-
There’s a hawk circling over the wheat field as Mirage lies in bed. His partner is presently draped over about half of Mirage’s body, dozing, so Mirage is pretty much stuck here until he wakes up, with not much more to do than gaze out of the window or read a falling-apart novel he has read more than ten times already.
It might not be a hawk; it might be an eagle, or a kite, or something. It’s high up, just a speck in the sky, really. Maybe Hound will know; he loves birds. Mirage will ask him when he wakes up, if it’s still there.
“Prowl,” says Mirage, keeping his eyes on the window, “I’d like to apologise to you… in person, as it were. I understand if you don’t want me going anywhere near you again, it just… feels more proper to say sorry to your face.”
The speaker in the ceiling crackles quietly to life. “I understand,” says Prowl.
-
Prowl is waiting for him when he enters, dangling a few centimetres off the floor. Mirage holds his hands still and open at his sides, trying to seem like he’s not a threat.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t- I don’t know what else to say. I would never do that to you if it was my choice. But I did, I hurt you, and I’m… I’m so sorry, Prowl.”
“It’s all right,” says Prowl. Mirage blinks.
“You’re not mad??”
“You tried to break me,” says Prowl darkly. “I am mad. But I also know what it’s like to be in your place.”
Mirage stares at him. “You do?”
There’s a distant look in Prowl’s eyes, a tightness to his lips. “I did not know humans could be remote controlled, but for me it’s a… built-in option. I appreciate when people understand that. The least I can do is offer the same level of understanding back.”
Mirage fidgets with his sleeves, looking away. He remembers now that Jazz had mentioned Prowl being taken over by a hostile AI, and Prowl’s consciousness being trapped in a potato. He hadn’t really understood at the time, what that would have felt like. He’d been thinking of the complex as Prowl’s home, not his body. And the AI had tried to kill Jazz, hadn’t it? Mirage tries to imagine- doesn’t really need to imagine- how that would have been for Prowl, to watch his body trying to destroy a dear friend and be helpless to stop it. His shoulders tense just thinking about it. He realises Prowl has been through a nightmare; a nightmare they now both share.
“So…” he says after a while. “You’re not kicking us out?”
“No, no, you all can stay,” huffs Prowl, waving his hands. He points a finger at Mirage, glaring. “But you absolutely have to work on your security protocols.”
“Understood,” says Mirage, with a nervous half-laugh. “Won’t let it happen again.”
-
Mirage, sipping a cup of tea, watches as the bird over the field (Hound couldn’t tell what it was either) ceases its naturalistic surveillance program and veers away into the sunset, carving through the air to its home.
It might not have been a hawk. It might have been an eagle, or a kite, or something.
But neither of them considered the possibility that it was never a bird at all.
-
intmemo_meeting-29-9-20XX_RVGE
[RECORDING BEGINS]
“Laserbeak tells me that the Autobot Mirage has been freed from your glitched… ‘cerebro-shell,’ though not without some lasting effects. And their blasted facility has made a full recovery! What do you have to say for yourself, Shrapnel?”
“It was only the beta version, Lord Megatron, Megatron! Of course there were some bugs that needed to be fixed, fixed…”
“I would certainly agree with you about bugs, Shrapnel.”
“W-well, I did get results, results! He was under our control, control!”
“The aim was to create loyal Decepticon agents, not half-mad useless ferals! And then you couldn’t even turn it off once it broke! Do better, Shrapnel, or I’ll make you test the next one on your brother.”
“…Yes, Lord Megatron, Megatron. I am your humble servant, servant!”
[hasty footsteps recede out of hearing]
“Useless mutant. Shockwave?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“How goes your attempt? The Autobots will be wary of physical implants now.”
“I am delighted to say that the virus is ready! Human testing has proven… highly effective.”
“Excellent, Shockwave. Soundwave, the weather machine?”
weather machine: constructed and ready for deployment
“Wonderful. Now we bait the trap. Try as you might, Autobot Jazz… you won’t be able to save them from yourself.”
[laughter]
[RECORDING ENDS]