Chapter 7

Stranger

Author's notes: There are moments in which we doubt even of ourselves.

…

Mirage walked outside the camp, his gaze fixated on the horizon as he pondered their options. Prowl was worse than he imagined, which complicated their situation. The tactician's reactions still wandered through Mirage's processor, the recent grotesque scene repeating itself again and again.

How letting something like that go? How to forget it? It was easier when the face involved was the one of a stranger; it was relatively simple when one was used to see things like that every day. But when the one suffering was someone close, a friend, perspective and logic changed. How could Mirage erase those images from his mind? How could he let go the damage that now he was sharing with the friend he had tried to help? Prowl was a stranger now.

Mirage was intelligent, he was trained to face difficult situations, but never of that kind. His attention focused again on the desolated scenario before him, nothing but old, abandoned structures; vestiges from the past, of golden times now forgotten. That world was as foreign to its own memories as Prowl was, that stranger that appeared to be him, but that would never be again.

…

It is said that when something very important happens, things are never the same.

…..

Does everything the Decepticons touch have to end like this? The question overwhelmed Mirage's thoughts, disrupting his reality. Things had been different once, but now they were nothing but a dream, an illusion that only the melancholic mechs kept for themselves. He had tried to think about something else, tried to distract his mind from the fatalities behind, but not all the time he had the sight of a friend torturing himself. The sound of servos creaking as a body forced itself to transform was the symphony of that night, wounds reopening painfully in an effort to escape from an unbearable reality.

How far had a torture had to go to obtain that kind of results? What did the two of them were really looking for? Any question was useless now; all that remained was the possibility of helping his friend to find a way out.

I don't know what I need to recover you, Prowl. Some would say that luck, but luck doesn't exist. It has to be built, and if we don't work to make it happen, then it's not real, he said to himself, remembering another reason that had dragged them both to the current situation.

….

(Flashback)

"He just left, refusing to hear any explanation or reproach," the tactician's complaint could be heard as he wrote some instructions on his data pad.

The Rec Room was a very populated place after a battle or when important events took place. They were still mechs after all, with lives and reasons to go on. But in that moment most of them waited outside the base, saying goodbye to the leader who had guided them for eras.

Optimus and some of his officers were leaving to a suicidal mission. The last battle had been worse than a nightmare, and yet the plan continued as Prime wanted, without delays or changes of opinion.

Prowl wasn't part of that crowd, aware that he would be reprimanded for his absence, but he was so upset that he couldn't have acted otherwise. Saying goodbye… it wasn't normal for him to feel that way; his processor drowning the rage and the impotence of knowing that his opinion hadn't mattered.

But now it was too late. Nothing else could be done.

"You shouldn't get upset. You know that is all for our future," Mirage explained, watching him.

The former aristocrat was silent when he wanted; Prowl didn't notice him until he spoke. Mirage was a spy, after all, able to hide his presence, to make himself literally invisible.

"I know," Prowl replied dryly, turning his gaze to the other Autobot. Both remained silent again, allowing the temporal peace to wrap them. There was nothing they could do now; things were out of their control and all they could do was hoping that the plan would work, just as their Prime had told them it would happen. That's all they had left to continue.

"I know," Prowl repeated to himself, aware that that was all he could say.

….

The moment for reflection had to come to an end. It was a shame that their beautiful planet had turned into a ruin, ruled by mechs without scruples that were only looking for entertainment after their devastating victory.

A defeat that had been foretold for the Autobots since the day their leader left.

…..

I wonder if you thought about the consequences of your actions. What leaded you to take that decision? Why did you leave us behind without hesitation? Mirage thought. Time continued running by and, with it, also the risks of being located by the Decepticons. He didn't know if it was worth it.

He shook his head. It's just the first obstacle and you are already doubting. You didn't come this far only to give up so soon. Prowl's depression seemed to be contagious. It was unavoidable.

A withered world, without present or future, with a forgotten past, but that was his home. Mirage laughed softly. What else could he do? Giving up was not an option.

If I would've known the price of that promise, at least I would've charged you a little more, his ironic thoughts went on. He was talking to a ghost, to a lost soul that would hear him no more. But it didn't matter if he only addressed the wind, the only one willing to receive his message. Irony wasn't part of his personality, but in moments like these it was the only comfort he could find to his loneliness.

How many pain you went through? How much suffering you had to stand before giving up? Questions continued repeating in his mind, desperately looking for an answer. Mirage had survived many deadly and difficult situations, but it was so hard to see the damage through the optics of a friend. It was unbearable.

His hand held a small chip, the reason of his presence there in the first place. The initial idea had been to pay a fast visit to the camp and then leave. Mirage knew that it was still too soon to expect a real interaction with Prowl, but he had never imagined such ending…

"And everything for a chip, for a small object that could have contained a reason to believe again in that absurd Faith," he said to himself, frustrated, questioning if he had done the right thing.

…

Only losers give up before fighting.

….

Foreign footsteps could be heard at the same time that a silhouette stopped some distance away. It seemed like the stranger knew about patience. He waited, observed, carrying the waited message, but respecting the privacy of the mech ahead of him.

Mirage didn't bother in turning around. He kept his firm stance, blank against the darkness that populated his current life. There were no lights illuminating the wide roads, no neon colors dressing the buildings. But still, the delicacy of his design continued standing out despite the disguise he was wearing. He was a high society mech forced to live and fight with the rest, preparing to face the most dangerous things the Decepticons could threw them. War had taught him something: it didn't matter where he came from. Life itself computed only one thing, and that was his destination.

The newcomer advanced again.

"How much time?" Mirage whispered, still without staring at the other mech. His mind continued digressing between possibilities.

"Inexistent," came the reply, as cold as the one of a Decepticon would have been. It was impossible to imagine that that same mech was one of his own, that at some point his jokes had transformed in a very little practical, dark sense of humor.

"Are you still going to do it?" Mirage asked, understanding the meaning of the deal. Energon credits didn't matter in a world in ruins. Value simply didn't exist in the thing that had never really been precious.

"I'll take my chances," the other mech answered without interest, although there was something in his voice that pointed toward his hidden intentions.

Mirage waited for that part of the deal. He knew that sooner or later, the real prize would be revealed.

…..

Nothing comes for free, and every little thing demands something in return. Favors exist no more.

…..

"What do you really want?" Mirage asked, finally turning around to face the distinctive figure of his companion.

…..

Sometimes destiny is kind, and sometimes is cruel. It all depends on how you look at it.

…..

The Autobot watched the other mech smiling.

"It's good to see you here," he said. His figure was similar to Prowl. Shape, style and size were very alike, but his color scheme and attitude made the big difference. They were like day and night; this mech was everything that Prowl was not anymore.

"Smokescreen," Mirage said, somewhat shocked. He remembered the disappearance of the mech who followed Prowl's steps, with different ideas, but effective just the same.

"We thought… we thought that you…" Mirage continued, but he was interrupted by the other Autobot, who advanced towards him with anger on his blue optics.

"Everybody thinks the same," he snapped. "That's their explanation for everything. You disappear for a while and the next thing they think is that you're dead without even trying to find you. Tell me, Mirage, in your little fantasy world, do you have any idea what happens to an Autobot when he falls to the hands of the Decepticons? Do you at least have any idea of what reality is? Or do you simply buy all those pathetic reports that are given to us all the time?" Smokescreen asked severely, folding his arms across his chest, anger evident in his stance. "It would impress you to know how many of us were left behind. Time is not forgiving; most of the sparks are extinguished now, along with the hope of returning home."

Mirage didn't say anything, but his silence said more than a thousand words. Smokescreen was an ally, but an enemy alike. How could he trust in somebody that had lived so much time after being captured? Perhaps it was a trap to steal their precious freedom away from them.

"You don't know that," Smokescreen said, as if he could read his thoughts. "I would also doubt in your position, but I'm the only one who can help you." He walked towards Mirage and stopped right beside him, both Autobots staring at the same scenario.

"I'm not the same you knew, that's true," Smokescreen continued. "My experiences have told me that life is difficult, that trusting someone is not a good idea, but at the same time I'm still one of your own. I can be careless, arrogant, and maybe even cruel."

Smokescreen made a pause and stared at the sky before continuing speaking. His expression was thoughtful and melancholic, an expression impossible to fake or imitate.

"I'm not completely a stranger, Mirage."

…

It is said that there are things that not even the best actor can imitate.

….

"I always was and will be an Autobot. It doesn't matter if I never leave this world or end my days at the hands of the enemy, I still want to believe that we haven't lost this war, that we can survive enough to know the truth," Smokescreen said, staring at his old unit partner.

"They are not coming back," Mirage said. It was an affirmation.

"Not now, but maybe in the future. Nobody knows what will happen."

"Can you help him?" Mirage asked his question again.

"It depends only on Prowl," Smokescreen replied, lowering his door-wings. "His will, his pride, his personality… everything has been distorted, trapping him in another reality. He can't see things as we see them, he doesn't understand what is happening around him. He won't do it without feeling pain, the only constant thing that accompanied him during all the time he was captive. If your question is 'Will we recover Prowl?', the answer is yes, but he will never be the same; he will always be a stranger trying to find his place. But don't let that fool you. He will still be Prowl."

Mirage knew that the other mech wasn't lying. Smokescreen had never been one to play with the truth.

"Are there more of us left?" was his last question, the one that would end their conversation.

Smokescreen laughed softly.

"It would be logic to think not," he whispered.

….

Never and always are rarely adequate. There will always be many things in between.

…..

Words were not needed anymore. Mirage and Smokescreen didn't fully trust in each other, but they both were Autobots and would recover what was theirs. Cybertron was theirs.

Both warriors walked back to the place where Prowl was resting, aware that they needed the tactician functional again before looking for more survivors. There had to be others existing within the darkness, at the same time trying to erase their existence.

….

A terrified mech stared at the bonds that kept him tied to the repair berth. After forcing him to recover his bipedal form, he had been immobilized as his wounds were treated. But he kept struggling, hurting himself, crying in horror to what he saw as captors. His desperate shouts invaded the corridors, but they were no pleas, only his reaction to fear.

….

Prowl…

I see the others working on me. I feel their hands over my body, trying to repair it. Deep inside I know that they don't want to hurt me, but it's so difficult to understand, as if I couldn't stop myself from struggling, as if I couldn't react otherwise. During my imprisonment, every time someone approached me was to hurt me; that became the only constant that kept me alive. Maybe that's why now I'm not able to understand that not everything that touches me implies pain.

It's sad to imagine that I need it. I need to suffer to know I exist. I know that there is someone trying to help me, but is that for the better? There are moments in which I don't recognize myself. My addiction to pain grows, and my exhausted circuits cry for attention.

This is wrong, very wrong, I say to myself. I'm damaged. Nothing has sense anymore. Only these ties avoid me to escape, but who would I escape from? From the comfort of a friend? From the help I begged so much to obtain? Or from the reality I'm not able to confront?

Sometimes I don't recognize myself. I don't know why I'm here. Then I remember; the memories, his orders, the missions, a sacrifice… Not mine.

The medics continue working, but I have hopes that sooner or later they will get tired and leave, as everyone who has come to help has done. There is no such thing as a real future. We have lost, that's what awaits us. Deep inside I know I can't escape.

….

To be continue…