The spacious chamber was filled wall-to-wall with standing Autobots, yet all was eerily quiet. All along both sides towered huge statues, each one spotlit from beneath with a harsh white light. These were images of Autobot leaders from throughout the history of the Empire, each with a name that inspired awe and terror. Prima. Prime Nova. Sentinel Prime. And finally, the most recent addition, Optimus Prime, whose statue dwarfed all the others, as well as the gathered mechanoids beneath.

The small green-and-yellow Autobot approaching the center of the dais could have walked beneath any of the statues' legs without ducking. But he carried himself as if he were taller than any of them. And when he stopped beneath the single spotlight that illuminated the stage center, his optics flashed with a zealot's fervor.

"Fellow Autobots," he began, his slightly-accented speech soft at first. "We gather here to uphold the traditions of our race." His voice grew louder, more intense. "We are strong. We are warriors. And our leader has decreed that whatever makes us weak must be purged."

He clenched a fist before his face, voice quivering with intensity. "So, fellow Autobots, tonight one of our number will purge his weakness before you, and emerge from this trial a better, stronger warrior, one worthy to serve the Empire!"

Cheers of approval filled the chamber at this. "Tell 'em, Cosmos!" a voice shouted. The speaker waited for the noise to subside, then gestured to the side of the stage.

"Autobot Mirage," Cosmos ordered, his voice stern. "Come forward."

From the darkness surrounding the dais, a nervous blue-and-white figure emerged. He stepped into the spotlight, and though he was nearly twice as tall as Cosmos, his demeanor was hesitant and uncertain. The smaller Autobot stepped aside as a few jeers sounded from the audience. "Go on, Mirage," Cosmos' sneering voice sounded from the darkness. "Tell us why you're here."

"I. . . ."

The low voice caught, and mocking laughter made itself heard. Mirage composed himself, then went on.

"I failed in my mission."

"What mission was that, Mirage?" Cosmos' voice asked. Someone from the audience added, "Yeah, tell us!"

The Autobot at center stage tensed angrily. "I was on patrol with Sideswipe. We were ambushed by a flight of Seekers."

"You ZOW! Were BLAM! stupid, you mean!" Warpath's unmistakable voice rang out.

Laughter followed, and Mirage hurried to cover it with his words, protesting, "We . . . I had no chance to react! I swerved to avoid the blasts, and. . . ."

"You lost control, didn't you?" the mocking voice came from the shadows again, obviously relishing Mirage's discomfiture. "You ran right into Sideswipe. Sent him off the bridge before you ran into a wall, didn't you?" More jeers from the spectators, louder this time. "He needed extensive repairs, didn't he? You were lucky another patrol came along, or you both would've been scrap, wouldn't you?"

"I. . .!" Mirage began defensively, but was interrupted by shouts. "No big loss!" "Yeah, why'd you have to cost us a GOOD fighter, Mirage?" "Coward! Loser! Waste of energon!" The crowd was roaring with laughter now, and Mirage clenched his hands into fists, seething with humiliation and rage. Then he flinched as a thrown oil can bounced off his helmet, ducked as another one came sailing his way, flung his hands in front of his face to protect himself. . . .

"ENOUGH!" Cosmos' voice rang through the chamber as he stepped into the light, hands raised as the audience grudgingly quieted down. "I think he's learned his lesson." With that, he turned to the unwilling focus of all this attention, who was hesitantly emerging from behind the shield of his hands. "What have you learned tonight, Mirage?"

Slowly, the other stood at attention, and spoke with jaw clenched, as if reciting an old, forcefully-taught lesson.

"I've learned there is no place for weakness in the Empire. I've learned that suffering leads to strength, and compassion promotes only weakness."

"Very good!" Cosmos seemed genuinely pleased. "Then go forth and serve the glorious cause of the Autobots!"

"Or shove a fuel rod up your afterburner!" a heckler called, to renewed laughter. Consequently no one heard Mirage's muttered, "I'll serve you, all right," as he turned and hurried from the stage, as fast as what remained of his dignity would allow. He stumbled and almost fell, and a roar of hilarity followed his retreating back as, face burning with shame, he ran out of the light and disappeared into the deep, welcoming shadows.

"Mirage?"

The voice from behind startled him, and he pushed away from the corridor wall. He'd been leaning against it for support, and tried to hide the fact that he was shaking as he turned to face the speaker.

"What do you want?" he demanded, irritably wiping his face with an audible sniff.

The small red Autobot scowled and opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Finally, he asked in a grudging tone, "You all right?"

"Sure. Fine," he snapped. Then he seemed to grow calmer. "What'd you want, Cliffjumper?"

The smaller Autobot looked uncomfortable. "Look, I just wanted to say . . ." It seemed to be causing him near-physical discomfort to admit this. . . . "It wasn't all your fault."

Mirage only looked at him, clearly suspecting a trick. Cliffjumper hurried to explain, returning to his normal sneering tone: "Don't think I'm getting sentimental with you or nothin'. I mean, yeah, you screwed up pretty bad, but. . . ." He shrugged. "Nobody expects anything better from you."

It was the tone of voice that he used that stung worst of all. He didn't sound like he was even trying to insult him; he seemed to genuinely think this a valid excuse. "Thanks," Mirage muttered, his tone less than appreciative.

Cliffjumper shrugged. "Whatever." He turned, walked away several paces, then stopped to call back over his shoulder. "Maybe next time you'll do all right. You never know." At that, he continued on his way, and was gone from sight.

Mirage watched him go, waited several seconds, then whirled around and slammed his fist into the wall with an incoherent noise of rage. Face contorted in fury, he stepped back, rubbing his hand. Nobody expects anything better from YOU! he fumed silently. Oh, sure, we all know about MIRAGE, don't we? he went on, mocking himself. We all know how he puts on airs, pretends like he's from someplace snazzy like the Newsted district, when he's really just a 'Bot from the slums who can't do a damn thing right. . . .

Unwilling to risk someone finding him again, however, he quickly composed himself and stood upright. "'Maybe next time I'll do all right', eh," he bit out. "Or maybe I'll do better than just all right." He glared down the length of the deserted hall. "I'll show you, dammit. I'll show you ALL! Some day you'll be sorry you ever laughed at me! I swear it!"

His oath sounded empty to his own audio sensors. Who did he think he was fooling? He was nothing exceptional, just an ordinary Autobot. He was perfectly average in strength, in intelligence, in firepower. And he had no special abilities at all.

Special abilities. . . .

A dark thought scurried through a distant part of his mind, as if unwilling to run out into the light.

What if. . . ? No. He couldn't do that. He couldn't go to . . . him. Mirage had heard the stories, the whispers, the dark tales told in frightened voices. Only the most desperate individual would willingly enter into his domain.

But, he reminded himself, you ARE desperate. And then some tiny, wicked, self-loathing part of his consciousness sneered: What's the matter, you AFRAID?

At that, Mirage spun on his heels and strode down the corridor. Buoyed by reckless courage, he headed for the one being he knew could help him bring his dark dreams to life. His furious desire for revenge overwhelmed the more rational part of his psyche, the part begging him to wait, to think it over. No. No more waiting. No more thinking. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. . . .

He said it so many times, he almost believed it.

Mirage entered the lab like a small child making his first visit to the dentist. He peered around the corner, looking around in puzzlement at the overlapping, contradictory sounds vying for his audio sensors' attention. There was a metallic squeak-squeak-squeak, like a poorly oiled gate. This was interspersed with the occasional sharp, electric zzzztt!! And finally, there was a curious, repetitive ha-ha-TKCH-ha-ha-TKCH-ha-ha-

A cold voice broke into his thoughts. "Either come in or go out. Don't lurk about in my entranceway."

Startled, Mirage jumped and looked sharply to his right. Perceptor stood at the other end of the lab, having just stepped into view from behind a tilted worktable that faced away from the entrance. His hands and forearms were drenched with fuel, as was the nasty-looking implement he held. He dispassionately wiped his arms with a cloth as he spoke. "If you have business with me, then speak."

"I. . . ."

Mirage's carefully planned speech seemed to have deleted itself from his memory banks. Distracted by the squeaking and zapping noises, he glanced at the counter to Perceptor's left. It was covered with vials, beakers, and various forms of equipment; one was a kind of wire wheel that spun constantly, giving off the irritating squeaks. Inside the wheel was an emaciated retro-rat running frantically in place. Whenever the exhausted-looking creature began to slow down, a jutting wire beneath the wheel administered a vicious electric shock, causing the animal to redouble its futile efforts.

Mirage became aware that Perceptor was still waiting. The blue-and-white Autobot blurted, "I want you to do something for me."

Perceptor cocked an optic ridge slightly as he set the tool down and finished wiping his hands.

"Indeed?" The ha-ha-TKCH-ha-ha-TKCH noise seemed to be coming from the other side of the titled table, which had begun to vibrate slightly.

The words came tumbling out of Mirage all at once.

"I want an upgrade."

Perceptor seemed mildly amused.

"I see."

"Not just a standard power upgrade," Mirage went on. "Something different, something special. I want . . ." his voice trailed off before he finally concluded, "I want to be different."

There was a long, excruciating pause, as Perceptor regarded the other Autobot with the same clinically detached stare he'd use on one of his tortured lab rats. Finally he chuckled, a sound that made Mirage's fuel run cold.

"Perhaps that can be arranged." He turned away and adjusted something under the wire wheel. A brutal shock, twice the power of the previous ones, forced the rat into agonized double-time. The squeak-squeaks came harder and faster, and that other noise went on and on. . . .

The other Autobot had begun to wonder if he'd made a serious mistake by coming here. But he told himself grimly, It's too late to back out now. They'd all laugh at you, call you a coward . . . again. . . . Out loud, he began, "I know it's probably a lot of trouble for you, so I could, you know. . . ." He cleared his voice box. "Arrange to make it worth your while. . . ."

Perceptor whirled on him with a look of such fury that he actually took a step back. The scientist's face and voice were livid as he advanced on his flinching visitor, hissing, "Do--not--EVER insult me that way again!"

"I'm sorry!" Mirage backpedaled, holding up his hands in surrender. "I just thought. . . !"

Perceptor had regained his calm demeanor, but was still visibly angered.

"Do you think I'm Ratchet?" He spat the name as if it were a vile profanity. "Peddling my skills to the highest bidder? Selling my knowledge for the price of a night's oblivion? No," he went on, stepping away again. "If I choose to grant your request, it will be because I feel I have something to learn from it. No other reason will do. Is that clear?"

"Yes! Absolutely!" Mirage nodded vigorously. The squeak-zaps grew louder and louder, faster and faster. The rat ran and ran, discolored froth pouring from its mouth and nostrils. The table across the room was shaking harder.

Perceptor looked at him for another uncomfortable length, his cold stare seeming to penetrate his very spark. Finally, Perceptor picked up another tool and spoke.

"There is a procedure I've been curious to test. I do not guarantee its results, but should it succeed, it will give you the power you desire." The scientist's blue optics were boring into his own, now. "Is this what you want?"

Mirage hesitated a moment more. Then, his voice grimly confident, he spoke a single word: "Yes."

"Very well." He was all business now. "Once I clear my work area, we can begin." With that, he spun the table around, and Mirage fought back a choked cry, jumping back so quickly that his back clanked into the wall.

There was a Cybertronian--Autobot or Decepticon, he couldn't tell--shackled to the table. Every bit of his exoplating had been stripped off, leaving behind only quivering skeletal structure, sparking wires, throbbing tubes that still pulsed with fuel. The figure rocked back and forth spasmodically as the optic-less skull jerked sharply left and right, as if from some violent nervous tic. The hinge-like jaw opened and closed, emitting the same sounds over and over. "Ha-ha-TKCH-ha-ha-TKCH-ha-ha--"

Perceptor flipped a switch, and a panel on the floor beneath the titled table slid open, revealing an impenetrable darkness beneath. With another switch, the victim's shackles snapped open. The twitching body slid down the table into the hole, and vanished from sight. The floor panel quietly slid closed again. As if nothing at all had happened, Perceptor gestured towards the now-vacant table.

"We can begin at any time, I think."

Mirage swallowed hard, blinked his optics, fought to ignore the screaming voices in his head telling him he was making the biggest mistake of his life. He stepped forward. Perceptor picked up a different tool, examined it, turned to face him. Mirage took another step, then another. He stopped before the table, clenched his fists, looked down. The retro-rat gave an agonized, shuddering squeal as its body was wracked by the current. Then it collapsed as the wheel's own momentum kept it going, spinning the tiny, ragged corpse around and around and around and around. . . .

"You seen Mirage lately?"

Cliffjumper's gruff question seemed to startle his companion. "Um, what? W-what did you say?"

He glared at the other Autobot, who'd been acting decidedly agitated throughout their entire shift.

"Bumblebee, you been snortin' power packs again?"

"N-no no!" The yellow Autobot shook his head frantically, not convincing the other for a micro-second. "I haven't! Nobody saw me. . . !"

"Fine, forget it." Cliffjumper shook his head in disgust, then gave a brief glance down the empty, darkened corridor behind them. He re-adjusted the rifle he carried, muttering, "Figures, I get stuck pullin' night shift with the most useless excuse for a. . . ."

The other interrupted in a sullen tone, "So what d'you care about him for, anyway?"

"I don't," he quickly retorted. "I don't care about him at. . . ."

CLANG.

The echoing, metallic sound from behind made them both jump. Cliffjumper instantly whirled around, rifle at the ready, while the other fumbled to get his own weapon into position.

"Who's there?"

No answer. Cautiously, Cliffjumper headed forward, gesturing for the trembling Bumblebee to do the same. They rounded a bend in the corridor, and Cliffjumper looked up in puzzlement. There were a pair of dents in the wall some distance above his head, about where a normal-size Autobot could've hit the wall with his fists. He darted his gaze back and forth, scanning as far as his sensors could reach. He didn't detect anyone . . . or anything.

His small companion, anxiously peering up at the dents, began, "What . . . who do you think could've done. . . ?"

CLANG. CLANG.

Bumblebee let out a squawk of fear as the new noises reverberated through the hallway. This time, they came from back where the pair had just been. Cliffjumper spat a curse as he sprinted back, the other following unwillingly. Then he came to a skidding halt as he reached the source of the sounds.

There were another pair of fist-shaped dents in the wall. However, slumped beneath these was a mechanoid figure, crouched in a near-feral pose, one hand clenched in a fist against the wall, the other clutching at the floor in a claw-like shape. Bumblebee stammered.

"But . . . how did he get past . . . he couldn't possibly, we would've seen him. . . !"

"Shut up." Cliffjumper kept his rifle ready as he warily approached the shivering figure. "Mirage," he called. No reply, no sign of recognition. "Mirage!" he repeated, more forcefully.

At this, the taller Autobot rose to his feet; slowly, almost painfully. He remained resolutely turned away, as if unwilling to turn and face them. Cliffjumper demanded, "Hey, what's wrong with you?"

For several more seconds, there was no response. Then, gradually, Mirage turned to face them. His hands were clenched in fists, but his face, when they saw it, was almost unnaturally calm. Then he smiled, and something in that smile made Bumblebee give an audible gulp. He looked straight at Cliffjumper. No, more accurately, he looked right through Cliffjumper.

"Wrong?" he asked, his tone utterly polite. "There's nothing wrong."

He paused, then spoke again, his voice a strange whisper.

"No. Nothing wrong at all." Then he smiled once again. . . .

. . . and his smile could not possibly have been more . . . wrong.

Time passed.

Millions of years of time, in fact. Most of it passed unbeknownst to the handful of Autobots and Deceptions who slept in stasis after crash-landing on Earth. But when they awoke, the war quickly resumed. Old enmities flared again, ancient adversaries struggled for dominance. Heroic Decepticon fought against evil Autobot, the age-old story unchanged by the passage of time.

Mirage, of course, had changed a great deal.

Now, he could stand before the Lord Prime with confidence and pride, where once the mere thought of entering their leader's inner sanctum would've reduced him to a quivering wreck. Prime gazed at him impassively from the other side of the desk, then looked down at the object that lay between them.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Mirage drew himself up. "An excellent trophy, Supreme Commander."

"Mmm." Prime's tone indicated that the other's opinion was not really all that relevant to him, then picked up the severed head from his desk top. He regarded it impassively for a moment, gazing down at its expression of vacant-eyed horror as the fuel dripped down its dangling neck wires. Finally, he turned and set it on the uppermost of a series of otherwise-empty shelves.

"There will be more soon," Prime observed. It wasn't a statement that required a response, so Mirage maintained a respectful silence.

The Autobot commander turned to face him.

"You've done well, Mirage. You were instrumental in preventing the Decepticons' cowardly escape attempt. That has not escaped my notice."

Mirage felt as if he were glowing with pride.

"Thank you, Lord Prime. I live only to serve."

"Yes," came the matter-of-fact response. "I know you do." Prime then seemed to ponder something before speaking again: "I'm appointing Cliffjumper to share quarters with you."

Mirage stiffened involuntarily at this proclamation.

"Sir, may I ask why?"

Prime's blue optics narrowed.

"No. You may not."

Realizing that his current good favor only extended so far, the Autobot merely nodded in response. He tried to keep his reply from sounding sullen.

"As you wish, my lord."

"I will have other duties for you in time," Prime went on. "For now, join Trailbreaker in guarding the perimeter. Nothing larger than an insect must approach this base without my knowledge. Is that clear?"

He nodded again.

"Perfectly clear, Lord Prime."

Optimus made a dismissive gesture and made as if to turn away.

"You may go."

Mirage bowed deeply as he backed up and began to turn for the door. However, he was stopped up by a call from behind.

"And Mirage?"

He began to turn back again. "Yes...?"

Suddenly, he found himself slammed against the wall, throat clenched in a grip of steel. He didn't even have a chance to cry out in shock as Prime lifted him from the ground. Then Prime's optics slitted as he said, his voice a dangerous whisper: "Don't disappoint me."

With that, he released his grip, and Mirage unceremoniously crashed to the ground. As the smaller Autobot struggled to his feet, rubbing his throat and quivering with shock, Prime returned to his desk. He sat down and proceeded to study a datapad as if absolutely nothing had happened. Mirage swallowed, gave a hasty, abbreviated bow, and departed the premises as quickly as his pride would let him.

Some beings, of course, weren't the type to ever change much. Trailbreaker was definitely one of these; millions of years of stasis hadn't changed his surly attitude one iota. And today, one of the wretched planet's organic inhabitants was learning that fact, much to his distress. The human was protesting and struggling against his captor's grip, not that it did him a bit of good. The Autobot didn't seem pleased with his "luck" at making the capture; but then, Trailbreaker was never pleased by much of anything.

Silent and unseen, Mirage watched the scene unfold. He was barely able to contain his amusement as Trailbreaker, standing practically within arm's reach, summoned him as if he were some great distance away. The dark, boxy Autobot sounded exasperated, barely paying attention to the dangling human in his other hand.

"Trailbreaker to Mirage."

The invisible mechanoid made him wait for a few seconds, then spoke.

"What do you want, Trailbreaker?"

Mirage was rewarded by the sight of the other whirling in his direction, swinging the fleshling around like a toy. The human yelled at this action, "Will you stop it with the arm already! Lemme go!" Mirage materialized into view and frowned at the creature. Disgusting, these things, he thought.

The other Autobot had obviously been rattled by Mirage's sudden appearance. Trying to cover up his surprise with anger, Trailbreaker demanded, "How long have you been out here, sneaking around?"

Mirage gloated silently at this reaction. It was something he never grew tired of seeing. His tone deliberately nonchalant, he replied, "Just . . . making sure the circuits are intact." That was a vague enough reply to cover any number of possibilities. "I see that a flesh creature has made his way up here." There was a strongly implied subtext to the seemingly-offhand statement; Trailbreaker shouldn't have been so lax in his vigilance. Mirage went on: "I take it I'm to maintain guard while you take your . . . prisoner . . . in to present to Prowl?"

"That's right." Trailbreaker was no fool, and knew the other was mocking him, but chose to act like he didn't notice. "And see if you can actually do something without hiding behind your cloaking circuits!"

Mirage's laughter was the only response as he turned and walked away, dismissing the incident from his mind. His expression was smugly triumphant as he made his way through the treeline. Trailbreaker was jealous of him; they all were. Oh, they hid it behind jeers and contempt, but he could see through that, couldn't he? Yes, he knew how they really felt. Not such a loser any more, am I? I've got something you don't, now. I'm better than you. I'm better than ALL of you! A tall, sturdy tree was in his way, but he couldn't be bothered to walk around it, so he arrogantly shoved it aside, tilting it sideways. . . .

"YOWOOWWW!!"

Mirage leaped back with a curse as a purple blur plummeted from the top of the tree, landing with a clank and crash. He'd instantly raised his rifle into firing position, then relaxed as he realized the new arrival was unlikely to pose much of a threat.

The angular young femme picked herself up, looking around with a dazed look as she gathered up the dozen or so datapads she'd dropped everywhere. Exasperated, Mirage demanded, "What are YOU doing here?"

She jumped straight in the air with a stifled shriek. The bat-like wings on her shoulders flared out as she clutched the pads to her chest, like a child hiding behind a blanket.

"Who's there?"

The male Autobot was confused by her apparent stupidity, then realized he was no longer visible. That startled him for a moment; he hadn't meant to engage those circuits. Probably just reflex, he assured himself, and disengaged the cloak. He grinned wickedly as the female yelped again and scrambled away. Mirage affected an arrogant stance, raising his gun to his shoulder and sneering, "And what do you think you're. . . ."

"Mirage?" the young femme-bot interrupted, peering forward as if remembering him from somewhere. "Is that you?"

He was startled by her recognition, then realized she did seem vaguely familiar.

"Do I know you?"

"From Cybertron? Professor Thunderslam's elementary physics class? You used to sit behind me and copy my answers?"

"Oh." The memory embarrassed him; then he felt irrationally annoyed by meeting someone who'd known him . . . before. "I don't remember your name," he went on, coldly.

"I'm, ah, called MetalliCat now," she explained shyly.

A nasty impulse overtook him.

"What kind of a stupid name is that?"

She seemed taken aback by his rudeness. Folding in her wings as if trying to hide herself, she lowered her gaze and muttered, "Um, they're a band."

"Whatever," he replied. "It's not as if I care." Mirage looked up at the now-tilted tree. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"

MetalliCat looked down at her feet, shuffling them as she clutched the armful of pads even tighter.

"Watching the birds," she admitted. She pointed to a flock of them high overhead, dark silhouettes against the smoky sky. "They're flying away from the fires." It was true; the Autobots' handiwork tended to convince most living creatures to leave the area very quickly.

"Nothing better to do, I suppose?" A giddy feeling was overtaking him; he enjoyed watching her squirm. I'm not a cringing loser like you any more. Don't you EVER forget that. "How in the universe did you get assigned to this outpost? I don't remember you having any worthwhile abilities."

She started to back off, mumbling something about it being a long story, and clumsily stuffed the various pads into several arm compartments. Then she transformed to her alternate form, that of a winged puma-like creature, and began to slink away.

"That's right, get lost!" Mirage called gleefully. "And don't let me catch you lazing around again!"

At that, she turned back to face him, evidently intending to make some attempt at a comeback. Then her expression changed, and she looked around blankly.

"He did it again," he heard her mumble, her ears flattening as she sulked off.

It was true. He had.

Astonished, Mirage raised his hand in front of his face. He couldn't see it, of course, but could feel it shaking as a deep terror overtook him. What . . . I didn't mean to. . . . He clenched the invisible hand in a fist, lowered it to his side. He could feel his fuel pumps starting to pound, beating heavily against the inside of his chest. He felt strange, light-headed -- the world was blurring around the edges--

The last time he'd felt this way . . . it had been back on Cybertron, just after. . . .

. . . after. . . .

A wave of vertigo washed over him; he staggered and almost fell. He remembered . . . he was in Perceptor's lab. . . .

. . . he didn't want to remember. . . .

. . . perceptions altered, mind reeling, world spinning out of control. . . .

. . . he wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once . . . the lab was whirling around him, the walls closing in . . . he saw Perceptor's cold, satisfied smile . . . then everything went. . . .

. . . wrong. . . .

With an audible gasp, Mirage came back to the present. He looked down at his clenched and shaking fists. He was visible again, which relieved him greatly, although he couldn't have explained why. Everything seemed darker than it should have been, and he worried there was a glitch in his optics. But with a start, he realized it was now evening; somehow, hours had passed without him realizing it. Hours. . . .

Stifling a curse, he sprinted back towards the Ark's entrance. There would be hell to pay if he was found AWOL from his duties. Swallowing down a bitter taste of fear, he hurried back inside, frantically asking himself, Primus, what's WRONG with me. . . ?

"There's nothing wrong with you," Ratchet snapped. "Now get the slag out of my med bay."

The medic abruptly turned and left the table side before Mirage could protest. "But. . . !" he began, then closed his mouth and scowled. He sat up, then swung his legs around and let them dangle before he stood up. Glaring at Ratchet's back, he complained, "That wasn't much of an examination."

The other gave a snort of contempt as he emptied a crate full of tools onto a countertop and began to root through them. Mirage went on: "I'd have gotten a better diagnosis if Perceptor was here. . . ."

He barely had time to duck as a wrench the size of his forearm came whizzing at his head. It smashed into the wall behind on the other side of the room as Ratchet stormed towards him, raising a threatening fist and roaring, "Shut up, you son-of-a-human! You wanna talk to him, why don't you get the hell back to Cybertron?"

Mirage recoiled at the other's fury, and almost stammered out an apology. Then a hot rage rose inside him. No. That's the OLD me. I don't need to take this any more. He clenched his fists, locked optics with Ratchet for several long seconds. Then, slowly, he unclenched his hands, and looked away, telling himself, No, don't bother. The old drunk's not worth the effort. Out loud, he said, in a voice as sarcastic as he could make it, "Thanks for all your help!"

Ratchet barked out a laugh and offered a suggestion on what he could do with himself. Mirage had never heard that particular expression before, but it didn't sound all that complimentary. However, Mirage decided he'd wasted enough time, and headed for the exit. As the door swished open, he heard the medic call a parting shot from behind: "Just another one a' Perceptor's freaks."

Every servo in Mirage's body tensed as his face contorted into a feral mask of rage. His optics flashed a brilliant blue, and he stood motionless as a statue. Then, he stepped through the door, and it began to close behind him. . . .

Instantly, he went invisible, then spun into a crouch and slipped back under the door with seconds to spare. Ratchet didn't even look up; the closing door had masked the "light box" of the cloaking process. For all Ratchet knew, Mirage had simply walked off, leaving him completely alone.

Of course, he was quite wrong.

Mirage stood motionless for a few moments, silently reveling in his power as he watched the oblivious medic at work. Ratchet was sorting through the scattered tools, putting some in a pile, placing others in drawers and cabinets, muttering and cursing all the while.

Slowly, Mirage turned his head, scanning the room. His optics fell upon the large wrench the medic had hurled. He walked over to it, noiselessly picked it up. You'll never know what hit you, medic . . . next thing you know, you'll be burning in the Pit. . . .

Mirage stifled a giggle as he hoisted the wrench in his hands. Walking softly, he approached the medic's back. Look out belo-ow! he mocked in a silent sing-song, raising the weapon high. . . .

NO!!

He froze in place as another part of him asserted itself. Are you CRAZY?? the mental voice almost screamed. That's Lord Prime's personal medic! You kill him, Prime'll have YOUR head on a shelf!

He fought back another giggle. Well, I don't care. I want to kill him. It'll be fun.

No! Ratchet was still working, muttering to himself, oblivious to the inner battle playing itself out behind him. You do this and it's over. Everything you've worked for, everything you've gained. . . . Mirage took a step back, then the overwhelming urge washed over him again. But I want to KILL HIM!! I want to bash his head in, watch his fuel staining the floor. . . .

No, I don't! He shook his head violently. What's the matter with you? What's the matter with ME? His hands started to tremble, the wrench began to shake. . . .

Ratchet turned at the slight rattling sound, then yelled at the sight of the huge wrench floating in mid-air. Mirage jumped back, evading the medic as he made a grab for the weapon. The invisible Autobot raised it high over his head with a shout, then brought it down with all his strength. . . .

It smashed into the counter, leaving a deep dent and sending tools and equipment flying every which way. Mirage let it drop, and it fell to the floor with a heavy clang. Then, before Ratchet could seize it up again, Mirage grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him back into a wall. The invisible figure hissed, "Don't you ever mess with me again! Or next time you won't be so lucky!"

Then he released him and sprinted for the door. Ratchet yelled obscenities into the air and threw random objects in his direction as he fled. Some of them came close to hitting the mark, but Mirage was barely conscious of them as he escaped ran off down the hall. Congratulations, he thought, furious with himself. You just made an enemy of one of the most important 'Bots in the base . . . NOW who'll help you, idiot?

But that mad, reckless feeling rose up inside him again, and he almost laughed aloud. I don't need 'help'. I don't need anyone, ever. And besides, there's nothing wrong with me.

Mirage stopped, concentrated, and became visible, almost against his will. Proceeding at a more dignified pace, he ignored the stares and whispers of the other Autobots as he passed them. He was unaware that his internal conversation wasn't so internal any more as he muttered, "There's nothing wrong with me . . . there's nothing wrong with me . . . there's nothing wrong with me. . . ."

"So then," Cliffjumper went on excitedly, "Warpath pulls out his gun, right? And this stupid fleshie just stands there, mouth open, going, 'Guuhhhh'!" He made an exaggerated pop-eyed, slack-jawed face. "So Warpath fires, BOOOOOMM!" He made an expansive gesture. "And it just goes ssspplllatttt all over the place! I mean," he started to laugh, "there was red stuff just flyin' everywhere, and the thing's eyeball . . . this is the funny part," he explained to his sullen audience of one, "goes sailin' through the air, whhzzz! and sticks to Huffer's back. . . ."

He almost doubled over in laughter. The other didn't so much as crack a grin. "So he can't reach it, and he's spinnin' around like a crazy 'bot, cussing and waving and trying to get it off. . . ."

"Don't you ever get sick of your own voice?" Mirage finally snapped.

Cliffjumper seemed briefly startled by having his anecdote interrupted. Then he sneered, "Ahh, you're just jealous cause you don't get any good missions."

"'Good'?" Mirage echoed acidly, sitting up and swinging his legs around to stand up from his bunk. "Slaughtering useless organics? That's not a 'mission'. It's barely target practice."

"Oh, and I suppose YOU can do better."

"You'd better believe it. In fact, in just under . . ." He checked his internal chronometers. ". . . three local hours I'll be departing on an infiltration mission." His glance turned contemptuous. "I'll be breaking into one of the Decepticons' main sub-bases. It'll be tricky, dangerous work . . . something YOU could never handle."

"Oh yeah?" Cliffjumper snapped, but didn't bother to rise from his own bunk, on the opposite side of the cramped, featureless room they both shared. "So why don't you get goin', Mister Big Shot?"

"Because Prime ordered me to remain in my quarters until called for," he retorted bitterly, reflecting on how that seemed to happen quite a bit when his "roommate" was in-base. It was almost as though the Supreme Commander enjoyed forcing them into this confined space, getting on each others' neurocircuits until they almost snapped. Not that Mirage was foolish enough to complain to Prime about it, of course.

The smaller Autobot snorted in contempt.

"Maybe he's just as sick of the sight of you as the rest of us are. Not that anybody really sees you any more."

The violence of Mirage's reaction to this surprised even himself.

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

Cliffjumper only shrugged, and stretched nonchalantly, interlacing his hands behind his helmet.

"Ah, I don't mean anything. Loosen up, will you? You're so slaggin' tense all the time." With that, he began to whistle an aimless (and annoying) tune, as if absolutely nothing had happened.

Fuming silently, Mirage laid back in his own bunk, glaring up at the ceiling and trying to shut out the noise. He'd had to put up with this for an entire Earth year now, but the passage of time hadn't made things any easier. It was no wonder he was always so tense, so jumpy, so ready to fly apart at the slightest provocation. It certainly didn't have anything to do with him.

And the most frustrating thing was, he suspected Cliffjumper actually considered him his friend.

Scowling, he rolled over to face the wall as his companion switched from whistling to off-key singing. Mirage clenched his jaw and began to count the seconds till his next mission . . . as he'd done so many, many times before. . . .

Most beings wouldn't consider an espionage mission in the heart of an enemy stronghold to be something pleasurable. But Mirage lived for these missions; there was nothing in life he loved more. Every successful raid was another stab in the heart of the struggling Decepticon rebellion, and another triumph for him; further proof that everyone who'd ever mocked his abilities had been dead wrong. Mirage needed that feeling, the way he needed fuel. It was his life, his existence.

Setting aside his reverie, he returned to the present. The invisible mechanoid stood pressed against the wall in the wide hallway of the Decepticon outpost. Looking back and forth, he allowed himself a wicked grin, then raised his weapon and continued on his way.

As bold as daylight, Mirage strolled through the heart of the Decepticon base. He took pains to keep his footsteps silent, of course, and diligently avoided any physical contact that would reveal his presence. But it was hard not to grow nearly intoxicated with his own power as he watched the Decepticons go by; he might as well have been a shadow on the wall. I could kill all you if I wanted, you're dead any time I feel like it. . . .

That crazed, giddy rush rose up inside him again. However, this time he was ready for it, and firmly clamped down on his emotions. It's just the excitement of doing a job, he reminded himself. That's why you get these feelings. Nothing you can't handle.

He paused as a trio of small Decepticons came into view, approaching his corridor from one that intersected it some yards ahead. The first two looked nearly identical, except for their colors. Behind them padded a lithe black feline, who was managing to look amused and exasperated at the same time.

"Enough fun now," the panther said in his low, elegant voice. "Off to bed with you."

"Awww, Ravage!" the pair protested in unison.

"No arguments," he insisted, prodding them along down the hall with his forehead. "Soundwave left you in my care while he is at the main base. And I intend to. . . ."

Suddenly, Ravage stopped in his tracks. His head shot up and his optics flashed a brilliant scarlet. He gave a loud sniff, testing the air through his sensitive olfactory sensors. For the briefest instant, Mirage was puzzled by the Decepticon's behavior; then realized with shock that the other had detected him. Damn!

Well, the Autobot realized, he would just have to kill him. Besides, he'd enjoy doing it, delight in watching the horror on the little ones' faces as an unseen force tore their beloved older brother to shreds . . . he grinned fiercely in anticipation as he took a step forward. . . .

However, another group of Deceptions approached, laughing and joking. Mirage shook his head violently as if throwing off a mental fog. Then he stood back, fell into step with the newcomers as they passed by, and turned a corner with them. From behind, he heard Rumble's concerned question: "What is it?"

"Nothing, I suppose," came Ravage's reply, fading gradually as Mirage kept on walking with his unknowing companions. The feline Decepticon didn't sound quite convinced as he concluded, "Perhaps I was mistaken. . . ."

With that, the three cassettes moved on, and Mirage held back a sigh of relief as he parted company with the chatting group.

Careful, he chided himself, his brief homicidal urge completely forgotten. He thought of how easy it was to forget that there were still those who could detect him. In a way, sometimes even he almost forgot he was even there. At times he seemed to be a mere conduit, a sensor array for what went on around him--it almost became as though he didn't really exist--

Mirage shoved the thoughts aside. No time to get existential. You've got a job to do. He'd already recorded the schematics of a few key areas of the base; mapped out the inside, learned the strength of its defenses. Still, he felt he ought to do more. Information was all well and good, but the Supreme Commander was less impressed by intelligence-gathering than by destruction and terror.

Pondering, he decided to risk moving more quickly, as he seemed to be in a less populated area. His instructions were simply to gather information, and Mirage wasn't crazy enough to go against orders. Still, he thought, surely a little sabotage wouldn't be outside his mission parameters, would it? After all, it was a shame to waste such an opportunity.

He cracked a nasty grin. Yes, that should work nicely. Lord Prime valued initiative in his warriors--within proper limits, of course. And, he admitted to himself, it'd be just plain fun, too. He turned a corner, headed for the part of the base where the Decepticons kept their precious fuel stores. Soon enough, he came to a large set of thick, heavy double doors. Locked, of course; the Decepticons might be peace-loving fools, but even they weren't THAT stupid. It shouldn't be too hard to break in, however.

Glancing up and down the hall to make sure no noise would give him away, Mirage extended a cable from his left wrist and hooked it up to the locking mechanism. The display began to scroll through millions of combinations as he tried to crack the code. It wasn't as easy as previous attempts on Decepticon security had been; someone had gotten smart. Probably Bombshell. He's about the only 'Con with a functioning logic center. It wasn't enough to stop him, though. Within a few seconds, the device beeped in response, and the doors grudgingly rumbled open.

Grinning in triumph, Mirage stepped inside and looked around the darkened space as the doors shut again. It wasn't all that big, actually . . . probably just an auxiliary storeroom. Oblong fuel canisters were arranged in neat rows along the shelves that lined three walls from floor to ceiling. Raw fuel, apparently, stored here before conversion into energon cubes.

The Autobot glanced down at the far corner. There was a drain built into the floor, which instantly gave him an idea. He wouldn't even need to exert himself to sabotage the containers. Just open them one by one and let the Decepticons' precious fuel supplies literally go right down the drain. He chuckled at the thought as he reached for the nearest container. . . .

Mirage looked up sharply as hurrying footsteps approached from the hall outside. He stifled a curse and looked around as if to get out of sight. Then he remembered with chagrin that no one could see him anyway. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. . . .

He heard a pair of voices, male and female. The first he recognized immediately. Starscream! Mirage thought, impressed. I didn't know Megatron had him running this outpost. Prime will find this interesting . . . assuming I get to report it, that is. He didn't recognize the female's voice as she said, "Come on." Her tone wasn't urgent, though; not what you'd expect from someone rushing to confront an intruder. In fact, it sounded almost . . . beguiling.

"Now, Ravenna," Starscream's voice chided. "I'm supposed to be in the command center."

The female gave a low chuckle. "Oh, they can get along without you for a few cycles, I think." Mirage pressed the side of his helmet against the wall to listen; it sounded like they were right beside the door.

"Mmmf. . . ." Starscream's response was muffled, and there was no more conversation for a time. Mirage almost snickered aloud. Hmm, sounds like they found something else to do with their lip units! Still, even the most ardent of lovers would probably notice a door opening itself directly next to them. It seemed there was nothing he could do but wait them out.

Unfortunately, he heard no indication that they'd be leaving any time soon. At last, there was a gasp like someone coming up for air, then a low, impressed whistle.

"Hmm, any more where that came from?" Starscream's voice asked slyly. Then, to Mirage's horror, there was the distinctive beeping sound of an entry code being tapped into a keypad. He swore under his breath, and looked around frantically. There was nowhere to hide in here . . . maybe he could get past them when they entered. . . .

However, he didn't have the faintest chance of escaping as the doors opened and the male and female Seekers almost tumbled into the room. Chagrined, Mirage sidestepped hastily as Starscream backed the female against the wall. She was mostly black in color, with purple and white detailing in the familiar Seeker patterns. Her optics flashed mischievously as she looked up at her companion, who affected a dire scowl.

"I could have you court-martialed for this, you know." He paused dramatically. "Megatron would have your head!"

Ravenna snickered at this play-acting.

"He'd give me a stern talking-to, you mean." She reached her arms around to clasp her hands at the back of his helmet. "Besides," she went on, pulling his face close to hers, "Megatron doesn't have to know everything."

They kissed again, eagerly, passionately. Then Mirage had to duck, practically getting nailed in the forehead by a wing-tip as the pair spun around, still locked in each other's embrace. Exasperated, he thought, Primus, don't either of you have a BED?

Now the lovers were backed up against the opposite wall. Slowly, enticingly, the female slid down to the floor, her movements liquid and graceful. Starscream followed her lead, and gently pressed his body against hers. Mirage watched in silence as they kissed again, and again, their movements growing more passionate, more intense.

"Oh, Starscream . . . mmm. . . ."

"Ravenna . . . mmm. . . ."

"Mmm. . . ."

"Mmm. . . ."

"Mmmm. . . ."

"A-heh. Heh heh heh heh."

The pair of Decepticons froze, then sat bolt upright.

"What was THAT?" Ravenna almost yelled. Starscream's expression was one of shock and bewilderment as he darted his head around the room frantically.

"Who's there?!" he demanded. Mirage was almost as astonished as they were, and for a moment he didn't truly know where the sound had come from.

Then he realized: it had come from him.

No, no, no, he thought, as appalled disbelief trickled into his consciousness. The two were struggling to their feet now, scanning the room. Starscream held his lover's shoulders in both hands in a comforting gesture, but his face was set and grim. Mirage thought, I can't believe . . . oh, Primus, you just blew the whole mission so you could watch. . . . He wouldn't let himself finish the thought. He was frightened and disgusted and perversely thrilled all at once . . . his emotions were raging out of control, he couldn't control them, couldn't control himself. . . .

"Heh heh heh heh heh. . . !"

The two Seekers jumped again.

"There IS someone here!" Ravenna exclaimed, backing up and clutching her shoulders as she looked around frantically. Starscream's expression grew darker as he shoved his null-ray arm cannons into place and stiffly pointed around the room with them. His voice was harsh as he ordered, "Whoever you are, show yourself, or. . . !"

A mindless panic overtook Mirage. He charged the taller Decepticon in a blind fury, knocking him backwards, sending him stumbling into the femme. She squawked in dismay as she was flattened against the shelves; the canisters of fuel clanked and tumbled free, rolling across the floor as Mirage stumbled towards the exit. Starscream picked himself up and shouted into his communicator,

"Intruder alert! This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not. . . !"

In a frenzy of rage and terror, Mirage seized a container in both hands and brought it down on Starscream's head. The Air Commander gave a sharp grunt as he hit the floor. Ravenna gawked at the sight of the container apparently moving of its own volition. However, she was evidently no fool, as she quickly locked her own weapons into place, extended both arms, and began firing out the door as it opened.

Mirage evaded the blasts and went pounding down the hall. The shots continued--they were coming closer--he almost summoned his own rifle from subspace, but what little remained of his logic circuits screamed at him: No, don't shoot back, you'll hit the fuel! The whole sector'll go up! Some mad impulse told him he didn't care, let it blow, let it take him with it; but he forced the inner voices down as he ran . . . alarms were sounding now, there were shouts and commotion all around as Mirage ran, ran like a frightened animal, ran for his life. . . .

"What the hell were you THINKING??"

Mirage looked wearily up from his bunk at Cliffjumper's question. "Give it a rest, will you?" he grumbled. "I've got a headache."

"You're lucky your head's still attached to your damn body, you stupid piece of scrap!" the smaller Autobot raged. "You know what would've happened to you if Prime hadn't bought that half-assed story you sold him? There wouldn't be enough left of you to make a decent hubcap. . . ."

Shut up, Mirage thought furiously, as the other's voice yammered on endlessly. Shut up, shut up, shut UP. . . .

". . . you slagging FREAK!"

Mirage's optics flashed, once.

He rose from the bunk and stood. He looked down at Cliffjumper. His voice was utterly calm as he asked, "What did you just call me?"

If the other Autobot was aware of how much danger he was in, he gave no indication of it. "You heard me. You're a freak, Mirage, a slagging wack job! Do you know what everybody says about you? Do you know how everyone laughs at you behind your back, says you're crazy, says. . . ."

Mirage backhanded Cliffjumper so hard that he spun completely around before collapsing to the floor. But although stunned by the blow, the battle-hardened warrior recovered quickly, leaping to his feet as he snatched his gun into his hands.

Mirage only gave a serene smile, and vanished.

Cliffjumper swore violently, and hauled off several shots that hit nothing but wall. He whipped his head back and forth violently, pointing his gun in all directions. "Show yourself, you. . . !"

An invisible fist snapped his head back with such force that his neck almost broke. Then he was flung completely off his feet by a blow to the midsection, his plating appearing to implode by itself. He hit the back wall, slid down, optics glazing over as pain began to overtake him. Almost before he hit the ground, he was grabbed up and went flying through the air head-first, the left horn of his helmet crumpling as he impacted another wall, then crashed down again.

"Heh heh heh heh."

Quivering with shock and pain, Cliffjumper raised his head, spat fuel, struggled to rise. His voice was a harsh rasp as he began, "You . . . piece of. . . ."

He didn't get to finish, as he was lifted up bodily and slammed down against his bunk, which cracked heavily at the blow.

"A-heh heh heh heh."

Cliffjumper gasped deeply, kicked out at nothing, clawed at the invisible fingers around his throat. He tried to activate his communicator, tried to call for help, struggled and thrashed in vain.

"Heh heh heh heh heh!"

"No. . . ." Cliffjumper's face twisted in fear. His systems were shutting down, everything was going dark. . . .

"No . . . Mirage . . . don't. . . !"

"How does it feel?" The voice was barely recognizable, barely sentient. "How does it feel when you're. . . ."

A pause. Silence.

"You're. . . ."

The pressure on Cliffjumper's throat lessened.

"No. . . ."

The voice sounded horrified now, reflecting a violent inner struggle.

"This isn't me . . . it's not me . . . I don't want to. . . ."

The small Autobot took a rasping breath as his throat was released. He coughed, spat up another gout of fuel. Too weak to rise, he could only lie in stunned silence, hearing nothing but the pounding of his own pumps. . . .

"Where is he?"

Cliffjumper flinched at the query.

"Where . . . where is who. . . ?"

"Perceptor." The voice was deadly cold now, seeming to fill the entire room in its dark fury. "I know he's here. I know he's come here. Where is he?"

"I . . ." he choked, struggled to his feet. "He just arrived . . . few days ago . . . I think . . . repair bay. . . ."

The door to their shared quarters swished open. There was a sound of hurried footsteps, then the door closed once again. Cliffjumper rose from the bunk, tried to walk, staggered forward, then collapsed again. The world was spinning around him as he weakly extended his communicator, gasped out, "Security . . . get me sec . . . uhh. . . ."

His voice trailed off as his face smacked into the unforgiving floor, and the light in his optics went out.

You're a freak, Mirage, a slagging wack job.

The unseen Autobot strode through the darkened hallways in deadly silence. They all laugh at you behind your back. At last, he reached the repair bay. You can't do anything right. Looking up and down the corridor, he glanced sharply down at the entry controls. Just another one of Perceptor's freaks. He pressed the controls. Coward. Loser. Waste of energon. The door slowly opened before him. Weak. Useless. A disgrace. A freak. . . .

The Autobot scientist didn't look up as the door opened. He seemed preoccupied with several large metal crates and containers along a counter at the far end of the lab. It looked as if this side had been set aside for his exclusive use; while the repair bay proper was in Ratchet's usual state of disorder, this section was almost pristine.

Thinking briefly of Ratchet, Mirage scanned the area as he stepped inside and the door sealed itself shut behind him. His sensors detected nothing; they were the only two Autobots in the area. The other still hadn't looked up from his supplies. He opened the largest crate, began to unpack its contents. His back was to his unseen visitor.

A perfect target.

This is it, scientist, Mirage raged silently. He walked forward slowly, step by step, his footsteps almost noiseless as he lifted his gun into firing position. You're dead. . . . He took aim at the back of Perceptor's helmet. You're dead. . . . He began to squeeze the trigger. You're DEAD. . . !

Suddenly, Mirage screamed aloud as surges of inexplicable pain wracked his body. Twitching and jerking, he collapsed to the floor, feeling as if every wire and circuit had shorted out at once. His cloaking circuits disengaged--try as he might, he couldn't re-engage them--and he could only watch helplessly as Perceptor slowly turned to face him.

"Most civilized beings would knock before entering," he observed, gazing impassively down at the mechanoid having a seizure on his floor. "But I expect such descriptions no longer apply to you." At that, he turned back to his work, as if completely unconcerned by the other's presence.

Furious, Mirage forced himself to his feet, aimed his weapon shakily, tried to fire. But once again, a surge of feedback ripped through him, making him cry out in agony as he collapsed once more. He lay on the cold metal floor, shaking and rolling, desperately trying to regain some measure of control over his own body, furious and terrified at its seeming betrayal.

Perceptor opened a cabinet on the wall before him, not even bothering to turn around as he spoke.

"If you insist on harming yourself, you can scarcely hold me responsible for the consequences. The failsafe device I placed in you is infallible; your meager will cannot override it." He placed several empty vials on the top shelf, examined the label on another, placed it on a second shelf. Mirage grasped feebly at the cold floor, hands clenched into claw-shapes, scraping across the unfeeling metal as his mind whirled and spun crazily. He couldn't even speak through the pain, but the scientist seemed to anticipate his question. "Come now," he scoffed, "do you really think I'd allow one of my creations to attack me?"

Mirage finally found his voice as he raised his shaking head from the floor. "I'm . . . not your slagging . . . CREATION!"

Perceptor gazed down on him with cool amusement. "You are now."

At that, he turned his back once more. Every joint screaming in pain, Mirage forced himself to his feet, almost lost his balance before steadying himself. He stood quivering, barely able to hold himself upright, face contorted in fury. Finally, he demanded, "What did you do to me?!"

"What you wanted."

"This isn't what I wanted!"

"Then you should have specified." The red Autobot closed the cabinet, then turned around and let his gaze wander around the lab. He crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head in displeasure. "This entire area will need to be remodeled," he observed. Then he turned his frigid optics to Mirage. "Is Cliffjumper still alive?"

His spasm-wracked circuits could barely analyze the question. "Cliffjumper?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes, yes," Perceptor replied, his tone impatient. "I assume you vented your frustrations on him before coming here for your erstwhile revenge." The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. "Does he still function?"

"Y-yes. . . ." He was dumbfounded by the question: how could the scientist possibly know this? Was he reading his mind?

"I-I almost killed him, but I didn't . . . I. . . ."

"Hmm." He seemed to find this moderately interesting. Then he fell silent again as he removed a beaker full of greenish liquid from the crate. A single red optic, attached to a tangled jumble of wires, floated inside it. Perceptor set it down on the counter and turned to face him . . . Mirage could have sworn that the optic in the bottle moved to follow the action. . . .

"Have you still not deduced your situation? I'd thought you capable of more insight than that."

Mirage only shook his head, shoulders slumped, body throbbing with pain, mind numb with shock.

"Tell me . . . tell me what went wrong."

"Wrong? On the contrary, nothing went wrong at all." Perceptor's stare cut through him like a laser scalpel. "I'd suspected the cloaking process would cause progressive mental disturbances, accompanied by severe emotional instability." He spoke like a professor delivering a lecture. "Hence, Prime ordered that I test the procedure on a single subject before he would authorize it for widespread use."

Perceptor shook his head. "He will be disappointed, but I can hardly apologize for an accurate hypothesis." Another cold smile. "No doubt he'll slaughter a good number of prisoners to console himself."

Mirage's mind was struggling to keep up with the words. "What . . . what do you mean, 'widespread use'?"

The scientist actually chuckled at this. "Did you expect such power would remain your sole dominion?" Mirage turned his downcast gaze up to meet Perceptor's, his jaw dropping in shock as the other went on: "This was never about you."

"No. . . ." He took a step back, shook his head violently. "You lied to me . . . you and Prime . . . you were in this together all along. . . ."

"No one ever lied to you. If you deceived yourself, that's your own affair."

Mirage backed away further, still shaking his head as the realization of how deeply he'd been manipulated slowly burned itself into his soul. Perceptor concluded, "After all, why do you think that diminutive irritant was assigned to share your quarters? Prime knew the two of you would eventually lunge for one another like animals in a cage." He was sneering openly now. "Our 'Lord' may lack a scientific mindset, but I'll confess he has an instinctive grasp of psychology. He was eager to see how much your psyche could take before it self-destructed."

Mirage had backed all the way to the rear of the lab. His back slammed into the metal of the closed door. He turned around and gripped at it to keep himself upright, clutching it like a drowning man clinging to a rock in a stormy sea.

"What. . . ." his voice was the barest whisper, "What will happen to me now?"

"Your cerebral processes will continue to degenerate," came the nonchalant reply. "I expect you'll eventually go utterly mad. However, the specifics of your subsequent decline are of no interest to me."

Mirage jerked his head back over his shoulder, hatred raging inside him. Perceptor had turned away once more and returned to his unpacking, dismissing him entirely as he concluded, "I have nothing more to learn from you."

Mirage roared like an animal, then whirled around, whipped out his weapon and fired at the only thing he could: the lab itself. He fired again and again, twisting violently back and forth as his laserblasts punctured the laboratory walls, pockmarking it with holes.

Finally he stopped. Perceptor hadn't moved throughout the entire onslaught. He was frowning at Mirage with open disapproval.

"Now, really." But the object of his words had already dashed out the exit, and was sprinting away. . . .

Mirage ran as he'd never run before, slamming into walls as he turned corners at breakneck speed, barreling over other Autobots in his reckless flight. Finally, he burst from the outer doors of the base, emerging into a raging storm.

He ran through the driving sheets of rain, stumbling blindly, knocking over the blackened hulks of dead trees, dashing his feet against protruding rocks. He didn't notice the damage he was doing to himself, didn't even care. At last, he came to a wheezing halt, and collapsed on all fours in the clammy mud, chest heaving as the rain beat a steady rhythm against his plating. His body shook violently, face contorting as he clenched his fists in the muck. Looking down at his hands, he saw nothing but floating clumps of mud. He'd gone invisible again, against his will--he couldn't control it any more, couldn't stop it--

Mirage screamed in incoherent rage and pounded his fists against the ground again and again, mud spattering his frame, making it look as if patches of it were floating in the air before the rain quickly dissolved them away. Finally, overcome with exhaustion and helpless rage, he fell, landing face-down in the cold, damp earth.

For a while, he lay there, his only movement the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders. At last, he grew still, and let out a quiet sigh. As if in answer, he heard a light, irritated-sounding cough.

He jerked his head up, and squinted his optics to see through the pounding rain. Not far from him was an immense dead tree, tilted at a crazy angle, gnarled roots torn free from the muddy earth. The sight was familiar somehow, though he couldn't recall why. Then he remembered as he saw the ragged feline shape crouched beside it.

She sat hunched over, ears flattened sideways, glaring out at the storm as if suspecting it was deliberately mocking her. Briefly, she looked towards Mirage and fixed him with a dull, sullen look. Then she coughed again, twitched an ear, and turned away.

Mirage looked at her from his prone position, hollowly wondering how she could tell he was there. Then he looked at himself, and realized he was covered with enough mud to make himself partially visible. He concentrated, forcing his cloaking circuits off--it took all his will to do so. The female didn't even glance in his direction as he stumbled over and sat heavily down beside her.

He sighed once more; she flicked an ear again, but that was all.

"MetalliCat. Long time, no see." He laughed bitterly at his own pun. "Some life we've made for ourselves, eh?"

She sniffed, and narrowed her optics as she continued to glower at the rain. Apparently the thought of doing something to get out of the rain hadn't occurred to her.

Mirage went on, his low voice filled with bitterness and self-loathing: "All hail Mirage, loyal Autobot, stupid slagging fool." He wiped at a muddy smear on his chest, then flung the mud away irritably. This finally got MetalliCat's attention, and she regarded him with slight puzzlement in her mad green optics, as if seeing him for the first time. He doubted she remembered him. He'd seen her prowling about the base in the months since the--"accident"--but she'd never shown him any signs of recognition.

"I'm even worse than you, aren't I?" he asked, his tone dull and lifeless. "At least you didn't volunteer to go crazy." He snickered at that, then raised his hand like a school-bot being called on in class. "Yes, sir, I'd like to go completely wingnuts now, can I, please?" He laughed out loud, over and over, the sound growing louder and harder, spiraling out of control. Forcibly, he checked himself, stifling a mad giggle as he lowered his head and hugged his arms across his chest, shoulders sagging in weariness. Finally, he looked back at his feline companion. She was still watching, not having budged an inch throughout the entire episode.

"Ah, what're you lookin' at?" he muttered. They sat for a while in silence, neither disturbing the endless sound of the falling rain. Slowly, Mirage raised his left hand, hesitated, and placed it on the back of MetalliCat's head. She sighed, then began to sing softly.

"And I can't bear to see, what I've let me be, so wicked and worn. . . ."

Mirage was astonished. The tune was quiet, and resonated with an aching, soul-deep weariness. But it was perfectly sane, devoid of the menace and lunacy that suffused her usual song-snatches. "So as I write to you, what is done and to do. . . ." She looked up into his optics, lines of rainwater streaming down her shabby, rusted plating. "Maybe you'll understand, and won't cry for this man. . . ." For the briefest instant, she seemed to recognize him, seemed to remember--

--then she yanked her head away, made a noise that was half-snarl, half-scream--

--and buried her fangs in his hand.

He yelled and jerked away as she thrashed her head violently back and forth, lacerating his hand even as he leaped up, wrenching her clear off her feet. Finally, he flung her down, and cradled his damaged hand against his chest with a curse, kicking out at her. She sprang at him, snarling and beating her wings violently as she hovered in the air, batting his head between her paws, claws scratching at his helmet, his face. She gave a hysterical laugh and screamed incoherently, "Paul is dead, miss him, miss him, miss him!" Then she dropped to all fours and began to sprint away.

Mirage yelled another curse as he summoned his rifle, took aim at her retreating form, and fired. The shot penetrated her left wing. She yelped and stumbled, going down in a sprawling heap. He fired again, and again, the blasts shearing through the curtain of rain, tearing through her fragile wings, reducing them to tatters as she kicked and shrieked. A blinding rage consumed his mind, obliterated all thought, all reason.

"You . . . think . . . that's . . . funny?" he hissed between clenched teeth, firing one-handed with every word. "Let's . . . see . . . how . . . you . . . like . . . it. . . ."--her wings were shredded now, she rolled and flailed in agony in the mud, he still didn't stop--". . . you . . . little . . . BITCH!!"

Finally, Mirage stopped firing. His arm drooped to his side, gun held limply. The other hand was still curled painfully against his chest, staining his blue-and-white-plating with rivers of dark fuel. MetalliCat crawled forward on her belly, whining and crying pitifully as her ruined, fuel-streaked wings dragged across the muddy ground. She turned to face him, and the anguish Mirage saw in her eyes was like a dagger in his chest. His weapon fell to the ground, sending up a splash of water and mud. Then he dropped heavily to his knees, swallowing hard as he gripped his damaged hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his tone almost pleading. "Oh, Primus, I didn't mean to . . . I'm so sorry. . . !" If MetalliCat understood, if she even heard him, she gave no sign of it. She stumbled to her feet and sprinted clumsily away, her now-useless wings dangling behind her as she disappeared from sight. Mirage silently watched her go.

Eventually, the steady rain slowed, then stopped. The afternoon sun began to penetrate the dark clouds, illuminating the scene with brilliant shafts of light. And still, Mirage didn't rise, didn't speak; he may as well have been a statue, a lifeless shell.

Some time later, an Autobot patrol found him, still kneeling in the mud, staring at nothing. Instantly, they raised their weapons and took aim at his back. Sideswipe called, "Don't move!" He didn't, which seemed to confuse the red Autobot slightly. Sideswipe went on, "You're coming with us, buddy. Lord Prime wants a word with you. . . ."

Without warning, Mirage whipped around and fired a volley of shots in their direction. They yelled, cursed, flung themselves out of the way, and finally recovered enough to fire back . . . but, with a tell-tale box of light, Mirage vanished into thin air.

Sideswipe cursed violently and darted his gun back and forth, scanning in all directions, knowing his efforts were futile. There was an agonizing silence, just long enough for them to wonder if he'd gone. Then Mirage's voice sounded in their audio sensors, seeming to come from everywhere at once. . . .

"Tell Optimus . . . I quit."

At that, a clump of mud flung itself into Sideswipe's face. He yelled and recoiled, then violently rubbed at his optics as his comrades blasted away in the direction from which it had come. However, they were rewarded only by the sound of mocking, half-crazed laughter echoing all around them, then fading away. Finally, all they could hear was the steady drip of water from the bare branches. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called, once.

"So, um, I guess that's the whole story," Cliffjumper finished, his voice nervous. He hastily added, "Uh, Supreme Commander."

The towering figure on the throne said nothing. He hadn't spoken a word, not once, from the beginning of Cliffjumper's report to the end. He only sat upon the dais-mounted throne, staring straight ahead, as if unaware that his puny underling was even in the room. The recently-repaired Autobot shifted uncertainly, not knowing if he should ask permission to leave, or if any further words would be the last ones he ever spoke.

"Disappointing," Prime said, so abruptly that the smaller mech almost jumped out of his paint job. "Most disappointing." At this, Cliffjumper tensed and swallowed hard, certain his life was about to come to a violent end. . . .

However, Prime's tone was utterly neutral as he said: "Dismissed."

Shocked at his good fortune, the small Autobot barely remembered to give a hasty bow as he backed away from the throne, turning his back only at the absolute last second. His commander didn't so much as look down as the enormous door slowly opened, and Cliffjumper hastily made himself scarce. The guards flanking the exit didn't look at him either. However, one did seem faintly surprised, as if he'd expected the smaller 'Bot to depart the premises via a recycling bin, as opposed to on his own leg units.

Cliffjumper grumbled to himself, then walked away down the silent, deserted corridors. The further he walked, the more disquieting the silence became. There was no sound but that of his own footsteps . . . and an echo.

He stopped. So did the sound.

Silence. Nothing.

He began to hasten his steps, and looked back and forth, up and down, clenching his weapon tighter. He twitched at a distant clatter, spun around weapon-first in its direction. He waited. There was nothing there. Finally, Cliffjumper lowered his gun and scowled again.

As if trying to convince himself, he muttered, "Nah. No way he'd still be around. Hell, he's probably miles from here. If he knows what's good for him, anyway." He said this last with more of his typical bravado. Then his voice quieted as he observed to no one in particular, "And it's not like I ever gave a damn about you anyway, you stupid son-of-a-scraplet."

Then he turned and began to walk again, regaining confidence with every step as he dismissed his irrational fears from his mind. Fear was for the weak, anyway. A true Autobot was never afraid.

Never.

His footsteps echoed again.

He froze. He looked sharply behind him.

Silence.

Nothing.

Cliffjumper blew out heavily, hoisted his gun, and proceeded on his way without another backwards glance.

As he walked past a long window, the setting sun cast his long shadow across a brilliant red Autobot symbol on the wall; it gleamed like fresh blood in the golden light. Eventually, the shadow passed, and the Autobot's footsteps faded into the distance. A few dust motes danced in the light before the crimson insignia.

Then, inexplicably, a dark splatter appeared on the wall just above it. The liquid traced itself in a series of five lines down the symbol, obscuring it beneath a wavering streak of a mechanoid's fuel, as if dragged by an unsteady hand. Then it stopped with a final sideways smear, like a parting flourish, as a strange, mocking sound echoed through the empty hall.

"A-heh heh. . . . Heh heh heh. . . . Heh heh heh heh heh. . . ."