Embers Chapter 2
Title: Embers
Author: LilMissRoadRage
Chapter: 2
Verse: IDW’ish AU
Words: 4400+
Rating: R for violence. I haven’t decided if I will writing anything steamy or not. Right now, I don’t think so. Story is still plenty violent and angsty for the rating. If you don’t like sad, depressing stories, this probably isn’t for you.
Summary: It’s six years after the war between the Decepticons and Autobots has ended. The Decepticons have won and the Autobots have been hunted down, one by one. There is no hope for any of the Autobots still stranded on Cybertron, but then, things are not particularly hopeful on the Decepticon side either. Cybertron is but a waste land. A major thank you to the wonderful katsuko for taking time to beta this word spew. <3
Chapter 2
While the world of starving lands was utterly quiet, the market was anything but.
The caucus is nerve wracking for Mirage, even after years of doing this day in and day out. With his cloak pulled about him tightly, Mirage shoves through the throng of mechs all clambering for energon or what other few provisions any can afford.
Here, buildings are low, and made of scavenged materials and constructed in a way that will guarantee that the ruins outside of the living zone, will out-survive the new. Over head, much of the light is blocked out with whatever. Scraps of cloth, corrugated metal, and tin plating make a rough, patchwork ceiling, if only to dissuade a flyer from crashing in or worse, catching the attention of a tetrajet.
Mirage pushes through, and ignored the wretches and beggars lined on the roads moaning for handouts.
It is a terrible sight, seeing mechs wasting away and starving. Things were far worse than they had ever been. Some, Mirage even recognizes. There, where the street is ripped up, sits a mech, once white and navy, that Mirage knows he’s faced on the lines of battle long ago. Why, the mech the mech is a frontliner type build, like Sunstreaker and his late twin Sideswipe, or even Red Alert. . . The mech’s designation escapes him for but a moment. . . Breakdown.
Mirage can tell the mech is barely cognizant, if the mech had ever been so before, but now the mech looks as if he has mere hours. A faint Decepticon emblem still clings to the left and middle of his chest plate. Not much good it had done Breakdown for his side winning the war.
Dragging his red, scarlet optics away, Mirage makes his way past a booth where a well-to-do-looking Swindle is hawking his wares. If anyone would be doing well, it would be Swindle. Mirage makes sure to avoid the mech, even pulling his cloak around him ever tighter. Oh, Swindle would be the first mech to turn an Autobot in. No doubt it would win him a few credits. . .
Continuing down the street, Mirage finally slips into a newly erected cantina. For the last few weeks, Mirage had been doing business there. The ceiling was low, and the lighting worse, but it afforded some privacy. Twenty odd tables of varying sizes fill the first floor of the cantina. At the back of the room is a bar with only some energon to offer. Better than most places, Mirage thinks.
After six years, Mirage had a few contacts, all of which were not on a designation basis. Many mechs are inside, some cloaked like him, and others not. Those cloaked are cloaked for the same reason Mirage is. Those not cloaked, either have nothing to hide, or are fearless. Or stupid.
It makes it difficult to spot a customer, Mirage supposes, but he takes a seat in the corner, a spot he usually takes before folding his arms out onto the small, worn table that had surely been salvaged from ruins by the owner.
With white and blue arms extended, it serves as some identification. Indeed, only five minutes pass before a mech, cloaked like him, takes a seat before him.
“Well, well, look who’s here early,” the mech drawls out.
Mirage cocks his helm to the side before asking coldly, “Energon or credits? I don’t feel like standing line all day, today.”
In the faint light, Mirage can just barely make out the lower half of the mech’s face and can even see the grin growing on his lips. The mech has wide set shoulders beneath the cloak, and decent bit of structure otherwise with the lumpy way his cloak lays over him.
“Energon, today, mate,” the mech replies, “What you have for me, friend?”
“Working electronics, parts, and shiny stuff,” Mirage answers, knowing not to say electrum.
It was the right descriptor, Mirage knows, as the mech licks his lips and runs his thumb, gunmetal grey, over his bottom lip, “That so? How much?”
“Enough for nine cubes,” Mirage replies as he names his price.
The mech chuckles, “If that’s so, you got yourself a pretty nice bit, but I’m gonna need to see that. . .”
Nodding so that only the top of his helm bobs, Mirage subs out the bar that, thankfully, fits nicely enough in his palm. Briefly, he rolls his wrist up, so his palm is towards the ceiling, revealing the bar just enough that a trained optic could tell if it was the real deal.
“S’real alright, but I’d say that’s about six, fri-” the mech starts but Mirage cuts him off.
“Eight.”
The mech growls, but relents, “I give you seven for it, and no more.”
“Fine,” Mirage cedes before tucking the bar down into his lap. Ripping a piece of his cloak, he wraps the electrum up in it.
“So what else?” the mech across from him asks.
Mirage subs out the holoplayer and scoots it forward. It is not so valuable that Mirage has worry the mech will run off with it. Mirage waits, tenting his hands as the mech looks it over.
“Well, hey there friend, it actually works,” the mech muses, grinning from beneath his hood, “Give ya two for it.”
“Three,” Mirage replies sharply.
“Two, my friend, and that’s bein’ generous. . .” replies the mech, suddenly serious.
Mirage narrows his optics, but it has no effect on the mech sitting across from him. Two cubes was better than nothing, and replies in a hard tone, “Fine.”
A smile splits across the mech’s face before he replies, “Glad ya could see it my way.”
Pausing, Mirage’s hooded contact sighs before speaking, “Now then, got anything else?” as he lays the holoplayer down and off to the side on the table.
“Spare parts,” Mirage replies before subbing out a bag of fine parts. Transistors, small chips, LEDs, and myriads of other things are contained within. Pushing it with his hands, Mirage scoots the bag towards the mech across from him.
“Huh, got a bit of all sorts. . .” the mech says as he pushes an index digit through the bag. Grinning, the mech looks up, an speaks, “One cube for this. . .”
A faint growl falls from Mirage’s lips before speaking, “You really don’t want first grabs on what I bring, do you, ‘friend?’”
“Alright then, for everythin,’ give ya eleven cubes for the whole lot. Won’t give any more than that, and ya know you’re not gettin’ a better deal from anywhere else,” the mech says firmly, leaning forward so Mirage can almost see the deep orange glint of optics hidden.
“Deal,” Mirage says cooly, tightening his slim, claw tipped hands into fists.
In only moments, Mirage’s contact has a pile of cubes laid out on the table. Eleven strong, just as promised. Two days fuel. Having a day’s surplus was a rare commodity. Yet Mirage shows no glee as he pushes his side of the trade forward, electrum included.
His contact checks it before pocketing it into his subspace, completely unconcerned as Mirage ferrets cubes of energon into his subspace.
“So now, you got anything else for me?” the mech asks suddenly.
“Like what?” Mirage replies, already half standing.
A grin takes the mech’s face, “Ya know, the kind of stuff said in alleys. You know, talk. Info.”
Frowning, Mirage’s expression darkens, “I ain’t got no talk for you,” Mirage replies firmly.
Years, it’s taken Mirage to speak like a commoner, but any high-sparked accent would have him in a worse place.
“Alright then, friend,” the mech defends, throwing his hands up in defeat.
Talk only brought trouble, no matter how much energon or credits were promised. Rising quickly, Mirage strides off, completely ignoring the mech still sitting at the table who, even cloaked, displayed some offense at Mirage’s rude departure. Time to go, Mirage figured. Mirage assumed the mech only wanted the latest talk. The stuff that kept mechs out hunting. Stray Autobots that had escaped the massacre.
Pushing his way through the crowd, Mirage manages to free himself from the din of the cantina. Outside is not much better. An uproar has started. Mirage doesn’t know what it is about, only that mechs are arguing and screaming at each other. He assumes it’s about energon. It always is. A mech steals energon. An uproar breaks out. A seller shorts a mech energon. An uproar breaks out. With his hood pulled tightly around his helm and dermal features, Mirage can bet that a fight will break out. Fearing he could be drawn into it, Mirage tracks down an alley he wouldn’t normally use.
Three mechs, Mirage spots within the alley, two are talking, and a third is just braced against the wall. The two are larger than Mirage, with broad shoulders, broad face plates and crimson optics, but appear to be the sort that keep to themselves. Both are well worn. The one at the end of the alley, leaned upon the wall, is a thin, lanky mech with violet optics that are just too observant. This mech isn’t so worn. A knot forms in Mirage’s stomach instantly, but from the sounds at the streets, Mirage can hear the tell tale crack of metal, that a brawl has broken out. Tucking his hands under his cloak, Mirage subs out a well worn, but razor-sharp, blade. No chances, Mirage thinks.
The two mechs who are chatting only eye Mirage wryly, but pay him no other mind than to look out for themselves. Yet the third mech has his attentions on Mirage.
“Hey you, yes you,” the mech calls as he steps from his leaning spot.
Mirage growls at the mech threateningly, not wanting to pause for any mech, lest he end up with a blade in his back, “Frag off,” Mirage spats out.
“Ohho, you look like the kind of mech that could use my business. . . Get you a little quicksilver? Some other livation besides energon. . .?” mech purrs with a voice as thick, syrupy energon.
“I have no need for your poisons,” Mirage spats as he steps towards the mech threateningly.
A sale was not worth physical harm, Mirage can see it in the dealer’s optics as he immediately backs off and hurries the way which Mirage had come. Mentally sighing, Mirage chances a glance back before he quickly pads the rest of the way down the alley and into another commotion.
Mirage has forgotten that there is actually a town square, and unfortunately, he had just wandered in. It was not a place he generally liked passing through. Too many mechs, far too many, and these weren’t the overtly energon hungry, either. The city square is large, much larger than need be for the fledgling population. The ground is old, cracked duracrete with a heavy layer of dust spread over it. At the center is a platform. Crudely wrought, the duracrete shell is already showing a number of cracks. Behind, is an imposing statue, rising higher than any building for at least a few blocks. A crowd is gathering, and they’re excited.
Yet Mirage is not at all concerned with the crowd or the excitement. Atop the platform stands a winged mech who was one of the last mechs Mirage ever wanted to see again.
Starscream.
The villain has taken back his tetra jet alt form, but other than that, the mech looks hardly a scrap different than he did before the end of the war. If anything, the Decepticon looks better than previously.
“Hear me, my brothers!” croons the seeker, wings splayed, arms out in invitation, standing directly in front of a newly erect statue of the Lord Protectorate. Megatron.
Subbing his dagger, lest he do something stupid, Mirage fists his hands while restraining a growl. Even a mech once so passive and non-violent as Mirage would’ve relished ripping off the foul-voiced flyer’s wing and shoving them down his throat.
“Hear me!” Starscream repeats, “It is that time, you know, that time every year!” calls before a raucous cry rings out through the crowd.
The Games.
“It is time you honor your Lord Protector for all his sacrifices and tribulations!” Starscream calls before another roar in the crowd.
Oh, Mirage can see the little twitches in Starscream’s face, see the mech is not exactly relishing being some sort of announcer. Quietly, Mirage can’t help but wonder what the mech had done to provoke his Master’s ire this time.
“As you know, this is the fifth annual games! The prizes this year will be even grander for the contestants! Any entrant will receive energon and repairs! Winners will receive credits and energon enough to keep their tanks full and their plating perfect!” the seeker continues.
Tuning Starscream out, Mirage edges around the crowded, hoping to remain somewhat unseen.
He manages to as well, ducking into another alley at his first chance. Ah, the games, Mirage thinks. That perverse celebration that bucket-head came up with as a means of controlling his ‘empire.’ It was a way to ease dissent. At least among the commoners. At its core, the Games were nothing more than a reinstallation of the old Gladiatorial games, like the ones Megatron himself fought in. It was perverse, really, mechs starving in the streets jumped for the opportunity. They knew they wouldn’t survive, but the last two weeks of their miserable lives would be lived with full tanks and lots of pampering in preparation for the battles.
Worse, Mirage knew that one year some head hunter had found an Autobot. Any Autobots found went to the games as entertainment for the crowds. It had been absolutely disgusting, Mirage remembered. He had been in one of the bars, negotiating a trade when the battle had come onto the vid screen. Forced to watch, Mirage had been horrified to see one of his compatriots, Silverbolt, wings torn off, forced to fight off two Decepticons.
Shuttering his optics for a moment, Mirage scrubs his hand over his face at the memory. Miraculously, Silverbolt had killed one of the Decepticon battlers, but proved no match for the second one, who tore the flyer piece by piece. What a horrible way to go, Mirage thought. The spy entertained no thoughts that any of the mech’s gestalt mates had survived. If they had, they would’ve been with Silverbolt. Silverbolt had been the last of his gestalt, just as First Aid now was. So, for who knew how long, Silverbolt had been alone before being tossed into a pit to die for the amusement and sport of others.
But what could anyone do about it? By now, Mirage was sure that he and his few were the only ones left. There hadn’t been so much as a tangible mention of an Autobot save for cheap gossip, in two years. Since Silverbolt’s capture and death.
Mind elsewhere, Mirage realizes he’s nearly half way to the theater. Cursing himself for his brashness, Mirage is quick to make sure no one has followed him. Yet the road behind him was dead silent. Hopefully, the whole mess of wretches was too enthralled with Starscream’s screeching.
Grateful for an early day, despite a few hiccups, Mirage slips into the theater quietly. Everyone else was most likely inside already. First Aid would be working, most likely, on a large room filled to the brim with damaged electronics, seeing what could be salvaged, what could be pieced out. Cliffjumper might still be recharging, or taking a bit of personal time. Bluestreak would be on guard. Sunstreaker would be who knows where.
Relaxing with his backstrut against the wall, his aft cushioned by an old pillow, Mirage sips at his energon. Everyone but Sunstreaker was there. Mirage had found the mech earlier. He had found the mech on his hands and knees, a stick between his digits as he pressed it to a copper plate. Mirage hadn’t watched the mech too long, had only seen that Sunstreaker had formed the plate into a textured and 3D image of swirling lines and organic shapes. Having left the cube for Sunstreaker, Mirage had noted the artist was too intent on his art today.
No bother, the mech would find the energon eventually.
The room is quiet as everyone mulls their energon over. Bluestreak is curled up against First Aid, as he usually is once he’s off duty.
“So, any news?” Cliffjumper asks.
“The Games are starting again,” Mirage replies between a sip of energon.
First Aid looks horrified, the blue of his optic plate paling instantly. “Oh no,” he speaks in a hush tone. “Mirage, you be careful. . . If you were found. . .” the mech gasps faintly. First Aid knows, just as all of them know, that it was not all uncommon for mechs to be pulled right off the street and thrown into the ring if there were too few volunteers or the quality of the volunteers were too bad.
Nodding, Mirage murmurs, “I know. . .”
Bluestreak curls closer to First Aid while shooting Mirage a concerned look. Cliffjumper simply crosses his arms while tilting his helm down. A hard expression is on his face.
It is early morning. So early, it is still nearly night. Debris in orbit floats like a necklace around Cybertron’s one remaining moon. The sky is dark and speckled with stars. The faintest tendrils of fog swirl about his pedes. In another half hour, the fog will be thick as can be. Mirage is determined for an even earlier start to his day, especially with the coming games. He knows it is pretty futile, but the slender mech is trying to see if he can’t get a few days' supply of fuel. Then they’d be able to lie down low until the Games were done and over with.
Even a spare day to sit and lie low would be invaluable.
Mirage has gone out further than he normally has from the theater, knowing that a hunt through Praxus’ estate district could find him something. . . More electrum if he knows what to look for. On one hand, Mirage is afraid what he’ll find. He’s avoided it, out of his past. Mirage wonders if his family’s old holiday estate has survived. Mirage is surprised at how familiar the roads still are and before long, he stands in the center of two long rows of enormous housing units. Each would’ve been meant for only a single family.
After everything, Mirage can see the flaws of his old lifestyle, and see just how ignorant he was. Yet it still hurts to see everything as it is. A good half of the houses have either been bombed to the ground, or fallen to the ground. Only a few look safe to go into. The streets are full of litter from scavengers ripping whatever they could from the estates.
One stands before Mirage. Three stories tall, and most of the windows were blown out or broken out. Shredded curtains billow in and out of the windows. There is not a sound but for the crunch of glass under his pedes.
It had once been a summer home for Mirage. All too easily, Mirage could remember running these streets and being told by his creators not to go too far. Mirage never listened. Instead of trying the door, Mirage slips through a shattered window off of the porch. Inside, he’s left winded at the horrible state of the building’s interior. Well-loved paintings and family portraits are either shredded, leaving canvas hanging down, while others are thrown straight to the floor and busted. Vases and crystal lay smashed upon the floor. The walls have holes punched in them. Furniture is turned over, soiled, or just destroyed. It had once been the living room, a large room with a high ceiling.
It makes Mirage want to weep, but the slim mech holds it in.
He did not come here for memories, rather he came here because he knew the building’s secrets. Anything of value on the surface had been stripped away. But nobles could be shrewd. Mirage knew his creators had a number of cubby holes just in their holiday home to ferret away all sorts of things. Credits, unfortunately, would be worthless, at least these ones. Energon and fine metals, on the other hand, would still be valuable.
Striding to the stairs, Mirage finds them to be intact, just poor repair. Running his hand over the rail, Mirage lets his digits glide onto the underside of the rail. There, just under the rail is a small ridge. Pressing the small button, Mirage watches as a seam forms in a step before it pops open. A shallow little box is revealed, inside are once important datapads. Things were tense enough just before the attack, that his creators had always had a spare set of documents on hand that would’ve gotten them off world.
Setting the datapads aside, Mirage examines the remaining contents. A few gems which he pockets into his subspace. Another piece is an heirloom that had belonged to his carrier. The piece is barely as long as his index digit and is carved crystal. A few chips mar it, but it’d still be worth something. Mirage leaves it, however. Tucking the datapads within, Mirage closes the hideaway so that the items are left undisturbed.
Quietly, Mirage creeps up the stairs. The stair steps only creak beneath his pedes only slightly. Coming to the landing, Mirage finds it is just as much of a mess. A stand is turned over, and the vase that once stood upon it is shattered upon the floor. A few dried up sprigs of crystalline cuttings lay upon the floor. Beneath it is a rug, that for the most part is undisturbed. Nothing is hidden under there, though. Moving down the hall, Mirage can’t help but have a heavy spark. At the end of the hall would’ve been his creators' room. Entering, Mirage tries to ignore the sentimental value of the place. Mirage remembers often being just a youngling, having a nightmare, only to be scooped up by his creators and taken to their room, only to be rocked until he fell into pleasant recharge.
Nobles, yes; ignorant, yes; frivolous, yes; but not bad.
His creators had been good mechs. They had not deserved to die the way they had.
Mirage doesn’t even realize he’s fallen to the floor, leaned up against the ruined berth. Worse, he feels a few tears trickling down his cheeks. . .
The din of the cantina was horribly overwhelming for Mirage, especially after everything. At least he’s not sniffly anymore.
“Well, hey now, didn’t think you’d show up again,” comes a now familiar voice.
Mirage only makes a grunt of reply to the larger mech who is seating himself.
A chuckle comes from the mech, who murmurs, “Well, hello to you too.”
Leaning back in his seat, Mirage’s contact takes a sip from a large cube of energon. Mirage wonders if the mech is made of credits to be able to afford such a cube just off the bar.
“So, friend, what you got for me today? Anything good?” he asks with a wide grin that stretches as far across his face as Mirage can see.
“Stuff,” Mirage replies coolly. In a moment, he’s subbed a metal case. It’s a dull grey, lighter than his contact’s hands, but just barely. It is neither deep nor wide, but quite long. Mirage pops the latch and reveals what is inside.
What little Mirage can see of the mech’s face, tells Mirage the mech is quite impressed.
“Oooh, pretty,” the mech muses. Inside are gems, pieces of crystal and things, while valuable for frivolous reasons, were still valuable for mechanical components. There are electrum trinkets within, pieces of electrum and other valuable sorts that could be melted down.
“Twenty cubes,” Mirage declares as his price. His voice is firm, cold even.
“Heh, bit high-” the mech starts with a tilt of his helm only to be cut off.
“Twenty cubes. Take it or get out of my sight,” Mirage growls. Sometimes the slim mech is surprised at himself. How easy it gets for him to play his role as some once-Decepticon now-salvager.
The response surprises the mech across from him, and for a moment Mirage fears he has scared the mech off. Yet the mech doesn’t leave, though his expression turns much more serious.
“Very well, twenty cubes it is. Don’t know what you’re hoarding it for, but good luck to you,” the mech speaks coolly.
Closing the lid, Mirage scoots the container forward as the mech starts subbing out cubes and laying them out for Mirage. Greedily, Mirage is shoving them into his subspace. Another few day’s supplies will give him and his practical family a chance to hide until the games were over.
Mirage barely concerns himself with the mech’s subbing of the case, even though he feels a twist in his tank for selling such things. . . Quietly, he reminds himself that the family he has now matters most. His creators, where ever they had went after dying. . .being murdered. . .would understand as well.
Stuffing the final cubes away in his subspace, Mirage rises while yearning for peace and quiet now.
Just as he takes a step away, Mirage is caught by the larger mech, just by the wrist and pulled Mirage back. Instinct kicks and Mirage has a dagger in hand within an instant, but the mech visits no violence. Instead, Mirage finds the mech’s mouth near his audio receptor.
“Careful, friend. Next few days gonna be ugly, you take care of you and your kind, you hear?” the mech murmurs.
The words from his contact are horribly jarring to Mirage who jerks away with a hiss. “Go frag yourself,” Mirage growls, not at all amused with whatever the mech across from him was playing at. Freeing himself from the cantina, Mirage doesn’t even notice that a mech across the way has noticed Mirage and his contact.
Dread curled around Mirage’s spark as he pushed his way through queues and throngs. His cloak is pulled tight about him and his helm is ducked down. Furtive glances are cast along every angle. Mirage does not know if the words said by his ‘friend,’ are something just meant to wind him up, or something that actually means something. The games are yet a few weeks off. Mirage cannot afford to hide now. Spark pounding, Mirage wastes no time in getting back to the theater, while making sure no one followed him back. . .
Author: LilMissRoadRage
Chapter: 2
Verse: IDW’ish AU
Words: 4400+
Rating: R for violence. I haven’t decided if I will writing anything steamy or not. Right now, I don’t think so. Story is still plenty violent and angsty for the rating. If you don’t like sad, depressing stories, this probably isn’t for you.
Summary: It’s six years after the war between the Decepticons and Autobots has ended. The Decepticons have won and the Autobots have been hunted down, one by one. There is no hope for any of the Autobots still stranded on Cybertron, but then, things are not particularly hopeful on the Decepticon side either. Cybertron is but a waste land. A major thank you to the wonderful katsuko for taking time to beta this word spew. <3
Chapter 2
While the world of starving lands was utterly quiet, the market was anything but.
The caucus is nerve wracking for Mirage, even after years of doing this day in and day out. With his cloak pulled about him tightly, Mirage shoves through the throng of mechs all clambering for energon or what other few provisions any can afford.
Here, buildings are low, and made of scavenged materials and constructed in a way that will guarantee that the ruins outside of the living zone, will out-survive the new. Over head, much of the light is blocked out with whatever. Scraps of cloth, corrugated metal, and tin plating make a rough, patchwork ceiling, if only to dissuade a flyer from crashing in or worse, catching the attention of a tetrajet.
Mirage pushes through, and ignored the wretches and beggars lined on the roads moaning for handouts.
It is a terrible sight, seeing mechs wasting away and starving. Things were far worse than they had ever been. Some, Mirage even recognizes. There, where the street is ripped up, sits a mech, once white and navy, that Mirage knows he’s faced on the lines of battle long ago. Why, the mech the mech is a frontliner type build, like Sunstreaker and his late twin Sideswipe, or even Red Alert. . . The mech’s designation escapes him for but a moment. . . Breakdown.
Mirage can tell the mech is barely cognizant, if the mech had ever been so before, but now the mech looks as if he has mere hours. A faint Decepticon emblem still clings to the left and middle of his chest plate. Not much good it had done Breakdown for his side winning the war.
Dragging his red, scarlet optics away, Mirage makes his way past a booth where a well-to-do-looking Swindle is hawking his wares. If anyone would be doing well, it would be Swindle. Mirage makes sure to avoid the mech, even pulling his cloak around him ever tighter. Oh, Swindle would be the first mech to turn an Autobot in. No doubt it would win him a few credits. . .
Continuing down the street, Mirage finally slips into a newly erected cantina. For the last few weeks, Mirage had been doing business there. The ceiling was low, and the lighting worse, but it afforded some privacy. Twenty odd tables of varying sizes fill the first floor of the cantina. At the back of the room is a bar with only some energon to offer. Better than most places, Mirage thinks.
After six years, Mirage had a few contacts, all of which were not on a designation basis. Many mechs are inside, some cloaked like him, and others not. Those cloaked are cloaked for the same reason Mirage is. Those not cloaked, either have nothing to hide, or are fearless. Or stupid.
It makes it difficult to spot a customer, Mirage supposes, but he takes a seat in the corner, a spot he usually takes before folding his arms out onto the small, worn table that had surely been salvaged from ruins by the owner.
With white and blue arms extended, it serves as some identification. Indeed, only five minutes pass before a mech, cloaked like him, takes a seat before him.
“Well, well, look who’s here early,” the mech drawls out.
Mirage cocks his helm to the side before asking coldly, “Energon or credits? I don’t feel like standing line all day, today.”
In the faint light, Mirage can just barely make out the lower half of the mech’s face and can even see the grin growing on his lips. The mech has wide set shoulders beneath the cloak, and decent bit of structure otherwise with the lumpy way his cloak lays over him.
“Energon, today, mate,” the mech replies, “What you have for me, friend?”
“Working electronics, parts, and shiny stuff,” Mirage answers, knowing not to say electrum.
It was the right descriptor, Mirage knows, as the mech licks his lips and runs his thumb, gunmetal grey, over his bottom lip, “That so? How much?”
“Enough for nine cubes,” Mirage replies as he names his price.
The mech chuckles, “If that’s so, you got yourself a pretty nice bit, but I’m gonna need to see that. . .”
Nodding so that only the top of his helm bobs, Mirage subs out the bar that, thankfully, fits nicely enough in his palm. Briefly, he rolls his wrist up, so his palm is towards the ceiling, revealing the bar just enough that a trained optic could tell if it was the real deal.
“S’real alright, but I’d say that’s about six, fri-” the mech starts but Mirage cuts him off.
“Eight.”
The mech growls, but relents, “I give you seven for it, and no more.”
“Fine,” Mirage cedes before tucking the bar down into his lap. Ripping a piece of his cloak, he wraps the electrum up in it.
“So what else?” the mech across from him asks.
Mirage subs out the holoplayer and scoots it forward. It is not so valuable that Mirage has worry the mech will run off with it. Mirage waits, tenting his hands as the mech looks it over.
“Well, hey there friend, it actually works,” the mech muses, grinning from beneath his hood, “Give ya two for it.”
“Three,” Mirage replies sharply.
“Two, my friend, and that’s bein’ generous. . .” replies the mech, suddenly serious.
Mirage narrows his optics, but it has no effect on the mech sitting across from him. Two cubes was better than nothing, and replies in a hard tone, “Fine.”
A smile splits across the mech’s face before he replies, “Glad ya could see it my way.”
Pausing, Mirage’s hooded contact sighs before speaking, “Now then, got anything else?” as he lays the holoplayer down and off to the side on the table.
“Spare parts,” Mirage replies before subbing out a bag of fine parts. Transistors, small chips, LEDs, and myriads of other things are contained within. Pushing it with his hands, Mirage scoots the bag towards the mech across from him.
“Huh, got a bit of all sorts. . .” the mech says as he pushes an index digit through the bag. Grinning, the mech looks up, an speaks, “One cube for this. . .”
A faint growl falls from Mirage’s lips before speaking, “You really don’t want first grabs on what I bring, do you, ‘friend?’”
“Alright then, for everythin,’ give ya eleven cubes for the whole lot. Won’t give any more than that, and ya know you’re not gettin’ a better deal from anywhere else,” the mech says firmly, leaning forward so Mirage can almost see the deep orange glint of optics hidden.
“Deal,” Mirage says cooly, tightening his slim, claw tipped hands into fists.
In only moments, Mirage’s contact has a pile of cubes laid out on the table. Eleven strong, just as promised. Two days fuel. Having a day’s surplus was a rare commodity. Yet Mirage shows no glee as he pushes his side of the trade forward, electrum included.
His contact checks it before pocketing it into his subspace, completely unconcerned as Mirage ferrets cubes of energon into his subspace.
“So now, you got anything else for me?” the mech asks suddenly.
“Like what?” Mirage replies, already half standing.
A grin takes the mech’s face, “Ya know, the kind of stuff said in alleys. You know, talk. Info.”
Frowning, Mirage’s expression darkens, “I ain’t got no talk for you,” Mirage replies firmly.
Years, it’s taken Mirage to speak like a commoner, but any high-sparked accent would have him in a worse place.
“Alright then, friend,” the mech defends, throwing his hands up in defeat.
Talk only brought trouble, no matter how much energon or credits were promised. Rising quickly, Mirage strides off, completely ignoring the mech still sitting at the table who, even cloaked, displayed some offense at Mirage’s rude departure. Time to go, Mirage figured. Mirage assumed the mech only wanted the latest talk. The stuff that kept mechs out hunting. Stray Autobots that had escaped the massacre.
Pushing his way through the crowd, Mirage manages to free himself from the din of the cantina. Outside is not much better. An uproar has started. Mirage doesn’t know what it is about, only that mechs are arguing and screaming at each other. He assumes it’s about energon. It always is. A mech steals energon. An uproar breaks out. A seller shorts a mech energon. An uproar breaks out. With his hood pulled tightly around his helm and dermal features, Mirage can bet that a fight will break out. Fearing he could be drawn into it, Mirage tracks down an alley he wouldn’t normally use.
Three mechs, Mirage spots within the alley, two are talking, and a third is just braced against the wall. The two are larger than Mirage, with broad shoulders, broad face plates and crimson optics, but appear to be the sort that keep to themselves. Both are well worn. The one at the end of the alley, leaned upon the wall, is a thin, lanky mech with violet optics that are just too observant. This mech isn’t so worn. A knot forms in Mirage’s stomach instantly, but from the sounds at the streets, Mirage can hear the tell tale crack of metal, that a brawl has broken out. Tucking his hands under his cloak, Mirage subs out a well worn, but razor-sharp, blade. No chances, Mirage thinks.
The two mechs who are chatting only eye Mirage wryly, but pay him no other mind than to look out for themselves. Yet the third mech has his attentions on Mirage.
“Hey you, yes you,” the mech calls as he steps from his leaning spot.
Mirage growls at the mech threateningly, not wanting to pause for any mech, lest he end up with a blade in his back, “Frag off,” Mirage spats out.
“Ohho, you look like the kind of mech that could use my business. . . Get you a little quicksilver? Some other livation besides energon. . .?” mech purrs with a voice as thick, syrupy energon.
“I have no need for your poisons,” Mirage spats as he steps towards the mech threateningly.
A sale was not worth physical harm, Mirage can see it in the dealer’s optics as he immediately backs off and hurries the way which Mirage had come. Mentally sighing, Mirage chances a glance back before he quickly pads the rest of the way down the alley and into another commotion.
Mirage has forgotten that there is actually a town square, and unfortunately, he had just wandered in. It was not a place he generally liked passing through. Too many mechs, far too many, and these weren’t the overtly energon hungry, either. The city square is large, much larger than need be for the fledgling population. The ground is old, cracked duracrete with a heavy layer of dust spread over it. At the center is a platform. Crudely wrought, the duracrete shell is already showing a number of cracks. Behind, is an imposing statue, rising higher than any building for at least a few blocks. A crowd is gathering, and they’re excited.
Yet Mirage is not at all concerned with the crowd or the excitement. Atop the platform stands a winged mech who was one of the last mechs Mirage ever wanted to see again.
Starscream.
The villain has taken back his tetra jet alt form, but other than that, the mech looks hardly a scrap different than he did before the end of the war. If anything, the Decepticon looks better than previously.
“Hear me, my brothers!” croons the seeker, wings splayed, arms out in invitation, standing directly in front of a newly erect statue of the Lord Protectorate. Megatron.
Subbing his dagger, lest he do something stupid, Mirage fists his hands while restraining a growl. Even a mech once so passive and non-violent as Mirage would’ve relished ripping off the foul-voiced flyer’s wing and shoving them down his throat.
“Hear me!” Starscream repeats, “It is that time, you know, that time every year!” calls before a raucous cry rings out through the crowd.
The Games.
“It is time you honor your Lord Protector for all his sacrifices and tribulations!” Starscream calls before another roar in the crowd.
Oh, Mirage can see the little twitches in Starscream’s face, see the mech is not exactly relishing being some sort of announcer. Quietly, Mirage can’t help but wonder what the mech had done to provoke his Master’s ire this time.
“As you know, this is the fifth annual games! The prizes this year will be even grander for the contestants! Any entrant will receive energon and repairs! Winners will receive credits and energon enough to keep their tanks full and their plating perfect!” the seeker continues.
Tuning Starscream out, Mirage edges around the crowded, hoping to remain somewhat unseen.
He manages to as well, ducking into another alley at his first chance. Ah, the games, Mirage thinks. That perverse celebration that bucket-head came up with as a means of controlling his ‘empire.’ It was a way to ease dissent. At least among the commoners. At its core, the Games were nothing more than a reinstallation of the old Gladiatorial games, like the ones Megatron himself fought in. It was perverse, really, mechs starving in the streets jumped for the opportunity. They knew they wouldn’t survive, but the last two weeks of their miserable lives would be lived with full tanks and lots of pampering in preparation for the battles.
Worse, Mirage knew that one year some head hunter had found an Autobot. Any Autobots found went to the games as entertainment for the crowds. It had been absolutely disgusting, Mirage remembered. He had been in one of the bars, negotiating a trade when the battle had come onto the vid screen. Forced to watch, Mirage had been horrified to see one of his compatriots, Silverbolt, wings torn off, forced to fight off two Decepticons.
Shuttering his optics for a moment, Mirage scrubs his hand over his face at the memory. Miraculously, Silverbolt had killed one of the Decepticon battlers, but proved no match for the second one, who tore the flyer piece by piece. What a horrible way to go, Mirage thought. The spy entertained no thoughts that any of the mech’s gestalt mates had survived. If they had, they would’ve been with Silverbolt. Silverbolt had been the last of his gestalt, just as First Aid now was. So, for who knew how long, Silverbolt had been alone before being tossed into a pit to die for the amusement and sport of others.
But what could anyone do about it? By now, Mirage was sure that he and his few were the only ones left. There hadn’t been so much as a tangible mention of an Autobot save for cheap gossip, in two years. Since Silverbolt’s capture and death.
Mind elsewhere, Mirage realizes he’s nearly half way to the theater. Cursing himself for his brashness, Mirage is quick to make sure no one has followed him. Yet the road behind him was dead silent. Hopefully, the whole mess of wretches was too enthralled with Starscream’s screeching.
Grateful for an early day, despite a few hiccups, Mirage slips into the theater quietly. Everyone else was most likely inside already. First Aid would be working, most likely, on a large room filled to the brim with damaged electronics, seeing what could be salvaged, what could be pieced out. Cliffjumper might still be recharging, or taking a bit of personal time. Bluestreak would be on guard. Sunstreaker would be who knows where.
Relaxing with his backstrut against the wall, his aft cushioned by an old pillow, Mirage sips at his energon. Everyone but Sunstreaker was there. Mirage had found the mech earlier. He had found the mech on his hands and knees, a stick between his digits as he pressed it to a copper plate. Mirage hadn’t watched the mech too long, had only seen that Sunstreaker had formed the plate into a textured and 3D image of swirling lines and organic shapes. Having left the cube for Sunstreaker, Mirage had noted the artist was too intent on his art today.
No bother, the mech would find the energon eventually.
The room is quiet as everyone mulls their energon over. Bluestreak is curled up against First Aid, as he usually is once he’s off duty.
“So, any news?” Cliffjumper asks.
“The Games are starting again,” Mirage replies between a sip of energon.
First Aid looks horrified, the blue of his optic plate paling instantly. “Oh no,” he speaks in a hush tone. “Mirage, you be careful. . . If you were found. . .” the mech gasps faintly. First Aid knows, just as all of them know, that it was not all uncommon for mechs to be pulled right off the street and thrown into the ring if there were too few volunteers or the quality of the volunteers were too bad.
Nodding, Mirage murmurs, “I know. . .”
Bluestreak curls closer to First Aid while shooting Mirage a concerned look. Cliffjumper simply crosses his arms while tilting his helm down. A hard expression is on his face.
It is early morning. So early, it is still nearly night. Debris in orbit floats like a necklace around Cybertron’s one remaining moon. The sky is dark and speckled with stars. The faintest tendrils of fog swirl about his pedes. In another half hour, the fog will be thick as can be. Mirage is determined for an even earlier start to his day, especially with the coming games. He knows it is pretty futile, but the slender mech is trying to see if he can’t get a few days' supply of fuel. Then they’d be able to lie down low until the Games were done and over with.
Even a spare day to sit and lie low would be invaluable.
Mirage has gone out further than he normally has from the theater, knowing that a hunt through Praxus’ estate district could find him something. . . More electrum if he knows what to look for. On one hand, Mirage is afraid what he’ll find. He’s avoided it, out of his past. Mirage wonders if his family’s old holiday estate has survived. Mirage is surprised at how familiar the roads still are and before long, he stands in the center of two long rows of enormous housing units. Each would’ve been meant for only a single family.
After everything, Mirage can see the flaws of his old lifestyle, and see just how ignorant he was. Yet it still hurts to see everything as it is. A good half of the houses have either been bombed to the ground, or fallen to the ground. Only a few look safe to go into. The streets are full of litter from scavengers ripping whatever they could from the estates.
One stands before Mirage. Three stories tall, and most of the windows were blown out or broken out. Shredded curtains billow in and out of the windows. There is not a sound but for the crunch of glass under his pedes.
It had once been a summer home for Mirage. All too easily, Mirage could remember running these streets and being told by his creators not to go too far. Mirage never listened. Instead of trying the door, Mirage slips through a shattered window off of the porch. Inside, he’s left winded at the horrible state of the building’s interior. Well-loved paintings and family portraits are either shredded, leaving canvas hanging down, while others are thrown straight to the floor and busted. Vases and crystal lay smashed upon the floor. The walls have holes punched in them. Furniture is turned over, soiled, or just destroyed. It had once been the living room, a large room with a high ceiling.
It makes Mirage want to weep, but the slim mech holds it in.
He did not come here for memories, rather he came here because he knew the building’s secrets. Anything of value on the surface had been stripped away. But nobles could be shrewd. Mirage knew his creators had a number of cubby holes just in their holiday home to ferret away all sorts of things. Credits, unfortunately, would be worthless, at least these ones. Energon and fine metals, on the other hand, would still be valuable.
Striding to the stairs, Mirage finds them to be intact, just poor repair. Running his hand over the rail, Mirage lets his digits glide onto the underside of the rail. There, just under the rail is a small ridge. Pressing the small button, Mirage watches as a seam forms in a step before it pops open. A shallow little box is revealed, inside are once important datapads. Things were tense enough just before the attack, that his creators had always had a spare set of documents on hand that would’ve gotten them off world.
Setting the datapads aside, Mirage examines the remaining contents. A few gems which he pockets into his subspace. Another piece is an heirloom that had belonged to his carrier. The piece is barely as long as his index digit and is carved crystal. A few chips mar it, but it’d still be worth something. Mirage leaves it, however. Tucking the datapads within, Mirage closes the hideaway so that the items are left undisturbed.
Quietly, Mirage creeps up the stairs. The stair steps only creak beneath his pedes only slightly. Coming to the landing, Mirage finds it is just as much of a mess. A stand is turned over, and the vase that once stood upon it is shattered upon the floor. A few dried up sprigs of crystalline cuttings lay upon the floor. Beneath it is a rug, that for the most part is undisturbed. Nothing is hidden under there, though. Moving down the hall, Mirage can’t help but have a heavy spark. At the end of the hall would’ve been his creators' room. Entering, Mirage tries to ignore the sentimental value of the place. Mirage remembers often being just a youngling, having a nightmare, only to be scooped up by his creators and taken to their room, only to be rocked until he fell into pleasant recharge.
Nobles, yes; ignorant, yes; frivolous, yes; but not bad.
His creators had been good mechs. They had not deserved to die the way they had.
Mirage doesn’t even realize he’s fallen to the floor, leaned up against the ruined berth. Worse, he feels a few tears trickling down his cheeks. . .
The din of the cantina was horribly overwhelming for Mirage, especially after everything. At least he’s not sniffly anymore.
“Well, hey now, didn’t think you’d show up again,” comes a now familiar voice.
Mirage only makes a grunt of reply to the larger mech who is seating himself.
A chuckle comes from the mech, who murmurs, “Well, hello to you too.”
Leaning back in his seat, Mirage’s contact takes a sip from a large cube of energon. Mirage wonders if the mech is made of credits to be able to afford such a cube just off the bar.
“So, friend, what you got for me today? Anything good?” he asks with a wide grin that stretches as far across his face as Mirage can see.
“Stuff,” Mirage replies coolly. In a moment, he’s subbed a metal case. It’s a dull grey, lighter than his contact’s hands, but just barely. It is neither deep nor wide, but quite long. Mirage pops the latch and reveals what is inside.
What little Mirage can see of the mech’s face, tells Mirage the mech is quite impressed.
“Oooh, pretty,” the mech muses. Inside are gems, pieces of crystal and things, while valuable for frivolous reasons, were still valuable for mechanical components. There are electrum trinkets within, pieces of electrum and other valuable sorts that could be melted down.
“Twenty cubes,” Mirage declares as his price. His voice is firm, cold even.
“Heh, bit high-” the mech starts with a tilt of his helm only to be cut off.
“Twenty cubes. Take it or get out of my sight,” Mirage growls. Sometimes the slim mech is surprised at himself. How easy it gets for him to play his role as some once-Decepticon now-salvager.
The response surprises the mech across from him, and for a moment Mirage fears he has scared the mech off. Yet the mech doesn’t leave, though his expression turns much more serious.
“Very well, twenty cubes it is. Don’t know what you’re hoarding it for, but good luck to you,” the mech speaks coolly.
Closing the lid, Mirage scoots the container forward as the mech starts subbing out cubes and laying them out for Mirage. Greedily, Mirage is shoving them into his subspace. Another few day’s supplies will give him and his practical family a chance to hide until the games were over.
Mirage barely concerns himself with the mech’s subbing of the case, even though he feels a twist in his tank for selling such things. . . Quietly, he reminds himself that the family he has now matters most. His creators, where ever they had went after dying. . .being murdered. . .would understand as well.
Stuffing the final cubes away in his subspace, Mirage rises while yearning for peace and quiet now.
Just as he takes a step away, Mirage is caught by the larger mech, just by the wrist and pulled Mirage back. Instinct kicks and Mirage has a dagger in hand within an instant, but the mech visits no violence. Instead, Mirage finds the mech’s mouth near his audio receptor.
“Careful, friend. Next few days gonna be ugly, you take care of you and your kind, you hear?” the mech murmurs.
The words from his contact are horribly jarring to Mirage who jerks away with a hiss. “Go frag yourself,” Mirage growls, not at all amused with whatever the mech across from him was playing at. Freeing himself from the cantina, Mirage doesn’t even notice that a mech across the way has noticed Mirage and his contact.
Dread curled around Mirage’s spark as he pushed his way through queues and throngs. His cloak is pulled tight about him and his helm is ducked down. Furtive glances are cast along every angle. Mirage does not know if the words said by his ‘friend,’ are something just meant to wind him up, or something that actually means something. The games are yet a few weeks off. Mirage cannot afford to hide now. Spark pounding, Mirage wastes no time in getting back to the theater, while making sure no one followed him back. . .