Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

— Haruki Murakami

“Absence and death are the same — only that in death there is no suffering.”

— Theodore Roosevelt

"So," Megatron sneers, "you're the one who we have to thank for the damage to the engines. Optimus's little pet noble, skulking about in the shadows."

Mirage just stares back at him, silent and cold. He doesn't let any hint of pain from the still-leaking stab wound in his wrenched shoulder reach his face or field. He ignores Breakdown's threatening presence behind him and the way his field presses down heavily on his, as if trying to crush him through sheer willpower alone.

He does his best to also ignore Shockwave standing just off to Megatron's side, helm tilted and his one optic unnervingly fixed on him.

Megatron crooks a finger. "Bring him closer."

Breakdown seizes Mirage's injured shoulder and hauls him forward, and Mirage has bite back a cry of pain. When they're scant meters from where Megatron stands, Breakdown forcefully shoves him to his knees and clamps a heavy hand on his shoulder to keep him there. His fingers dig painfully into dented plating, and Mirage's own hands clench into fists, hard enough to leave imprints in the metal, from where they're restrained behind his back.

Despite the renewed pain lancing through his shoulder, Mirage maintains his silence the whole time. There's no point in groveling or submitting in any way. Even without factoring in the significant sabotage he’s just enacted on their new warship, the Decepticons stopped taking prisoners when they realized the Autobots were trying to flee the planet.

Mirage was dead the moment he got caught. But he can and will go out with pride, in the service of his commander and his Prime.

Megatron takes a few steps forward, enough to cross the remaining distance between them. From their new positions, he towers over Mirage. Even when Mirage is standing fully upright, Megatron is still several meters taller than him. On his knees like this, the top of Mirage's helm barely reaches Megatron's knee.

Megatron reaches down to seize his chin. His harsh grip and their height differences forces Mirage's helm to tilt back to an uncomfortable degree, especially with Breakdown's hand still on his shoulder. For a moment, Megatron just stares down at him, optics glittering with rage.

Then, without warning, he lets go and backhands Mirage across the face.

His helm snaps to the side, and it's only Breakdown's tight grip that keeps him from crashing to the floor. Mirage vents out harshly once, the sole outlet of pain he allows himself, then straightens up again and turns back.

Megatron's optics narrow, and then he's aiming his fusion cannon directly at Mirage's face, an ominous purple glow already building deep within its barrel.

Mirage forces himself to ignore the cannon. Instead, he tips his chin up, burying his pain and fear in favor of glaring directly into Megatron's optics. He might not have permanently crippled their new warship, but he's delayed the time it will take them to bring the Nemesis fully online and bought the Autobots time to finish the Ark.

If his death is the price for his fellow Autobots to survive and escape this dying world, then so be it. He will pay it with his head held high, and he will not flinch.

Megatron raises one optical brow. "No last words, Autobot?"

Mirage just curls his lip, expression hard, and states flatly, "I have nothing to say to you." He flares his field, very deliberately imbuing it with contempt and cold defiance.

Megatron's face twists with rage. The purple light of his cannon intensifies as he prepares to fire, and Mirage mentally braces himself.

But then Shockwave steps forward.

"Lord Megatron," he drones. "I can make use of his outlier ability for the Nemesis. But I need him still functioning."

Mirage's vents stall, and his tanks go cold with dread. Despite his best efforts, he can feel his courage faltering, a redoubled fear surging to life. He knows what happens to mecha who are given to Shockwave. He's rescued a couple of them and seen the mutilated remains of countless more.

Compared to that, death is a mercy. A point-blank blast from Megatron's cannon is not how Mirage would've chosen to go out, if he had to choose at all, but it would've been quick. Even a slow death at the hands of a torturer, terrible and painful as it would be, would be preferable. At least that would have an end.

But Shockwave wants him alive.

"It is fitting, I suppose," Megatron muses, and Mirage's spark drops, "for you to be used to strengthen that which you tried to destroy."

A cold, cruel smile curls across Megatron's faceplate. Mirage has to suppress an instinctive shiver.

"Very well, Shockwave. Take him."

Shockwave's response is lost to the sudden roaring in Mirage's audials. He clamps down on his field, trying to contain the sharp spike of terror. But by the vaguely amused teek of Breakdown's field where his hand touches his plating, he's not as successful as he would've liked.

Mirage sets his jaw, forcing his field and his panic back under relative control, and steels himself as best as he can. He will not beg. Jazz has taught him better than that, and he will not give the 'Cons the satisfaction.

(It's not as if begging will make any difference to them anyway. Let alone to Shockwave.)

But as Breakdown drags him away, Mirage can't stop the cold terror filling him at the thought of the nightmare that's about to come.

This particular part of Shockwave's lab is clinically, almost blindingly clean. Mirage catches a few glimpses of past experiments, but most of it seems to have been neatly packed away somewhere he can't see. Heavy metal straps hold him flat against the table, so tight that he can't even wriggle. His fingers are splayed and pressed flat as well, each one individually locked down, giving him absolutely no leverage to utilize any of the tools hidden in them.

(Mirage knows he's not the first SpecOps agent Shockwave has gotten his hands on. He's clearly learned the best ways to thoroughly restrain one. Mirage would almost be impressed if he weren't so horrified by how Shockwave learned — and what he's about to do to him.)

Shockwave steps into view. He has something beside him — a cart of tools? — but Mirage can't get a clear view from his position. The restraints keep him from even turning his helm, forcing him to stare straight up at the ceiling.

"I have been wanting to take you apart for a very long time," Shockwave says. The calm, dispassionate way he says it belies the eager light in his optic. His hand comes into view, holding a heavy, surgical-grade scalpel. Mirage fights down a shiver. "Every outlier ability defies logic from the outside. I look forward to making sense of yours."

Shockwave steps around to stand near his legs, only half in view. Mirage doesn't see the moment the blade descends, but he feels it when it snakes under the plating just below his knee joint and begins to cut. Mirage locks his jaw, pulls on his interrogation training, and resolves not to make a sound.

And at first, he doesn't.

He's silent as the grave when Shockwave pries back the protective plating on his left leg. Silent when he meticulously cuts out each individual cable, strut, and piston, setting them aside in a neatly organized pile. Silent when he saws through the remaining protoform to completely sever the limb. Silent when he begins to work on the plating on his right leg.

But as the blade sinks into his right leg's protoform and begins to carve that away as well, the first pained, terrified whimper finally slips out.

It's as if that single sound sets off a chain reaction. Now that the first crack in his composure has appeared, the rest swiftly follow. By the time his right leg has been fully cut away, the whimpers have devolved into gasping moans of pain.

By the right arm, they've turned into ragged sobs.

By the left arm, screaming.

The last finally makes Shockwave pause, his blade buried halfway through the limb and his concentration disrupted.

"That is very distracting," he says with a terrifyingly mild disapproval.

He pulls his scalpel loose in one painful jerk. Then he reaches down with his one hand to Mirage's throat. Mirage tries to thrash, but with only one barely-connected limb left and his remaining frame still tied down as tightly as ever, he has no way of avoiding the scalpel. It digs into his throat cabling, casually peeling it back strip by strip, uncaring of the way his screams rise. Then fingers are rooting around inside his throat and wrapping around his vocalizer and yanking —

Mirage's screams twist and shatter into a cascade of screeching, broken static, then cut off abruptly as Shockwave pulls the vocalizer entirely free.

"Better," Shockwave says calmly.

The knife returns to his left arm. Mirage sobs soundlessly, but he can't stop Shockwave from resuming his slow, systemic disassembly of every little component in his limb. A few more passes and then his final limb is unceremoniously coming away with one last, harsh tug, wires sparking from where they dangle uselessly at the severed ends. Shockwave sets it aside with the rest of Mirage's detached components. Then he pauses, helm cocked to the side and a thoughtful edge to his field as he stares down at him.

Mirage just shakes, his spark cowering under the overwhelming jagged fear, trapped screams rebounding within his mind. Agony lances through him from where his limbs should be, his processor screaming out for connection to missing parts but only finding empty space.

He shutters his optics for a brief moment, trying to center himself, to find some way to ground himself and ignore the pain.

Which means he misses the moment that the blade begins to reach for his optics. They shoot back open at the first touch, widening in panic as the blade finds a gap — digs in — twists — wires snap —

The world goes dark.

Mirage jerks, his field spiking again as all optical data vanishes, but Shockwave doesn't stop. A brief touch of the blade tip is all the warning he gets before it's driven into the gap between his faceplate and helm vents. Several cuts later and his outer helm is being torn loose too. His ventilations are roaring, sharp and desperate, but he doesn't get even a moment's reprieve before the blade is digging into the newly-exposed protoform, slicing through the wires connecting his processor to his audials —

Sound cuts out. All Mirage is left with is the cold edge of the knife as it traces a line of fire and ice down his neck, to where he can still feel sparks spitting from the place his vocalizer had once sat.

There's no holding back the rising panic anymore; it swallows his processor whole until all he can feel is the desperate need to get away need to run need to escape but can't can't can't — he twists and thrashes uselessly, screams reverberating in his processor but never escaping into the world. The empty spaces where his missing parts should be howl, rebounding and building on top of each other until all they can do is shriek in agonized harmony.

And Mirage shakes and shakes and desperately hopes that someone, anyone, will come and stop Shockwave, will save him.

But no one comes (of course not. They probably all think he's dead. If it weren't for Shockwave's intervention, he would be dead). Even as he futilely prays for help, Shockwave's knife finds his torso plating and the process begins again.

And all Mirage can do is lie there — mute, blind, deaf, and agonizingly awake — as Shockwave methodically disassembles him, one component at a time.

The world is gone. Everything is gone. He can't see, can't hear, can't even feel. Every single sensor, internal and external, has been cut away, his frame mercilessly stripped down to only a broken fraction of what it used to be. Mirage can feel his spark, his fuel tank, and an overwhelming pain where everything else used to be, and that's it.

That's all he has left. And Mirage —

He could be brave in the face of his impending death.

Even staring down the cannon barrel of Megatron himself, it was a relatively simple if not easy matter to fall back on a painstakingly fostered defiance. Every mech still alive knows what it's like to stare death in the optic, and Mirage has been doing this for long enough that he's faced it many times indeed. The possibility of instead suffering torture and interrogation is awful, but he's been trained extensively on how to handle it.

They are experiences he would like to never repeat, but he's long since accepted the fact that he inevitably will. They don't frighten him the way they used to. Very little does.

But trapped alone in the dark, with no idea of what's happening around him or what Shockwave is about to do next and only the screaming pain of severed wiring where sensory input — any sensory input — from a frame should be, Mirage can admit to himself: he's fragging terrified.

He can fight back against an interrogator, can hold his tongue and snarl defiance at any information they try to extract from him. But there's no enemy here, just an absolute, inescapable darkness. He has no frame or spatial awareness; all that's left is pain and fear. Shockwave could do anything he wanted to him, and Mirage would have no idea until it'd already started. He's completely helpless in a way he's never been before.

He has no idea how long he huddles there in the dark, waiting fearfully for Shockwave's next move. Despite his best efforts, his processor is cycling through countless memories of other victims of Shockwave, a grisly montage of mangled frames and discarded parts.

(Don't think about that pile of detached components next to Shockwave before Mirage's sight had been mercilessly cut out, pieces that had once composed his own limbs and frame — don't think about it don't think about it don't think — )

Something cold and sharp abruptly hooks onto his spark. He has a brief moment to be frightened of whatever it is, whatever it's meant to do, and then —

A searing pain, tearing through his spark. He screams but he has no vocalizer to produce the sound, no audials to even hear it. He feels his spark energy flare, fluctuating wildly, as something in his spark starts to get drained —

The pain stops, leaving just a heavy, lingering ache. Mirage has a nanoklik to gather himself again, trying to re-find his mental footing.

Then it comes back, blanking out his processor. Vanishes and returns, vanishes and returns, vanishes and returns, in an incessant cycle, again and again and again and again like —

Like Shockwave's testing, Mirage realizes between the rounds of that processor-blanking pain. And as the next round begins, yanking at his spark energy in a very familiar way, his mind flashes back to what Shockwave had told Megatron:

"I can make use of his outlier ability for the Nemesis."

Understanding comes to him in an instant: Shockwave is trying to harness his invisibility abilities to give the Nemesis a cloaking field.

But that's — that's insane. The Nemesis is a warship. It's quite literally a titan-class mech, over a thousand times Mirage's size. Surely, his spark will gutter out the moment Shockwave tries to connect them?

(The thought of going out like this — frameless, blind and deaf, experimented on until his spark simply gives out — is terrifying. He really doesn't want to die like that. But maybe that would be the kinder fate, extinguishing now rather than suffering through whatever Shockwave has planned.)

(Not that what he wants matters anyway. Mirage doesn't get to choose. Shockwave does.)

It's insane, and yet Shockwave doesn't relent. He keeps trying over and over again, the pain growing steadily worse with each new attempt. Even as Mirage tries in vain to pull away from the claws sunken deep into his spark, he's inexorably yanked from one round of agony to the next, the end of one and the beginning of the next blurring hopelessly together until all he knows is one continuous stream of pain.

Mirage tries to block it out and ignore it. He tries to curl up in a hidden corner of his processor and pretend that he's safe in his quarters back at base, or his old home in the long-destroyed Towers, or even out in the wild on a mission alongside Jazz, Bumblebee, or Hound — anywhere as long as it's not here.

But every time he tries, the terrible burning in his spark unerringly drags him back out, forcing him to remain viscerally present. There's no escape, not even into his own mind.

He first realizes something's changed when there's a gap in the pain, long enough that he can drag himself back into something resembling clarity. The claws in his spark had been removed at some point while he was distracted. Soon after that, a new massive presence appears near him, felt only by the surging spark energy. It crashes down on him, a heavy and inexorable pressure that surrounds him on all sides.

Then the claws are returning, sharper and more numerous this time, and Mirage braces himself for the pain he knows is coming.

But nothing can prepare him for the moment that there's a sudden searing scorching all-consuming and oh Primus it's a million times worse this time and he's screaming wailing what is this what's going on I don't understand no no no make it stop make it stop make it stop —

The terrible scorching pain cuts out but the pressure remains, looming at the edge of his awareness and impossible to ignore. Still, Mirage would sob in relief if he could, as long as that sheer agony never comes back. His spark burns, like Shockwave had torn it apart millimeter by millimeter and then imperfectly welded it all back together.

(Maybe he did. Shockwave could've done anything to him and he wouldn't know. He's blind and deaf and alone and scared and he can't feel anything except darkness and pain and he wouldn't know he wouldn't know — )

Mirage shoves the panic down again, mentally imagining himself taking slow ventilations (he has to imagine it because he can't do it physically anymore, he doesn't have vents at all, Shockwave cut out — focus. Focus). He pushes through the aftershocks of the pain as best he can, grasping for scrambled processing threads with shaking hands (except he doesn't have — focus). He barely notices the quick stinging jolts that follow in its wake, shooting abruptly out of the darkness from whatever Shockwave is doing now. All his attention — or as much of it as he can muster — is on trying to understand what just happened.

That was… that was the Nemesis. Wasn't it? But no, it couldn't have been. Connecting a mech's spark to a full-sized warship, using it as an energy source and expecting it not to extinguish immediately — insane. Unthinkable. Impossible.

(But that pain — that raw searing scorching all-consuming pain that had ripped through his spark and turned his existence inside out — )

(Shockwave has done the impossible before.)

As if to confirm his thoughts, there's the brief brush of a field humming with satisfaction for a job well-done, accompanied by a hint of pride.

And then it's gone, and Mirage is alone save for that massive, surrounding presence, his spark already being slowly crushed under the weight of a burden it was never meant to take.

The massive presence beside him never leaves. It just looms there, oppressive but aimless. It's the ship itself, he realizes eventually. Trypticon, now re-designated as the Nemesis. His mind sent into stasis but his spark still horrifying alive.

(Like him, Mirage thinks distantly, except he doesn't get the relief of unconsciousness. He has to be viscerally present for every single nanoklik.)

Trypticon, of course, never says or does anything. The occasional brush of his spark presence against Mirage is a natural, unconscious rhythm. If he were aware, Mirage knows Trypticon would hate that, hate him. Even comatose, his presence is a series of jagged claws against Mirage's weakened field.

But still, they are inimitably connected. It gives Mirage glimpses, broken and disconnected flashes of things happening near and inside the ship.

Workers, patching holes, welding lines, re-equipping the ship with weapons of war.

Soundwave, standing on the bridge, supervising the work with a keen optic.

Mecha filling the restored corridors, populating the Nemesis with an army.

The remnants of his own frame, strung up on a wall in a macabre display next to Trypticon's spark, cables latched onto his own spark, forced to give life to a new cloaking system.

Engines, once damaged by his own long-gone hand, finally blazing to life.

Then a massive orange ship. A red symbol emblazoned on its side.

The Nemesis chases after it as it flees into the sky, cloaking system searing scorching all-consuming fully activated.

It's only once the cloak drops and he's able to crawl back into some semblance of sanity that he recognizes it.

The Ark. The Autobots. His people, his allies, his friends. Jazz and Hound and Bumblebee and his Prime, they're all there, they're all fighting for their lives, and they need help, he has to help them —

He tries to fight. Reaches out futilely, as if he could wrench control of the ship away from his captors when he doesn't even have control over his own frame and spark. But of course, he can't do anything at all.

He catches only glimpses of the greater battle as it rages: cables snaking out to latch onto the Ark, seekers and aerialbots darting around each other, a flickering, rapidly-approaching portal above them all.

The Nemesis shudders as it takes damage. The Ark shakes, explosions ripping along its hull. Boarding cables finally break but it's too late. The portal flares. Unstable coronas of light and energy writhe dangerously along the edges. Both ships are inescapably yanked toward it, wild vortices nearly ripping them apart at the seams.

Everything goes blank as the ship tumbles through the portal.

When the ship's presence finally stirs to life to scrape against Mirage's field again, they're floating alone in space. The Ark is nowhere to be seen.

Even from where he's entombed deep within the ship, he can hear Megatron's roar of fury.

A victory. Mirage clings to the knowledge as best he can. The Ark is damaged, but it still exists. The Decepticons did not destroy it. Despite the pain and death doubtlessly caused in the battle, despite their planet being left behind as a desolate wasteland, it is a victory.

(In the endless vorns to come, it is the only one he will know.)

At first, there is nothing but the Nemesis's slow glide through space.

It's interspersed with that terrifying searing scorching all-consuming, activated every time they risk coming across another ship.

It's never the Ark. Never an Autobot ship. That's something of a solace, at least.

But the Nemesis keeps moving. Searching. Hunting.

A tireless predator, utterly unyielding.

And then a lone Autobot shuttle. Engines on low power. Quietly picking its way through the endless expanse of space.

It doesn't realize they're there.

(He doesn't see the Nemesis creeping up on the ship. Doesn't see the glee in Megatron. Doesn't see the weapon systems spinning to life. But he knows they happen, somewhere in the back of his processor that can still register things through the searing scorching all-consuming.)

The cloak drops. The shuttle turns to flee.

Megatron laughs. Mirage starts to cry out uselessly.

The Nemesis fires.

Even with Trypticon's spark beside him, he's always alone. Trypticon is probably as good as dead, comatose the way he is.

No one ever comes down to where he is, or if they do, they never come close enough to teek them. Fuel is delivered in regular intervals that have to be automated. It's always the same slow trickle of Energon, just enough to keep his spark online. Just enough to stay on the right wrong side of starvation.

Just enough to keep him alive.

(Does Megatron even remember he's here? That the source of his ship's cloaking system is was a living, thinking mech? No, he doubts it. Megatron doesn't even care that the Nemesis used to be Trypticon. Mirage? He's just a tool to him. No, less than. Tools are consciously used. Tools are thought about, even if only when they're in use.)

(But Mirage has been abandoned, kept alive only by automatic processes set up and then forgotten about, ignored and left to rot away until he breaks irreparably and their cloak breaks with him.)

(He's alone. And when his spark eventually caves in on itself from the agony, he's going to die alone too.)

The fourth ship is half-wrecked already. The engines are blown apart. A fourth of it has been sheared completely away.

But an SOS signal steadily blinks. There was at least one survivor from whatever initially took it down.

There was.

He should've been faster.

He should've been better.

He should've taken his own spark rather than let himself be captured, twisted, used against his people.

He should've —

But he failed. Jazz trusted him, Jazz was relying on him, and he failed.

He failed.

(…It's his fault.)

The eighth ship tries to fight back. Defiant to the end.

(Like he tried to be but his defiance won him nothing, and then it didn't end, it still hasn't ended, the pain just keeps going and going — )

They never stood a chance.

It's his fault.

(He's sorry.)

Another ship.

Another surge of searing scorching all-consuming.

Another distant roar of weapons firing.

Another death.

It's his fault.

(He's so sorry.)

And in between the searing scorching all-consuming, he weeps.

He weeps as the tenth thirteenth seventeenth twentieth ship is destroyed, and he weeps as space grows littered with the corpses of Autobots, and he weeps as the death toll just keeps rising, and he weeps because it's his power they're using, and he weeps —

(Trypticon is as good as dead. He wishes he was too.)

There's never a break. Even when the ship isn't actively drawing on his energy, the pain never leaves. It just changes to a burning, unrelenting ache that radiates out from deep within his spark.

But sometimes the searing scorching all-consuming briefly withdraws, even as Nemesis drifts through space, uncloaked but always searching for more enemies, more victims.

And for a moment, he teeters on the edge of coherency, and somehow that's almost worse, knowing what's happening, knowing what's coming, knowing what they're using him for — knowing knowing knowing and still utterly helpless to stop it.

(How many now? How many have been hunted down? How many have been tricked by the cloaking system, this power they never should've had if if he'd just been a little more careful, if he hadn't been foolish enough to get caught? How many have been killed because of him?)

(How many how many how many — )

Then another ship appears on the far edge of sensors. Searing scorching all-consuming endless stop no more no more tears through his spark, and the world breaks once again into shadows and silent screams and death and all he knows is —

Agony.

(…Stop.)

Unrelenting.

(Stop, he can't do this anymore.)

Unceasing.

(No more, please.)

Endless.

(He's sorry.)

Searing scorching all-consuming.

(Please, it hurts.)

Like lava in his fuel lines.

(It hurts so much.)

Burning him from the inside out.

(He's so scared.)

Setting his spark on fire.

(He's scared and tired and completely alone and and and and and — )

Tearing his mind apart.

(He just wants to go home.)

Cracking his very foundation of self.

(He wants to go home he wants to go home he wants to go home — )

Nothing but pain left.

(Why won't they let him go home?)

No stopping it.

(searing scorching all-consuming Jazz Hound Prowl Bumblebee Cliffjumper Prime someone anyone help me please I'm sorry I just want to go home let me go home please —)

No escaping it.

( — please please please please please please please please please please — )

No hope.

Time shatters.

He shatters with it.

His awareness fractures, a million shards of glass broken and scattered into the void. There are quick flickers of consciousness that flare weakly in the endless darkness, distant knowledge seeping in via the proximity of the titan's spark beside him, but it's all immediately drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming strain of having the entire ship linked directly to his spark.

He can't see. Can't hear. Can't move. Can't think.

His world has been torn apart, cut away piece by piece by Shockwave's merciless hand. All that's left are the tubes dripping a slow trickle of fuel into his tanks, the cables piercing his spark chamber and leeching power from his spark, and the scattered fragments of his own processor.

(His fault his fault his fault and he's sorry, he'll do anything to atone for it, just please — )

His frame — what little is left of it — convulses as another pulsing wave of searing scorching all-consuming roars through it. His spark howls as the strain of powering the ship's cloak crashes down on it again, and he howls with it.

Please, he begs to the empty void as the agony goes on and on and on and on and stop stop why isn't it stopping I'm sorry please I'm sorry just make the pain stop help me help me help me please let me go home or just let me die —

But no matter how much he pleads, neither help nor death ever come. Then again, why would they? A cry for help or a plea for mercy need to be heard first, and trapped deep in the belly of this warship, no one can hear him screaming without a voice.

Chapter Text

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

— C.S. Lewis

Ratchet

It's rather strange being back on the Nemesis — inside of Trypticon, Ratchet corrects himself, because no matter what Trypticon had done in the war or how Megatron might have treated him, he's still a mech, not a non-sentient warship, and he deserves to be acknowledged as such.

The last time Ratchet was here, he was being held captive by the Decepticons and forced to develop a synthetic Energon. And then that last battle of the war had come, Megatron's death, Cybertron's revival —

Now he's walking down long corridors in search of Trypticon's spark chamber so he can evaluate it and eventually create a new frame for him.

Ratchet spends most of his time on Earth these days, but Optimus had called him through the Space Bridge when Trypticon first spoke to him — snarled, more like, based on how Arcee tells it. Optimus had wanted to know if there was any way to fix the damage and give Trypticon his root mode back.

(Several others had been worried about what giving Trypticon full functionality back would mean. Ratchet understands their concerns, but as a medic, he would never forgive himself if he didn't at least try. No one deserves to be relegated to a mindless tool for others to use, no matter what they did in the past. The war is over now anyway.)

Unfortunately, there's nothing Ratchet can do for Trypticon's current frame. His lingering damage from the war on Cybertron and the long time he'd spent dormant while Megatron piloted him means his current form as a warship is permanent. Ratchet can't fix that.

He can, however, give him a new frame.

It took a long time to convince Trypticon to accept the offer. It didn't help that just trying to communicate with him is tricky. His damage means he's rarely awake at all, let alone aware enough to hear and answer questions. When he is, he still tends to be very slow to respond. Not to mention his hatred and disdain for Autobots.

But Ratchet and Optimus had kept offering a reframe, and eventually Trypticon had grudgingly accepted. Not even he was willing to spend the rest of his functioning stuck in his altmode purely out of spite.

He checks his map again, turns two more corners, and finally catches sight of the door that, according to the map, is the entry to the spark chamber. Sighing with relief, he inputs the code Trypticon gave him and steps through the door now irising open.

The glow of Trypticon's spark is nearly blinding after walking through dark halls with only his own flashlights for light. Ratchet has to take a moment to let his optics adjust, pulling a scanner from his subspace as he squints up at the orange-tinted white light that stands out starkly against the black walls.

Once his vision's adjusted, Ratchet starts toward the spark, already calibrating his scanner and beginning to draft potential frames. Then he stops, optics widening in surprise.

"What in the name of the AllSpark?"

He cycles his optics in case there's some error in his visual feed, but when he looks back he's still greeted by the same sight: a second spark, pale blue and minuscule next to its massive counterpart.

He steps closer, activating a polarity filter as he peers up at the smaller light. The spark is nestled within a hollow hemisphere of metal, which in turn is sunken halfway into the wall. There are several cables hooked directly onto the spark, their other ends stretching upward to disappear somewhere into the ceiling. Below it is what seems to be some sort of fueling tank, based on the fueling tubes extending from that region, although the tank itself is mostly-hidden by the wall. And above it is…

Ratchet almost drops his scanner.

That's a central processor.

It's not just a second spark, Ratchet realizes with a lurch of horror. It's a mech.

Or what's left of one.

It's impossible to determine their identity; every recognizable feature has been stripped away, leaving only the bare minimum required to still call them a mech. From his current vantage point, Ratchet can see the spark in the open spark chamber, the fuel tank and fuel lines, and the processor, along with just enough protoform left to hold it all together. No plating, no limbs, and only the vague impression of what was once a chassis.

He's activating his comm even as he moves in for a closer look.

::Optimus,:: he starts once the connection's established. Then he falters because how in the name of Primus does one explain something like this?

::Ratchet?:: Optimus prompts after a couple nanokliks of silence. ::Is something the matter?::

Ratchet takes a moment to vent deeply. ::Optimus. I… Yes. There is… another mech here, in Trypticon's spark chamber.::

Optimus's voice remains calm, but there's a hint of alarm to it when he asks, ::Is it a Decepticon?::

::No, not a Decepticon. A prisoner. The Cons, they… Primus below, they…:: Ratchet takes another deep vent and draws on his medical coding. Focus. Be calm and straight-forward. Lay out all the relevant facts. ::It appears that the Decepticons de-framed a mech and connected his spark to the ship.::

::…They what?::

::They de-framed a mech and connected his spark to the ship,:: Ratchet repeats.

A noticeable pause while Optimus no doubt tries to regain his composure. ::I… I see. For what purpose?::

::I'm not sure yet. I've only just arrived in Trypticon's spark chamber.:: Ratchet quickly and succinctly describes the scene before him, then says, ::I need you to get here, as soon as possible. It'll be easier to get them down with your help.::

::Of course,:: Optimus says immediately. ::I will be there in five breems.::

Ratchet closes the channel, then turns his attention back to the poor mech half-buried in the wall. Their spark is maybe half a meter above the top of Ratchet's helm and surrounded by a plethora of medical equipment, all of which seems to have been integrated directly into the ship. Despite the clear signs that someone wished to ensure that this mech stays online, the spark is still flickering dangerously every now and then.

Ratchet extends his field as far as he can, searching for any sign of the mech's. However, it’s only when Ratchet physically sets a hand on the remnants of protoform around the spark chamber that he detects their field. And even then, it's is no more than a faded whisper, faint and nearly impossible to feel even when he focuses on it. He gently nudges their field, trying to obtain a response, but there's no reaction. Ratchet feels a new wave of concern wash over him. Not a good sign.

But then, what about any of this is good?

It takes half a breem of searching, but eventually Ratchet locates a functioning port just under the unknown mech's processor, where the neck cabling would usually be. It's not a normal place for a port, which means whoever did this to them intentionally added it. For easier maintenance, probably. As he stretches up to plug in, Ratchet silently curses out the twisted soul who decided that this utter atrocity was acceptable.

(He's guessing Shockwave. This is exactly the sort of cruelty Ratchet would expect from him.)

The handshake protocols from the mech are fragmented; he can detect various defenses — ruthless, vicious ones, too — but they all lay dormant, not even twitching as Ratchet cautiously establishes the connection. From what Ratchet can already see of their processor, they might not even have the ability to activate them anymore, although he's worked enough times with mecha like Jazz who excel at tricking potential hackers to stay mindful of those defenses.

Ratchet sends a general inquiring ping down the hardline, but there's still no response.

He frowns, then manually calls out, ::Hello?:: He keeps any hint of his simmering rage out of his glyphs, instead layering them with gentle, patience, and concern.

For several nanokliks, still nothing. Then, ever so slowly, he can feel something in the mech's processor shift. Their presence slowly creeps outward to tentatively press back against Ratchet's gentle probing.

::…what… who…::

::My designation is Ratchet. I'm an Autobot medic.::

::Ratchet,:: the mech echoes faintly. The transmitted glyphs are plain and flat, the mech seemingly unable to muster the strength or clarity to add any modifiers, but Ratchet can feel a sense of both confusion and vague recognition welling up from somewhere within their processor.

::Yes,:: Ratchet confirms, then repeats, ::I'm an Autobot medic.::

::No,:: the mech mutters.

Ratchet cycles his optics. ::No?::

::No… not real…:: The mech's presence withdraws again, but Ratchet can still hear them whispering to themselves. ::No one coming… not real… alone…::

Ah. Unfortunately, not an uncommon response when rescuing mecha who've been held captive for a very long time. Especially when they're as disoriented as this mech clearly is.

::I am real,:: Ratchet promises. He sends comforting pulses down the hardline and feels a distinct confusion emanate back. ::I'm real and I'm here.::

::But… never came before… always alone…::

::I know, and I'm sorry for that. But I'm here now. You're not alone now.::

The mech hesitates, then tentatively echoes, ::Not alone?::

::You're not alone.::

::…Home?::

::Yes, you’ll be going home soon. I just have to get you down from there first.::

A confused pause. ::…Down…?::

::Yes. You are currently, ah… connected to the Nemesis.:: Ratchet hesitates. ::Do you know what the Nemesis is?::

This answer, at least, comes more a little quickly. ::Ship.::

::Yes, a Decepticon warship.:: It's good to know that the mech, despite being understandably confused, isn't entirely incoherent. There's still a functioning, if damaged, mind in there. ::What's your designation?::

There's a long pause as the mech struggles to pull frayed processing threads back together. Ratchet feels a new surge of rage roar to life, although he makes sure to keep it out of his field and well away from where their minds are pressing together in the hardline.

But by the AllSpark, how long has this mech been here, that he struggles to remember his own designation?

Just as Ratchet begins to think that the mech won't — or in all likelihood, can't — answer, he feels the mech's processor finally settle, their attention turning back to him.

::…Mirage.::

Ratchet shutters his optics briefly as pieces click into place with that single revelation.

Mirage could turn invisible and had gone missing shortly before the exodus from Cybertron. The Nemesis has had a cloaking field from practically the first time it'd been in action, chasing after the Ark as it fled. And here Mirage is, stripped down to the literal minimum needed to keep a mech alive, with cables feeding his spark energy directly into the ship.

Primus below.

::I'm getting you out of here,:: Ratchet says again.

Mirage just whispers, ::Want to go home.::

::You will.::

::Want to go home,:: he repeats plaintively.

::You are going home,:: Ratchet promises.

Mirage doesn't seem to believe him, but he goes quiet anyway. His mind is permeated with a miserable resignation.

Ratchet shutters his optics and does his best to ignore the twisting of his own spark in favor of venting deeply and steadying his own thoughts. Before he can safely disconnect Mirage, he's going to need a lot more specialized equipment first. A way to protect the exposed and delicate protoform, more medical-grade Energon than what he has on him, and spark stabilizers, to name just a few. After Mirage's spark has spent so long linked to a ship magnitudes beyond what it ever should've been able to power (how is his spark even still online?), Ratchet doesn't trust that it won't gutter out the instant he disconnects them without precautions.

He is not going to free Mirage only to immediately lose him because he wasn't properly prepared.

But he's not going to leave him alone either. Mirage has spent what must be vorns alone, trapped within the remains of his own frame and processor, and — he glances again at the cables — in immense pain the whole time. Ratchet checks his clock and nods to himself. Optimus will be here soon, and then he can retrieve everything he needs.

As he waits, he pulls out the emergency fueling kit he keeps in his subspace for soldiers too injured to ingest fuel the normal way, as well as a spare cube of Energon. Although the Energon is just a base medical grade intended for general wellness, without any of the supplements that would best help Mirage's specific situation, it will do until Ratchet can retrieve more.

::I'm going to connect one of your fuel lines to my equipment to give you some med-grade Energon,:: Ratchet says.

::Want to go home.::

::You will.::

::Please,:: Mirage whispers. ::I'm sorry. Let me go home. Please.::

::You have nothing to be sorry for,:: Ratchet tells him gently. ::And I promise, you're going home. I just need to give you Energon so you're strong enough to do so.::

Carefully, he detaches one of the fueling tubes from the ship. A few droplets of Energon fall to the floor but nowhere near as much as he expects. He takes in the thin stream of fuel leaking from the detached tube, counts the total number of lines going to Mirage's tank, and scowls.

Of course. Just enough fuel to keep a mech alive and not one drop more. Wouldn't want to waste any more of their precious fuel than they had to on a prisoner, after all. Fraggers.

Ratchet allows himself a single moment of anger and then refocuses. It's a simple matter to reconnect the tube to his own equipment and start up a steady drip of med-grade instead.

As the Energon is slowly delivered to Mirage's tanks, Ratchet monitors it vigilantly. He has to be very careful not to go too fast or give too much. Mirage needs the Energon to recover his strength enough to be moved, but after being deprived of it for so long, giving him too much at once will just make his tanks try to purge it — which considering he has none of the components needed to do so, might do nothing at absolute best but is more likely to be an incredibly painful, messy process.

Once he's sure the Energon is flowing at a good pace, Ratchet starts to inspect Mirage's form thoroughly. He formulates a list of everything he'll absolutely need to safely move Mirage, several pieces of equipment that might not be necessary but could be, and a few more of things that probably won't be but he'll bring anyway just to be safe. He's not taking any chance with this.

The list is extensive. He may need to recruit another mech to help him carry all of it. He's still thinking through which bot would be best suited as a medical aide when he hears the thudding of footsteps behind him, just before Optimus's call of "Ratchet?" rings out.

Optimus

Even forewarned with Ratchet's description of the Decepticons' prisoner, Optimus is not sure he could ever be fully prepared for the moment his optics land on the poor mech's starved and diminished form half-buried in the wall.

Optimus has seen many terrible things over the vorns of war — blown-apart soldiers on battlefields, prisoners of Decepticons offlined and tossed into piles of corpses to rust away, the remains of the poor mecha who end up as victims of Shockwave's experiments — but it never gets any less horrifying.

"Primus," Optimus murmurs.

"Optimus," Ratchet greets. His voice is tight with barely restrained fury.

Optimus steps closer, unable to tear his optics away the Decepticons' prisoner. "Do you know who…?"

"It's Mirage."

Optimus's optics flicker to the cables through Mirage's spark, then to the way they're connecting it to the ship at large. From there, it's not hard to make the connection between his outlier ability and the Nemesis's cloaking system.

His optics shutter briefly.

Oh, Mirage.

"I have to retrieve some equipment before I can risk disconnecting him," Ratchet explains. He gestures at where he's plugged into Mirage's port. "I need you to keep him company until I return."

"Of course," Optimus says instantly, unspooling his own hardline.

Whereas Ratchet would've had to stretch to plug in, Optimus can simply reach forward and slide his own cable into place. Ratchet's handshake protocols greet him first, followed by the tangled mess of code that's Mirage's.

Mirage's mind recoils when Optimus first touches it. However, Optimus notes that even in his obvious fear, his defenses, which had been created and refined to SpecOps's exacting standards, never stir. It's concerning and relieving in equal measure. At least they don’t have to deal with that on top of everything else, but how damaged must his mind be that he can’t activate defenses that are meant to be automatic?

::It's okay, Mirage, he's a friend,:: Ratchet soothes, and Optimus is impressed by how there's not even a hint of rage in his glyphs. ::This is Optimus Prime.::

Mirage doesn't respond, just shrinks back even further.

::Hello, Mirage,:: Optimus says softly.

::You can trust him, Mirage,:: Ratchet says. ::He's going to help me bring you home.::

::…Home?::

::Yes, home.::

Mirage hesitates, obviously weighing Ratchet's words against his own fear, but eventually he creeps closer again.

::You… Prime?::

::Yes, I'm Optimus Prime.::

::Going home?::

::Soon,:: Ratchet promises. ::Very soon. I need to retrieve equipment to safely disconnect you first.::

::And then home?::

Optimus's optics shutter for a brief moment at the fragility in those three words, the way Mirage asks them as if expecting to be told no even after Ratchet has constantly been reassuring him of just the opposite.

::And then home,:: Ratchet agrees patiently. ::I need to disconnect now. Will you be alright with Optimus until then?::

::Prime?::

Ratchet nudges Optimus in the physical world, and he takes his cue. ::Yes. I'm here. Ratchet needs to disconnect now, but I won't leave. I'll still be here.::

Mirage just sends the vague approximation of an acknowledging hum. Glancing at each other, Optimus and Ratchet mutually agree that that's likely the best they're going to get.

As soon as Ratchet has disconnected and stepped a safe distance away, he lets out a furious growl, all his plating flaring, his field practically snapping at the air.

"Ratchet?"

Ratchet clenches his fists, then glances at Mirage and forcibly loosens them. "I'll be back soon," he says tightly, fury cascading through his field. Without another word, he turns and stalks away, each footstep a sharp crack of thunder.

As Ratchet disappears through the door, Optimus turns back to Mirage. His fingers twitch, wanting to lay a comforting hand on his frame, but there's practically nowhere to do so. Not to mention it's unlikely he even has any sensors left to feel it.

A flash of guilt shoots through him at the thought. Optimus can't even begin to imagine what being de-framed would feel like, the pain of having his frame cut away from him and the resulting loss of awareness around him, not to mention his spark being tortured the way Mirage’s surely has been. He can't imagine it, and yet Mirage has been suffering exactly that for so very long.

He'd had first gone missing vorns ago, in the middle of the Autobots' preparations to evacuate Cybertron. Despite the SpecOps division's best efforts, they'd never managed to find out what had happened to him. All they'd known was that he'd succeeded in his mission of damaging the Nemesis's engines, but after that, nothing.

Then once the actual exodus started, they simply didn't have the time or resources to continue searching for a single lost agent, no matter how high-ranked. Jazz had been devastated, but both he and Optimus had known he'd been desperately needed to help coordinate the evacuation, not searching for someone who in all likelihood was already dead.

Mirage had very likely sacrificed his life to buy them the time they needed, after all. They couldn't let that be in vain.

Now Optimus wishes he'd authorized Jazz to keep looking for Mirage anyway. He isn't sure he can ever make that mistake right, but he'll do anything he can to help him.

With that conviction in mind, he gently brushes against Mirage's mind again. Mirage hadn't said anything through the entire process of Ratchet leaving, and even now he stays quiet.

::Mirage?:: Optimus asks.

::Want to go home.::

Optimus has to shutter his optics at the pleading and yet near-automatic response. ::You'll be home soon. In the meantime, is there anything you would like to know about? I would be happy to answer any questions you have. You can ask me anything at all.::

::Home? Please?::

::Yes, you will be going home very soon,:: Optimus repeats patiently. ::However, is there anything you would like to know about home? Any updates I can give you?::

Mirage hesitates. He doesn't seem to quite know where to start or even what he should be asking after. Optimus waits quietly, letting him arrange his thoughts into something relatively lucid.

::…Jazz?:: he finally asks after over half a breem, tentative and with a quiet undercurrent of fear.

::Yes, Jazz is still alive and well,:: Optimus assures him, and relief flashes through the hardline. As of three vorns ago, at least, the last time Optimus had managed to get in contact with him and Prowl, but he's fairly certain that that additional clarification will not help Mirage right now.

::Here?:: Mirage presses. He's already brightening hopefully at the thought, seeming more aware than he's been the entire time Optimus has been connected to him, but Optimus feels his spark sink.

::No, Mirage, I'm sorry,:: he says gently. ::Jazz isn't here right now.::

It hurts to feel the way Mirage utterly deflates at that. He withdraws into himself without another a word, a heavy cloud of dejection sweeping over his processor. Optimus can faintly catch a few of his stray thoughts that are drifting out: of course not, failed, don't deserve, hates me.

::No, Jazz could never hate you,:: Optimus assures him — he'd seen how Jazz had practically taken over the role of Mirage's creators after the fall of the Towers, how he'd quietly fallen apart after Mirage had been declared lost — but Mirage doesn't seem to even hear him.

Despite Optimus's best efforts, Mirage stops responding to him after that, lost within his own processor again. Optimus tries several times to break through the miserable self-recriminations in order to correct some of the thoughts that are escaping, but Mirage either can't hear or is choosing to ignore him. He still isn't answering any of Optimus's pings by the time Ratchet strides back in almost a full joor later, pushing a cart of medical equipment in front of him.

Bumblebee follows close behind, hauling a full-sized gurney with him. He lets out a distressed trill when he catches sight of Mirage, his newly-recovered voice failing him in his shock.

"How is he?" Ratchet asks.

Optimus grimaces. "Not well. He asked after Jazz, but then pulled away and stopped talking when I had to tell him Jazz isn't here. He hasn't responded to me since."

"I could — " Bumblebee's voice falters at first. He vents and tries again. "I could try. I'm not Jazz, but I was SpecOps. Maybe he'd respond better to me."

Ratchet shakes his head. "Later. I want to get him down from there first." He steps up beside Optimus, beckoning Bumblebee closer.

"What do you need us to do?" Optimus asks.

"Optimus, you need to hold him up, so that when I cut him loose he doesn't fall," Ratchet instructs. "Bumblebee, you'll be helping to hold the equipment once I set it up. Don't let any of it disconnect."

"Of course," Optimus says.

Bumblebee nods, optics sharp and serious in the way they usually only get on the battlefield. "I won't."

As Ratchet starts to work, Optimus calls to Mirage, ::We're about to get you down.::

He's disappointed but unsurprised when he still gets nothing back. Optimus doesn't push. There will be better times, and that vicious storm of self-recrimination has at least faded in favor of an exhausted silence.

In what seems to be no time at all, Ratchet has set up his own medical equipment. Mixed in with all the other life-support hardware from the Nemesis that Mirage is already connected to, it just looks like a mess of cables and miscellaneous machines from Optimus's perspective. Bumblebee is left balancing several tools and monitors in his arms, and a couple more machines that he had no more room to hold are clamped down securely across his shoulders.

With all of the new equipment in place, Ratchet begins to disconnect the Nemesis's hardware. Optimus watches, at first anxiously, then slowly relaxing as nothing goes wrong.

After pulling out one last cable, Ratchet beckons Optimus closer. "I'm going to start cutting him out of there now. Be ready."

Optimus nods. "I'm ready," he confirms.

Ratchet's movements are just as careful but efficient as before when he pulls out a cutting laser. Optimus watches with a keen optic for the moment he'll need to catch Mirage.

Finally, as Ratchet finishes cutting around a panel, the upper half of Mirage's form begins to tip forward. Optimus quickly reaches out to steady him, letting the protoform around Mirage's processor rest gently against his chest-plate. It means he has to stand very close to the wall, but it also lets him support Mirage's form without forcing it to bend awkwardly. Bumblebee obligingly adjusts his position to prevent any kinks from forming in the medical cables.

"Gentle, gentle," Ratchet reminds them, although there's no bite to it.

It's hardly necessary anyway. Even though Bumblebee is only holding the medical equipment and not Mirage himself, he couldn't be more gentle if he tried. Optimus is fairly certain he himself has never been so careful. He is keenly aware of how easy it would be to harm Mirage just by moving wrong. The slightest bit of pressure in the wrong spot, and he could very easily break the weak, brittle protoform.

Ratchet glances up to make sure Optimus has him secured, then returns to his work. Optimus and Bumblebee wait patiently, not daring to move lest they accidentally hurt Mirage. They only shift when absolutely necessary for Ratchet's work.

"Almost…" Ratchet murmurs. He wedges his fingers behind the last panel, giving him a good grip to pull on it. His other hand moves to finish cutting it loose. "Almost…"

And then, with one last careful pass, Mirage is free.

His form fully sags into Optimus's waiting arms. He weighs practically nothing. Optimus gently adjusts his grip to ensure every part of him is well supported and vents out slow and careful, unable to shake the fear that even that small motion could somehow harm him. He has held many injured soldiers in the past, but it's particularly terrifying to feel just how fragile Mirage is now.

::I have you,:: Optimus promises him. ::You're out now, and you're going home.::

It takes several nanokliks, but finally Mirage stirs again. ::…Home?::

::Home,:: he agrees.

Ratchet puts his tools back on his cart, then helps Optimus carefully settle Mirage onto the gurney without disturbing any of medical equipment Bumblebee's holding. The gurney, which had been built for full-size mecha around the size of Wheeljack or Smokescreen, seems to practically swallow Mirage. If not for the weak glow of his spark, it'd look like Ratchet had simply collected a few spare parts.

As if sensing his renewed sorrow, Bumblebee sets a hand on his arm. “We have him now.” He sounds as if he’s reassuring himself more than he is Optimus. His optics drop to Mirage’s small form, huddled in the gurney, and then he repeats, more firmly, “We have him.”

Optimus takes a deep, steadying vent and lets his field overlap with Bumblebee’s in gratitude. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

Giving Mirage his frame back is a slow process.

Optimus does his best to help, but it still takes time to gather the materials they need and even more time after that for Ratchet to carefully build the pieces of Mirage's new frame. Even with Cybertron alive once more, resources are limited to what they can currently retrieve with the mecha they have. And even then, they have a great deal of other rebuilding to do at the same time.

Fortunately, many of Mirage's design specifications already exist in Autobot databases and are found with just a little bit of digging. Unfortunately, due to being from the Towers, they have incredibly exacting standards, particularly the more delicate parts such as his optical and audial sensors.

Ratchet is left spending most of his time painstakingly crafting and then re-crafting each of Mirage's components, trying to match his specifications as closely as possible. Perceptor, who'd shown up four cycles after their own return to Cybertron, willingly takes over designing Trypticon's new one, freeing Ratchet’s time up even further.

In the meantime, Optimus and the others have done their best to make sure someone is with Mirage at all times. Bumblebee spends the most time with him, sitting at his side for joors and cycles at a time, but Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen all take turns too. More mecha are returning to Cybertron by the cycle, and a few of them offer their time too when they learn about the situation; but Bumblebee has reported that Mirage tends to react poorly to new mecha in his processor, especially ones he's never met before. He’s barely accepted Arcee and Bulkhead as it is.

"It's okay," Bumblebee assures Optimus when asked if he needs a break. "I don't mind."

Optimus takes on a couple shifts as well, but he has an entire planet to rebuild. No matter how much he wishes he could help more, he simply doesn't have the time to sit in the medbay for long periods, not when there are so many other things that require his attention.

He hates it. Even knowing that Ratchet is doing everything he can for Mirage, even knowing other mecha are with him now, he hates feeling like he is once again putting the good of the many over a single mech — a mech he already failed terribly before.

Mirage almost never says anything during the few times Optimus is connected with him either. Sometimes, he doesn't even acknowledge his presence, instead just drifting aimlessly in his own processor even when Optimus tries to send gentle, inquiring pings in his direction. His responses, during the rare times they do come, are tired and distant. His exhaustion is apparent in his listless processing threads.

Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen all report similar situations. Bumblebee says that Mirage is a little more responsive to him but still not terribly so.

"Maybe he's just taking some time to rest," suggests Smokescreen, who'd walked in during the middle of Optimus, Bumblebee, and Ratchet's discussion. "He was in there for a long time. Makes sense he wouldn't have the energy to do anything now."

"It could be," Ratchet agrees. "Keep an eye on it, but unless it keeps up after he gets some of his frame functionality back, I wouldn't push him for now."

Bumblebee nods. "Just be there for him while he rests. Got it."

Ratchet doesn't spend much time directly hardlined to Mirage either, but Optimus hardly begrudges him for that. He's busy creating a new frame almost entirely from scratch and making sure Mirage's spark doesn't just give out in the meantime.

It takes approximately five decacycles for Ratchet to reach the point of actively bringing Mirage's frame back online, but it feels much longer. Eventually, though, Optimus receives a comm asking him to come to the medbay as soon as possible.

::Optimus,:: Ratchet says, and Optimus sits up from where he's looking over reports on their current rebuilding progress in his makeshift office. ::I'm going to reconnect his optics in a joor. I expect you to be there::

::Of course,:: Optimus says without hesitation. ::I'm on my way.::

By the time he arrives, Ratchet is standing and fiddling with something at his workbench. Bumblebee is sitting next to Mirage; he glances up and waves when Optimus steps into the room. Optimus nods back, taking a seat beside him.

Early on, Bumblebee had covered Mirage's medical berth with blankets to let him lie on something softer than the berth surface itself. More of those blankets have been carefully wrapped around Mirage's form now to keep him warm. Optimus isn't sure how many of his external sensors have been reactivated, but he hopes they're helping Mirage to feel safe and comfortable.

The blankets mean that Optimus cannot see most of Mirage's form, but he knows the existing protoform has been thickened by additional metal, leaving Mirage still frameless but not quite so accidentally breakable. His spark chamber, fuel tank, and processor are no longer exposed to open air. He still has no limbs or plating, but his fan and ventilation systems have been reinstalled and attached to a monitor and automatic ventilator that run them for him.

He looks better than before, but Optimus still cannot help but remember that initial form half-buried in the wall whenever he looks at him.

After a klik, Ratchet finally strides over. "I've put him in stasis for the time being. I don't expect this to take that long." He sighs. "There is a chance, though, that his optics won't immediately work. I've had enough trouble getting most of that additional protoform to integrate well."

Optimus frowns. "Why is that?"

"His self-repair system is completely slagged up. Doesn't want to acknowledge anything new as part of his systems. I'm working on getting it to accept the new pieces as part of his frame, but it's a slow process."

"But eventually everything will work for him?" asks Bumblebee anxiously.

"Yes, they should, in time. In the meantime, though, and afterwards… You already know that Mirage is going to be looking at a long recovery, physically and mentally. We won't know all the psychological issues until later, but long term damage is a given." He grimaces. "I can tell you right now, his spark damage? Almost certainly permanent. How much remains to be seen, I'm still working on developing a specialized stabilizer for it, but I don't expect to be able to completely fix it."

Optimus feels a new surge of guilt come to life at the words. Long-term spark damage is rare, but it's not unheard of. But permanent damage? Given their long lifespans, very little is ever truly permanent for them. And Ratchet is one of the finest medics left on both sides. He's been able to fix truly horrendous wounds in the past.

Then again, considering what the Decepticons did to him and for how long, Mirage still being online is a miracle in and of itself. If it's a choice between spark damage and no spark at all…

If you'd let Jazz keep searching for him, his mind reminds him ruthlessly, it wouldn't be a choice at all. He'd be safe and healthy to begin with.

Optimus vents heavily, shoulders sagging under the weight of his guilt. "I see. We will, of course, do whatever we can to help."

"Anything at all," Bumblebee agrees.

Ratchet favors them with a small, tired smile. "I know."

True to word, the operation is very short. In no time at all, Ratchet is stepping away, leaving two unlit optics behind. It’s rather amazing how just those small additions make Mirage's helm look less like a strangely-shaped lump of metal and more like a helm belonging to an actual mech.

Ratchet turns the lights down as low as they can go, and Optimus helps him surround Mirage's berth with hanging sheets just to be safe. Bumblebee carefully adjusts the angle of Mirage's berth and sets another pillow beneath his helm to prop it up and give him a better view of the room.

Optimus and Bumblebee step back slightly, giving Ratchet room to stand beside Mirage instead and plug his hardline in. Ratchet glances at them, checking to see if they're both ready. They nod.

Then Ratchet transmits the command to bring him out of stasis, and the three of them watch as ever so slowly, Mirage's optics come online for the first time in vorns.