Chapter Text
Ensconced in his chair at the head of the Officers’ meeting room, Optimus Prime sighed through his vents. “Thank you for your input,” he told the gathered group, setting aside his datapad. “This has been a very productive meeting. Ironhide, Red Alert, begin coordinating on the new anti-espionage system as soon as you can.”
The two mechs in question nodded and began to leave their chairs, but stopped as the Prime held up a hand. “With that decided, there is one last matter we must discuss,” he said. Around the table, mechs stiffened and rose from their weary slouches, glancing between one another at the unexpected extension to the meeting. “Ratchet, would you care to begin?”
The CMO nodded and picked up his own datapad, though rather than focusing down on it he glanced around at the other officers who were looking curiously between him and Optimus. “I’ll be frank. I’ve got a mech in my medbay right now who I didn’t know existed yesterday, because we thought he was a cyberhound.”
There was an instant of stunned silence before the room exploded into noise. Ironhide’s bellowed “WHAT?” echoed over Red Alert’s sudden deluge of questions. The only one who didn’t seem surprised by the news was Jazz.
“Let Ratchet explain,” Prowl said sharply, and the room fell silent under his stern optics. Ratchet nodded gratefully when Prowl turned back to him. “You mean Mirage’s tracking hound,” he said, to Ratchet’s sharp nod. “How certain are we that he is, in fact, a mech?”
Ratchet tapped at the screen of his datapad. “Yesterday, during emergency field surgery, Fixit noticed what appeared to be a t-cog among Scout— this mech’s internals.” Ratchet stumbled on the name, made a face, and continued. “I’ve been running scans ever since we got him stabilized. In addition to the presence of a transformation cog, the frame is properly proportioned for transformation. I’ve found a number of data ports accessible across the frame.” On the other side of the table, Prowl frowned, but Ratchet held up a hand to forestall his comment.
“Which is not proper evidence for the presence of a Cybertronian, I know. I’m getting to that. The processor contains the complex processing capabilities required for, among other things, language absorption and transformation. And his spark is a mech’s.” Ratchet tapped something on the datapad, pulling up a graph and holding it out to the rest of the officers. “This is the energy output of his spark. It’s a bit abnormal, but well within the realm of recognized spark fluctuations for advanced Cybertronian life. By every definition of a mech that we have, he is one.”
“And why did we never know about this before?” Prowl asked, contemplative.
Ratchet scowled. “I’m a doctor, not a vet,” he grumbled as he switched off the datapad. “I’ve never looked him over before. And there were blockers in place, suppressing field expression, transformation, and certain vocal functions.”
Red Alert straightened in alarm. “Blockers of that sort beyond temporary medical patches have been illegal for vorns! Where did they come from?” He refocused down on his datapad, typing madly. “Mirage has placed records indicating he has owned this… this mech for five vorns, long after these blockers were outlawed.”
“Fixit reported to me that Mirage was just as surprised as he was about finding that t-cog,” Ratchet interjected. “And he didn’t do anything to interfere with the investigation.”
“A logical reaction from someone who has been found out!” Red Alert retorted.
“Where is he, anyhow?” Ironhide interrupted, frowning. “If this’s his doin’ it seems to me that he’d go invisible and take off on us the first chance he got.”
“I’ve got him in Ops custody,” Jazz said, “at his request.” He shifted in his chair, looking at the gathered officers. “He came to me, told me that all’a this was going on before I even knew about it. Says he’ll submit himself to any decision we make. That doesn’t sound like a mech who did those things and was covering for it. Seems to me that he’s been just as far in the dark as we are.”
“A guilty conscience,” Red Alert muttered, but subsided under Jazz’s fierce look.
“His testimony will be taken into account for our decision,” Prowl said, doors swept high. “However, Mirage and Scout have been with us for quite some time now. I find it unlikely that in that time, no one noticed anything.”
“We all did notice,” Ratchet said heavily. “We noticed, and we just called him a very smart cyberhound.”
“Y’know,” Jazz said slowly, “It’s interesting. Mirage doesn’t keep him close, doesn’t even try to. He’s asked plenty of bots to look after Scout, me included. Scout’s never tried to communicate to us that something’s wrong, as far as I could ever tell. And he’s always been excited whenever Mirage finally gets back. Whatever’s happening here, it ain’t as simple as a mech trapped against his will.”
“No, it most certainly is not.” Optimus settled with elbows braced against the table. “I intend to hear both sides of this story before making a decision. Jazz, if I may?”
Jazz’s visor flickered for a moment, clearly surprised to hear Optimus asking his permission to visit the area he’d staked out as a headquarters for Ops. Optimus read in it a mech who was not used to being trusted by his commander. No doubt he’d had to fight for every inch of privacy his agents were afforded in the past. But Jazz was nothing if not adaptable. Within moments, the look was gone, and he bounced to his pedes. “Sure thing, boss-bot. I’ll let him know we’re on the way.”
Ops custody, as it turned out, meant locked into a cell in one of the deepest corners of the compound. Jazz explained as he led his Prime through the twisting corridors. “Woulda just ordered him to his office and put him under surveillance, but he insisted. No cuffs or stasis lock, he could get out if he was motivated to, but he wanted the cell. This whole thing’s got him twisted up.”
Jazz stopped in front of a door and entered a combination, then stepped aside as the door slid aside with the screech of metal on metal. The room inside was dark, grimy, and cramped- clearly a solitary cell, and Optimus worried over the state of mind that would lead to one of his soldiers requesting to be confined in such a place.
“I’ll leave the door open,” Jazz murmured to him, before stepping back. Optimus had no doubt that he would only be standing barely out of sight, and certainly not out of earshot, but he appreciated the illusion of privacy afforded by the distance.
Mirage looked up at him when he entered the cell, then returned his gaze to his lap and his entwined servos. “Sir,” he said quietly.
Optimus lingered in the doorway, taking the moment to observe one of his soldiers he had all too rarely interacted with. He had been informed when they found a survivor of the attack on the towers, of course, had briefly seen him in the medbay where Ratchet had told him they’d been lucky Mirage hadn’t emptied out before they found him, then Bumblebee, who told him they’d been lucky to find him at all.
He’d met the mech again briefly when he became an Autobot, but since then, he’d had little time to observe the mech, and the few occasions he could remember seeing him, he’d always had his hound at his side. From the gossip that had filtered up the chain of command to him, the two had been considered a pair from the start.
“Mirage,” Optimus said, settling his plating about his frame. Even standing in the doorway, he towered over Mirage, but there was no place for him to sit, even if he thought Mirage would want him to share the berth in the first place. “I am sure you understand the gravity of the situation we are faced with, and your cooperation is appreciated.”
He paused, but Mirage only nodded, his optics still downcast. After a moment of heavy silence, Optimus continued. “We have a great deal to discuss. If you could start from the beginning, please, when Scout first came into your possession.”
Mirage flinched, but nodded. “When I was fifteen vorns old…”
In bits and pieces, the story came out. Mirage sat stiff and poised, with his helm down. Never once did he twitch or stutter. If it weren’t for the cell they were in, Optimus might have been convinced that this story was nothing for Mirage to tell, but armed with that knowledge, it was easy to pick out the tension in his frame, and the shame that layered his voice, as smooth as it seemed at first.
Throughout the retelling, Optimus stood still and quiet, saving his questions for after. The way Mirage told things, it sounded much like what he had initially suspected- Mirage had known nothing about his pet’s true nature, and had been told nothing that would make him suspect.
“This Trahere you mentioned, who sold Scout to you. He did this often?” Optimus asked.
“Yes,” Mirage said softly. “Hunting was a popular sport among the Towers, and a well-bred cyberhound was a valued accessory. Trahere was well-known for breeding the best around.” He didn’t pause, but listening carefully Optimus could hear the horror creeping into the mech’s aloof tone. “He gave away few of his hounds, but over the vorns a good number were passed into the ownership of the Towers mechs.”
“And there was never any stir around their abilities?” Optimus asked, frowning.
At this, Mirage finally looked up. “You must understand, Prime, that Trahere was considered rather eccentric, and furthermore was allowed it, because of his successes. He did not allow for breeding of any of his animals without his direct supervision and input, and furthermore, he insisted on providing care for any injured animals himself. He was accomplished as a veterinary mechanic, so it was often done eagerly.”
It was a thought that had Optimus still discomfited, but he’d learned enough about the lifestyles of the rich to know that Mirage wasn’t lying about their penchant for wanting only the best.
“In the time… before the war, there was only a single instance that required Scout to be taken back into Trahere’s care for any amount of time,” Mirage said, staring straight ahead.
“And now?” Optimus asked. “I understand this was the first time he was injured so severely.”
“I have done my best to prevent it from being needed, sir,” Mirage answered quietly. “Trahere’s frame was one of those I was called upon to identify.”
“There were no others who could do those repairs?”
“None who I knew of, or could find.”
Optimus nodded silently. “I see. Thank you, Mirage.” This time, the silent nod he received in response was expected, and he continued on. “That is all for the moment. Should anything further arise, you will be informed. You are free to return to your quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Optimus lingered, but when it became clear that Mirage was not about to move, he retreated from the cell, processor and spark heavy.
Jazz slipped up alongside him as he stepped out of the cell block. “Well?” he asked his third-in-command, certain that the mech had been listening in.
Jazz didn’t even pretend otherwise. “Facts-wise, the story checks out. We dug into that before ever accepting him to Spec-Ops,” the smaller mech said. “All the dirt I’ve got on Trahere lines up the way Mirage tells it, too. There’s less of it than I’d like. A lot of things got destroyed with the Towers,” he grimaced.
Optimus said nothing, merely waited, and sure enough Jazz continued.
“As for Mirage… Scout was something special to him, sir. I’m sure you’ve heard bits and pieces. Mirage looked after him almost better than he did himself,” Jazz said, and shrugged. “Far as I can tell, Scout was one of the few good memories Mirage had from the Towers.”
“Then you are convinced he knew nothing of this,” Optimus said, half a question.
Jazz’s gaze was sharp enough to cut. “I know my mechs,” he said.
Optimus didn’t push. He’d made progress with Jazz today, and he was loath to ruin that by questioning the evaluation of a mech whose judgment he was quickly coming to trust.
“Let me know if he does decide to leave that cell,” he asked instead. “In the meantime, we are both needed in the medbay.”