Sun Goes Down
Sep. 25th, 2011 12:39 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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IDW AHM
Mirage, Sideswipe
angst, spoilers (lol does that matter?) for AHM
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springkink prompt: 25 Sep Transformers IDW, Sideswipe/Mirage: hurt/comfort, bonding through loss
The sounds of celebration rattled down the corridor behind him as Sideswipe left. He wasn’t angry, he kept telling himself. He wasn’t angry. Optimus’s return didn’t solve everything. Didn’t solve anything . Sunstreaker was still dead. They were still facing the Swarm.
They wanted, the others, a moment of hope. Why not let them have it?
Why not? Because they didn’t deserve it. None of them did. The war had ruined all of them, twisted them so far that the return of Optimus Prime only to die with them in the morning seemed like cause for celebration instead of one more corpse, one more death agony. Maybe there was a kind of heroism that thought dying with others was better than dying alone: it was still dying. Dying they’d all been doing for ages, Sideswipe thought. This would just be burning off the husks.
Sideswipe twitched, the stump of his arm jerking—even now forgetting it was a phantom presence.
“Sorry.” Mirage’s voice, unusually subdued, as he stepped back, deactivating his cloaking.
“No need,” Sideswipe said. “My fault.”
“You’re not staying for the celebration?” Some old vestige of Mirage’s supercilious tone, but an echo, a tired ghost.
“Nothing to celebrate.” A one-armed shrug, lopsided, and then he realized that might be—would be—blasphemy to the others.
The arch expression crumbled, and Sideswipe realized that the whole thing had been an act, a wall, another illusion. “No. No, there isn’t.”
Sideswipe’s optics flicked—involuntary, drawn—to the scores on Mirage’s chassis, the long, heavy claw marks gouging off the Autobrand, as though the blue mech had been attacked by the Swarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely reaching his own audio.
“For what?” A snort, that Sideswipe recognized almost immediately as defensive, reflexive. “There’s a lot to be sorry for.”
“Yeah,” Sideswipe said, wishing, suddenly, for his former eloquence. If it had even been eloquence: the words tearing themselves out of his chassis, aching, ripping along his spark. “F-for Sunstreaker. For what he did. And that they thought it was you.”
Mirage shrugged. “It’s me. I’ve always been suspect.” For his origins, for not being blindly enthusiastic about war, for speaking his mind. As though compliance would not have been a better cover.
“They were wrong.” It hadn’t been Mirage at all, the traitor. It had been Sunstreaker. And knowing what Sideswipe knew…he wasn’t sure he blamed his brother. He certainly—whatever this said about him—couldn’t bring himself to hate Sunstreaker.
“Morality is often the first casualty of war.”
“I didn’t notice. Never paid attention.” Sideswipe turned, a burst of hopeful noise ricocheting down the corridor behind him. “Always chasing after Sunstreaker, trying to fit in.” He’d focused so hard on trying to put Sunstreaker in his shadow, he’d never noticed that Sunstreaker didn’t shine.
Mirage nodded, a wry smile flirting with his mouthplates. “The price of nonconformity is suspicion.”
“And the price of conformity?” Sideswipe snorted. “Look what it did to Sunstreaker.” His voice dropped, mouth twisting. “…to me.”
“As you were saying in there,” Mirage said, stepping back, turning toward the far mouth of the corridor, where the velvet of night waited with all its ominous dark. “It’s a war impossible to survive. It marks us all.” He looked ruefully at his chassis. “Me? I cannot support a cause that demands conformity, quashes thought, save to some militant ideal. That’s not what I fight for.”
“I don’t know what I fight for anymore,” Sideswipe said. “I thought I did.” He followed Mirage. Stopped. Had he always been a follower, looking for someone to lead? Or was he just feeling…adrift?
Mirage paused, turning his head. “I want the world beyond the war, after it. I don’t want to be a soldier forever.” His optics dropped to his scarred chassis and the damage. “If I ever was.”
“We don’t have any world, now,” Sideswipe said. “Or won’t, after tomorrow.” The Swarm. The end. He wished he could summon up any feeling at all.
“No,” Mirage said. He moved toward the doorway. Sideswipe found himself following again, arguing to himself that, well, what else could he do? The corridor only went to those two places.
The corridor debouched onto a small balcony, overlooking the sprawl of what must have once been a magnificent plaza. The air was heavy and thick above them, pressing down. Like the breath of death itself, Sideswipe thought, then gave a bitter laugh. Sunstreaker would have derided him, mercilessly, for such an imagistic thought.
Maybe. He had seemed distant, haunted, when they last spoke.
Sideswipe shook his head, staring blankly down at the battered plaza.
Mirage sighed beside him, one hand, still slow and elegant in its movement, coming to rest on the balcony rail. “It used to be beautiful.”
Sideswipe nodded.
“Nothing’s what it once was,” Mirage murmured, as though that were some secret he was ashamed to disclose.
“I’m not,” Sideswipe said. “Don’t even know what I believe in anymore.”
“Yes, you do.” Mirage tilted his head, blue optics, bright gems in the darker blue of his armor. “I heard you speak, in there.” His other hand brushed Sideswipe’s damaged shoulder gently.
“They didn’t listen,” Sideswipe said, scratchy with despair. “They don’t care.”
“They don’t matter.” All of Mirage’s cool aloofness in the words, the absolute, diamantine certainty.
“Then what does?” The air seemed to press around him, humid and reeking, the breath of a dead future.
“You. Us. Everything.” Mirage’s mouth quirked, in a hook of amusement. “Standing up for your principles in the face of opposition. Taking scorn, taking derision. Not letting the consensus go unchallenged.” He paused, deflating, tearing his optics from Sideswipe’s earnest face, begging for guidance. “That matters,” he said, optics skipping from ruin to ruin below them. “That’s real courage.”
Sideswipe felt his optics shimmer, clinging to the words. And he knew he shouldn’t—he shouldn’t replace Sunstreaker as the pole star to his world, shouldn’t cling to anything that gave him a cause, a reason, that gave him…respect.
He shouldn’t, but he did. He turned into the arm that rested against his bad shoulder, curling to rest his head on the blue chassis, optics catching glints from the cut-damage on Mirage’s chassis. “I don’t want to die,” he said, weak and thin. “And that feels like betrayal.” Sunstreaker had been ready. Sunstreaker had wanted it. He, even after all he’d said, still didn’t.
“It’s not,” Mirage murmured, his voice a soothing, dulcet vibration against Sideswipe’s audio, the other arm coming around, holding Sideswipe under the hot breath of the stars. “It’s hope.”
IDW AHM
Mirage, Sideswipe
angst, spoilers (lol does that matter?) for AHM
for
springkink prompt: 25 Sep Transformers IDW, Sideswipe/Mirage: hurt/comfort, bonding through lossThe sounds of celebration rattled down the corridor behind him as Sideswipe left. He wasn’t angry, he kept telling himself. He wasn’t angry. Optimus’s return didn’t solve everything. Didn’t solve anything . Sunstreaker was still dead. They were still facing the Swarm.
They wanted, the others, a moment of hope. Why not let them have it?
Why not? Because they didn’t deserve it. None of them did. The war had ruined all of them, twisted them so far that the return of Optimus Prime only to die with them in the morning seemed like cause for celebration instead of one more corpse, one more death agony. Maybe there was a kind of heroism that thought dying with others was better than dying alone: it was still dying. Dying they’d all been doing for ages, Sideswipe thought. This would just be burning off the husks.
Sideswipe twitched, the stump of his arm jerking—even now forgetting it was a phantom presence.
“Sorry.” Mirage’s voice, unusually subdued, as he stepped back, deactivating his cloaking.
“No need,” Sideswipe said. “My fault.”
“You’re not staying for the celebration?” Some old vestige of Mirage’s supercilious tone, but an echo, a tired ghost.
“Nothing to celebrate.” A one-armed shrug, lopsided, and then he realized that might be—would be—blasphemy to the others.
The arch expression crumbled, and Sideswipe realized that the whole thing had been an act, a wall, another illusion. “No. No, there isn’t.”
Sideswipe’s optics flicked—involuntary, drawn—to the scores on Mirage’s chassis, the long, heavy claw marks gouging off the Autobrand, as though the blue mech had been attacked by the Swarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely reaching his own audio.
“For what?” A snort, that Sideswipe recognized almost immediately as defensive, reflexive. “There’s a lot to be sorry for.”
“Yeah,” Sideswipe said, wishing, suddenly, for his former eloquence. If it had even been eloquence: the words tearing themselves out of his chassis, aching, ripping along his spark. “F-for Sunstreaker. For what he did. And that they thought it was you.”
Mirage shrugged. “It’s me. I’ve always been suspect.” For his origins, for not being blindly enthusiastic about war, for speaking his mind. As though compliance would not have been a better cover.
“They were wrong.” It hadn’t been Mirage at all, the traitor. It had been Sunstreaker. And knowing what Sideswipe knew…he wasn’t sure he blamed his brother. He certainly—whatever this said about him—couldn’t bring himself to hate Sunstreaker.
“Morality is often the first casualty of war.”
“I didn’t notice. Never paid attention.” Sideswipe turned, a burst of hopeful noise ricocheting down the corridor behind him. “Always chasing after Sunstreaker, trying to fit in.” He’d focused so hard on trying to put Sunstreaker in his shadow, he’d never noticed that Sunstreaker didn’t shine.
Mirage nodded, a wry smile flirting with his mouthplates. “The price of nonconformity is suspicion.”
“And the price of conformity?” Sideswipe snorted. “Look what it did to Sunstreaker.” His voice dropped, mouth twisting. “…to me.”
“As you were saying in there,” Mirage said, stepping back, turning toward the far mouth of the corridor, where the velvet of night waited with all its ominous dark. “It’s a war impossible to survive. It marks us all.” He looked ruefully at his chassis. “Me? I cannot support a cause that demands conformity, quashes thought, save to some militant ideal. That’s not what I fight for.”
“I don’t know what I fight for anymore,” Sideswipe said. “I thought I did.” He followed Mirage. Stopped. Had he always been a follower, looking for someone to lead? Or was he just feeling…adrift?
Mirage paused, turning his head. “I want the world beyond the war, after it. I don’t want to be a soldier forever.” His optics dropped to his scarred chassis and the damage. “If I ever was.”
“We don’t have any world, now,” Sideswipe said. “Or won’t, after tomorrow.” The Swarm. The end. He wished he could summon up any feeling at all.
“No,” Mirage said. He moved toward the doorway. Sideswipe found himself following again, arguing to himself that, well, what else could he do? The corridor only went to those two places.
The corridor debouched onto a small balcony, overlooking the sprawl of what must have once been a magnificent plaza. The air was heavy and thick above them, pressing down. Like the breath of death itself, Sideswipe thought, then gave a bitter laugh. Sunstreaker would have derided him, mercilessly, for such an imagistic thought.
Maybe. He had seemed distant, haunted, when they last spoke.
Sideswipe shook his head, staring blankly down at the battered plaza.
Mirage sighed beside him, one hand, still slow and elegant in its movement, coming to rest on the balcony rail. “It used to be beautiful.”
Sideswipe nodded.
“Nothing’s what it once was,” Mirage murmured, as though that were some secret he was ashamed to disclose.
“I’m not,” Sideswipe said. “Don’t even know what I believe in anymore.”
“Yes, you do.” Mirage tilted his head, blue optics, bright gems in the darker blue of his armor. “I heard you speak, in there.” His other hand brushed Sideswipe’s damaged shoulder gently.
“They didn’t listen,” Sideswipe said, scratchy with despair. “They don’t care.”
“They don’t matter.” All of Mirage’s cool aloofness in the words, the absolute, diamantine certainty.
“Then what does?” The air seemed to press around him, humid and reeking, the breath of a dead future.
“You. Us. Everything.” Mirage’s mouth quirked, in a hook of amusement. “Standing up for your principles in the face of opposition. Taking scorn, taking derision. Not letting the consensus go unchallenged.” He paused, deflating, tearing his optics from Sideswipe’s earnest face, begging for guidance. “That matters,” he said, optics skipping from ruin to ruin below them. “That’s real courage.”
Sideswipe felt his optics shimmer, clinging to the words. And he knew he shouldn’t—he shouldn’t replace Sunstreaker as the pole star to his world, shouldn’t cling to anything that gave him a cause, a reason, that gave him…respect.
He shouldn’t, but he did. He turned into the arm that rested against his bad shoulder, curling to rest his head on the blue chassis, optics catching glints from the cut-damage on Mirage’s chassis. “I don’t want to die,” he said, weak and thin. “And that feels like betrayal.” Sunstreaker had been ready. Sunstreaker had wanted it. He, even after all he’d said, still didn’t.
“It’s not,” Mirage murmured, his voice a soothing, dulcet vibration against Sideswipe’s audio, the other arm coming around, holding Sideswipe under the hot breath of the stars. “It’s hope.”
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Date: 2011-09-25 04:58 am (UTC)