Mirage's retreat from the scene had been as quick as he could manage, which meant it wasn't nearly as stealthy as he would have liked.
The mech was forced to drop his invisibility half way to his rooms, for he was getting too sloppy to avoid running into other 'bots much longer. He nearly ran over a group of minibots in the process anyway, and immediately barricaded himself in his rooms with a screech of tires and engine. He proceeded to avoid everyone for the next two days, even politely declining Optimus' invitation to visit his office for energon.
It took him some time to calm down enough to declare himself fit for company; and even then, he ventured off to the shooting range with Tracks to vent his frustration out on the targets and his poor friend's audials.
"Oh, I agree completely, my dear mech. That little punk was completely out of line. Has been for some time. I cannot imagine what is going through Jazz and Optimus' helms, allowing such ruffians on board in the first place."
At that point in time, Mirage's answer was nothing but a snarl and several vicious shots to six hard-light targets in a row. But Tracks was good enough to continue agreeing with Mirage's earlier ranting, even if he didn't actually agree when Mirage went on a completely unrelated tangent; they knew enough other well enough to understand when one just wanted to vent. It was de-stressing, and it worked well enough to get the noble-mech from locking himself in his rooms further.
And Mirage needed to regain the proper state of mind for what they had planned next.
Several hundred more hard-light projections met their swift demise before enough was enough.
-----
Originally, the completion of the Protection Line would have coincided with the next ritual Mirage wished to undertake, followed by a public opening/blessing of the boundary line, complete with an appearance of the Prime himself.
After the interruption, Mirage wanted nothing to do with the thrice-cursed rock, but that didn't mean he couldn't continue on with the more personal element he had planned. Tracks was his second, of course; serving his his acolyte for the ritual. No one else on the ship, or even on Earth even knew of the process involved, as far as he was aware.
A long soak in hot, slightly acidic cleanser purified his frame, melting away the organic gunk of Earth and made his armor a hint more malleable than usual; a quick rinse kept the pleasant stinging from becoming a burning, and Mirage made his way to their requisitioned and re-purposed storage room still steaming-hot. ...To no small amount of not-so-stealthy glances along the way.
The room, granted to him upon request from Prime long before the rock fiasco, was a completely different world entirely. Decorated in the electric-blues and whites and silvers, the room matched the decor of the Temples of Primus of old as much as possible. A simple altar, this of proper Cybertronium, had been found in another storage area and reassembled at the fore. A ritual berth, round and padded, had been carefully constructed from shaped and polished scrap supplies.
Here at least, organic materials were useful and welcomed; the padding was, for the moment, cotton and wool, and the brilliant draperies hanging artistically across the room made of silks and voile. Mirage didn't know what the allied humans had thought of the requests, but he didn't really care. Prime had not indicated that it was a problem, and until his special order for fine metal meshes could be completed and shipped by agreeable human suppliers, it would work well enough.
Cradling a flame of energon in a contained cube, Mirage approached the berth with a low chant humming in the back of his vocalizer. Tracks already awaited him in the center of the berth, tools cleansed from the outdoors and laying out on display. The lesser noble was already cleansed and glowing in the half-dimmed diode-light, though less stringently than Mirage himself. Tracks nodded in greeting, and Mirage spilled out the purple-blue flame into the waiting brazier, and climbed up onto the berth.
Laying out on his back in front of Tracks, the humming rose up to a low song, prayers and blessings mostly-forgotten by the rest of the galaxy spilling out as he nodded to the other mech. Tracks raised the delicate drill tool, and started over Mirage's spark.
-----
It had been a long time; too long, really. His old markings had long since been worn away and filled in with new nanites and chromatites. Mirage had warned Tracks beforehand that his reactions might be...undignified, and so they had come prepared.
Starting over the spark, Tracks slowly worked along the edge of every panel and plate spiraling out from Mirage's core. By the time they were done with his ventral chest pieces, Mirage's song had gently vanished into static, though it still continued silently between them, unbroken over their private commline. The lines of the song matched the glyphs slowly forming on blue armor.
By the time Mirage had rolled over, spinal struts exposed to the detailing drill and finely covered with the delicate, occasionally oozing designs it was leaving behind, the noblemech wasn't able to hold back his soft cries. Gripping a strap embedded from the side of the berth for just this purpose, Mirage fought to keep himself still as lines of rite and prayer were literally etched into his frame. It was a ritual he had undergone many, many times before, but re-carving the lines anew made it feel like his initiation ritual all over again. It left him writhing under Track's hand, straddling the line between agony and oversensitised, fevor-born pleasure.
He would be left weak and trembling in frame, but his spark always felt clearer afterward; processor lost in a daze of thought and reflection during the length of the ritual, even as his voice cried out. The reflection was the point; the inability to forget the words and rites etched into your frame, a solemn vow.
...Which is why, of course, Cliffjumper would come bumbling right on into it.
"Smelt-slag-! Not you!"
Tracks hissed, jerking in pain as he cut his own finger in an effort to avoid mussing the marks on Mirage's back. Still gripping the energon line curled around his fists in willful restraint, Mirage blinked up with dim optics, dazed and uncomprehending. Tracks snarled, looking ready to chuck the drill at Cliffjumper's head.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-11-21 12:32 am (UTC)The mech was forced to drop his invisibility half way to his rooms, for he was getting too sloppy to avoid running into other 'bots much longer. He nearly ran over a group of minibots in the process anyway, and immediately barricaded himself in his rooms with a screech of tires and engine. He proceeded to avoid everyone for the next two days, even politely declining Optimus' invitation to visit his office for energon.
It took him some time to calm down enough to declare himself fit for company; and even then, he ventured off to the shooting range with Tracks to vent his frustration out on the targets and his poor friend's audials.
"Oh, I agree completely, my dear mech. That little punk was completely out of line. Has been for some time. I cannot imagine what is going through Jazz and Optimus' helms, allowing such ruffians on board in the first place."
At that point in time, Mirage's answer was nothing but a snarl and several vicious shots to six hard-light targets in a row. But Tracks was good enough to continue agreeing with Mirage's earlier ranting, even if he didn't actually agree when Mirage went on a completely unrelated tangent; they knew enough other well enough to understand when one just wanted to vent. It was de-stressing, and it worked well enough to get the noble-mech from locking himself in his rooms further.
And Mirage needed to regain the proper state of mind for what they had planned next.
Several hundred more hard-light projections met their swift demise before enough was enough.
-----
Originally, the completion of the Protection Line would have coincided with the next ritual Mirage wished to undertake, followed by a public opening/blessing of the boundary line, complete with an appearance of the Prime himself.
After the interruption, Mirage wanted nothing to do with the thrice-cursed rock, but that didn't mean he couldn't continue on with the more personal element he had planned. Tracks was his second, of course; serving his his acolyte for the ritual. No one else on the ship, or even on Earth even knew of the process involved, as far as he was aware.
A long soak in hot, slightly acidic cleanser purified his frame, melting away the organic gunk of Earth and made his armor a hint more malleable than usual; a quick rinse kept the pleasant stinging from becoming a burning, and Mirage made his way to their requisitioned and re-purposed storage room still steaming-hot. ...To no small amount of not-so-stealthy glances along the way.
The room, granted to him upon request from Prime long before the rock fiasco, was a completely different world entirely. Decorated in the electric-blues and whites and silvers, the room matched the decor of the Temples of Primus of old as much as possible. A simple altar, this of proper Cybertronium, had been found in another storage area and reassembled at the fore. A ritual berth, round and padded, had been carefully constructed from shaped and polished scrap supplies.
Here at least, organic materials were useful and welcomed; the padding was, for the moment, cotton and wool, and the brilliant draperies hanging artistically across the room made of silks and voile. Mirage didn't know what the allied humans had thought of the requests, but he didn't really care. Prime had not indicated that it was a problem, and until his special order for fine metal meshes could be completed and shipped by agreeable human suppliers, it would work well enough.
Cradling a flame of energon in a contained cube, Mirage approached the berth with a low chant humming in the back of his vocalizer. Tracks already awaited him in the center of the berth, tools cleansed from the outdoors and laying out on display. The lesser noble was already cleansed and glowing in the half-dimmed diode-light, though less stringently than Mirage himself. Tracks nodded in greeting, and Mirage spilled out the purple-blue flame into the waiting brazier, and climbed up onto the berth.
Laying out on his back in front of Tracks, the humming rose up to a low song, prayers and blessings mostly-forgotten by the rest of the galaxy spilling out as he nodded to the other mech. Tracks raised the delicate drill tool, and started over Mirage's spark.
-----
It had been a long time; too long, really. His old markings had long since been worn away and filled in with new nanites and chromatites. Mirage had warned Tracks beforehand that his reactions might be...undignified, and so they had come prepared.
Starting over the spark, Tracks slowly worked along the edge of every panel and plate spiraling out from Mirage's core. By the time they were done with his ventral chest pieces, Mirage's song had gently vanished into static, though it still continued silently between them, unbroken over their private commline. The lines of the song matched the glyphs slowly forming on blue armor.
By the time Mirage had rolled over, spinal struts exposed to the detailing drill and finely covered with the delicate, occasionally oozing designs it was leaving behind, the noblemech wasn't able to hold back his soft cries. Gripping a strap embedded from the side of the berth for just this purpose, Mirage fought to keep himself still as lines of rite and prayer were literally etched into his frame. It was a ritual he had undergone many, many times before, but re-carving the lines anew made it feel like his initiation ritual all over again. It left him writhing under Track's hand, straddling the line between agony and oversensitised, fevor-born pleasure.
He would be left weak and trembling in frame, but his spark always felt clearer afterward; processor lost in a daze of thought and reflection during the length of the ritual, even as his voice cried out. The reflection was the point; the inability to forget the words and rites etched into your frame, a solemn vow.
...Which is why, of course, Cliffjumper would come bumbling right on into it.
"Smelt-slag-! Not you!"
Tracks hissed, jerking in pain as he cut his own finger in an effort to avoid mussing the marks on Mirage's back. Still gripping the energon line curled around his fists in willful restraint, Mirage blinked up with dim optics, dazed and uncomprehending. Tracks snarled, looking ready to chuck the drill at Cliffjumper's head.
"Begone, you interloping heathen!"