Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…

Warnings: Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty.

AN: Gasp! It's been so long since I updated this. I've had it 2/3 of the way done for a while now, but was not sure if it was up to the standards I wanted to have for this story, being what it is. I guess my lack of confidence caused me to freeze up. Anyway, thank you all who've reviewed on the last chapter and I hope you still find you enjoy this story despite the delays in updating. Hope you enjoy!

(Will edit this more at a later date.)

Mahikashi

-Ch 4: Speak Not of Past Tragedies-

The past is something that cannot be changed, cannot be altered with neither the whisper of hushed voices pleading forgiveness nor the opening of a gentle hand and an even softer spark. There is little to be done for such truths, as is the way of most truths that fall upon the seams of reality, and it is in this realization of the nature of awareness that so many despair. Death cannot be undone, some hurts cannot be mended, some tragedies cannot be forgotten, and some sins can never be forgiven. This is the true nature of sentience, the curse of awareness, the acknowledgement of right and wrong, knowing.

Many will suffer for it, for that is one truth of the universe which can neither be forgotten nor rejected, for it is as its nature dictates it to be and there is little to be done for the laws of its existence with the opening of a hand and the whisper of sought forgiveness. And as the pulsing of a spark, still so young and tender in the warmth of its carrier's arms, is replaced with the hum of a weapon within one's grasp and the cold precision of the kill in one's cooling breath, such realities become all too apparent to the weary.

Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone. This is the truth of their reality, of the Mahikashi's existence, and as they watch on with their quivering lips and unwavering optics, they chant the truth of their reality as they always have, a reminder of the sins that they will not forgive. And some, with their pulsing sparks and watching optics, forget the weapons in their hands for but a moment and become one with the words, become one with the truth they have known and upheld for so long.

Some will forget, but not all, and when the chanting is done and the truth of their existence is once more restored, some will look down and remember that there is now a gun where once a young spark, so young and tender, had peered up from the warmth of their arms.

Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone.

We are Mahikashi.

The Luna'13 was a large ship of sturdy design and many sharp angles that reached all corners of the vessel from control center to lower hull much in the way of a war craft, streamlined but massive. In fact, it was indisputably the largest, and most certainly the most heavily populated, of the remaining Mahikashi fleet, a resilient old ship that always seemed to evade even the most persistent of troubles, a true survivor one may say. However, for those who knew the Luna'13's crew well there was only one designation that could explain this series of fortunate events…

"Uncle, what you doin'?"

A screech not so unlike the grinding of metal wire upon glass suddenly echoed through the darkened confines of the monitor room, almost deafening in pitch, till a startling crackle signaled the beginnings of erratic flashes of blue along counsel screens. All was silent, a tense thing that held undertones not all so innocent in nature, like death warmed to a faint tickle upon the neck. It was not so uncommon.

"Rumble! You know we aren't supposed to sneak up on uncle like that. Now look, his helm's flashing again. I'm telling carrier."

"Tattletale!"

…Red Alert.

"He's not moving."

"Red. Red. Hey buddy. Red. Red, meh mech, ya home in there." There was a brief pause, one that promised nothing particularly pleasant, like a passing moment of contemplation not so unlike that of a conniving youngster. Soundwave himself, much to his grief, could attain to this lapse in communication his bond mate often slipped into. "Red Alert, da base is unda' fire mech! Get ya aft in gear!"

Like a bolt of red lightning streaking through weightless skies, the once prone frame upon the medical berth snapped forward in a split second, stunningly bright optics wide and reflecting a kind of panic not comprehensible to observers, flickering wildly from dim to shocking blue faster than could be accurately recorded. It would have been a terrifying thing to witness, had this particular event not been such a common occurrence within the Luna'13.

"Soundwave, Blaster, set the alarms, ready the cannons, ignite the thrusters, secure the cargo, prepare the troops, take count of all civilians, gather the little ones to the safety hold, and for the sake of all that is good get Starscream on the line! Barricade, prepare for emergency-"

"Woah, woah, woah, Red. Take it easy." Blaster soothed on reflex, having known Red Alert would be stirred into frenzy the moment he awoke, particularly due to the circumstances by which he had awoken. "Jus' calm down an' take a deep intake." His optics dimmed in sympathetic mirth as he placed his hands up in surrender, smile firmly in place as was his nature, and continued before the other could succumb to another panic attack. "Nothin's attackin' anythin' else. Jus' tryin' ta get ya off da berth is all. Sorry for da fright." That smile didn't waver, but something in the communication officer's optics did, a kind of awareness that seemed to fester, an old wound that had ceased to heal; realization.

Red Alert shuttered his optics a few times in thought, helm still flashing periodically in distress, still groggy processors taking in the situation in its entirety, like a computer slow to warm up after a forced shut down. Then the words sunk in and the security officer's back snapped straight in attention and his lips curled to an ugly grimace, suspicion clear as starlight upon his features.

Red Alert snarled lividly at the larger bot. "You! What are you thinking raising the alarm when you know full well there is no danger? Do you know what would have happened if there was an attack and the crew-" Like a switched going off in his processors, the crazed gleam pooling in the security officer's optics was all the communication officer had to see to know where this was going. He'd made a mistake, Blaster recognized this now and berated himself for it, Red Alert simply had not been ready. "This is all part of your plan isn't it? It always has been! You're trying to get rid of me, just like-"

So it went that Blaster bore witness to the innermost thoughts of a bot so deeply entrenched in paranoia one had to wonder what horrors one of such a nature could accomplish had he ever the intention to play out the endless stream of scenarios plotting his own alleged demise upon another. From the spilling of his energon, to the accidental mispronunciation of a word Blaster could not recall saying, to the mundane as the number of times he'd snapped his fingers to a catchy tune, a story of such detail and brilliance was conducted that for a single moment of weakness Blaster himself was left to wonder the intimate details of it all.

It was actually rather terrifying listening to Red Alert when he got that way, something tragic and unspeakably sad, the horror of being trapped in a world where all he can comprehend is the deceit and wickedness, unable to escape a fate not yet set, something ungraspable but always before him.

Slowly, Blaster waved his hand, gartering the other's attention, optics laden with regret. A mistake, he'd made a mistake. "Ah said ah was sorry, mech. Chill." The words spoken were measured and carefully chosen for their implied neutrality, but far too calm. However, in that calmness there was a knowing, a deep understanding of the way of things only time could assure, an ache, a burn so deep it chilled him.

Red Alert stuttered briefly, seemingly lost and unsteady and oh so vulnerable, before he huffed up for another round.

"Red Alert."

But was promptly cut off. He turned his wild optics to the speaker, a deeply entrenched terror flooding forth in great tides of distress from his very spark, pulsing and aching with hurts unmended, enemies unseen. So much hurt, so much fear, reflecting pain and a world where shadows bred monsters of translucent skin and malicious gazes and the light reveals them with frightening clarity, where the evils of the world will never be defeated, will never go away. An eternal nightmare that even the rising sun will not end. Hellish.

"Apologies." Soundwave offered from the entryway of the medbay, voice cold and stoic as was usual, but holding a sort of inflection one might expect from a very put out mediator.

How such a contradiction in speech was possible Blaster would likely never know, and this was unusual in itself since he was a communications officer by function, but he knew it when he heard it. It promised nothing good in his near future.

"Suggestion: Soundwave will take care of Blaster." And as expected, the blue plated bot fixed his bond mate with a level stare, one that the red bot knew all too well, and despite the soothing smile still plastered on his lips Blaster felt a small part of himself writhe at the implications of that unwavering stare.

For a moment there was silence, swollen and profound with layers of thought and comprehension understood so intimately by old friends, but throughout it all Soundwave remained unmoving under the intense scrutiny of the security officer's gaze. However, this too was not so unusual, for as certainly as one knew Blaster would try to grab Soundwave's hand throughout the cycle and that Frenzy could be found at Red Alert's work station before recharge to pester his uncle for energon treats, they both knew that Red Alert would leave punishment detail to Soundwave in matters regarding his bondmate. It was simply the way of things.

A flicker of recognition in his gaze, a battle that had been raged so many times before, a pause, the tilting of his lips in a most unpleasant manner, and with wavering optics and a bitterly wrought mouth, Red Alert conceded to the other's wishes. "See to it then." And he turned away, with much effort and his jaw set firmly in determination he turned away, hands held tight and optics reflecting haunted depths. "Just go."

Blaster opened his mouth to apologize, to make amends for his rash behavior, a mistake made in a moment without thought, without consideration to the cost, but a sharp look from Soundwave stopped him short. Now was not the time. It may never be time.

Silently they left, Soundwave with his back held straight and his optics steady, and Blaster, who cast one last glance over his shoulder, glossa burning with words unsaid and spark aflame in regret. This was not what he'd wanted, not his way. Playful and impulsive by nature, but meaning well, he'd acted on a whim, a joke, a show of closeness and companionship to one who had been alone for so long, and now he was left to face the consequences of that mistake.

A dark mood settled over the red bot, neither sinister nor malevolent in nature, his frame heavy with tension and optics flickering softly, unseeing, his intakes long and slow, cooling his heated face. It seemed inevitable that he'd become ensnared in the despair of his heritage, the wrongness of it all, of the pain and the suffering and the innocence ripped away by greedy hands and cruel optics, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him and focused his unseeing optics.

"Fact: Red Alert will forgive you." And with that Soundwave turned away, posture just as straight and rigid as it'd always been, the sincerity in his optics now replaced with a dark hue, unreadable- if not for their bond.

Blaster nodded, subdued but not irreversibly so, yet still said not a word. There was simply nothing to say, nothing to be done now that all had been said and done and even his devotion to his fellow Mahikashi and his whispered apologies for the wrong done could not change events passed. It was simply the way of things.

Waiting, that was all he could do, all that could be done for sparks unmended and tears not yet cried when the spark is closed to gentle touches and the optics know not but fear.

It was just the way of things

Cold, regal, beautiful, dangerous; there were many words to describe the eternal image of a noble bot perched high upon his tower's shining walls with a twist on his lips and a sharp tilt in his gaze as he looked upon the city below with veiled expressions, the light of the moon flowing down his chassis in streams of light and shadows kissing the supple curve of his cheek. Mirage embodied all of these, a grace and heritage forever intertwined with the pride of his upbringing, displayed in the build of his armor and the dignity of his bearing, but it was also profoundly sad, this image of a lone figure forever out of reach.

He lifted the glass to his lips, his long, elegantly fingered hands poised perfectly despite the scratches upon his hands that had yet to heal, and sipped slowly the once sweet energon that now tasted of rust in his mouth, a foul reminder of all that had been lost on his glossia. His mood was bitter, his tensions strained in directions he'd never once considered.

Greed: insatiable. Pride: unbending. Power: unprecedented. The caste system: absolute in design and unbending. Born to the right to achieve glory and privilege, or fated to fade away in the shadows of history, nothing but a number on a statistics chart or a whispered plea unheard in the vast reaches of space.

Mirage had been born to privilege, in a time before the war when the energon was rich and all he need do is flick his wrist and many a bot would be at his beck and call. He had been given everything, and never once had the lives of those once below his notice concerned him beyond what services he could get from them.

Mahikashi. He'd never heard of them addressed in that context, but he'd known of their existence long before the word even existed, before he even knew what they'd truly been. Never once had he batted an optic when those said to be of the wrong sort were thrown from the sanctuary of the tower walls to fend for themselves in a world unknown when the promise of power brought out the worst of the nobles.

Mirage's own social circle had benefited from the exile of such unfortunates, and at the time, it had never occurred to the noble to question such favorable incidences.

Now, with his youth long spoilt by the rages of war and terrors forever haunting his every memory- his optics weary with an age far beyond his vorns- the noble looks to the beauty of his tower room, the high ceilings and the finely crafted walls like a gilded cage crafted from the finest materials by the surest hands, and wonders what could have been if never he'd acquired these walls and one of those unfortunates long lost were sitting where he sits now, staring out at a world slowly rebuilding itself from the ashes.

A sudden curl of his lips, a glint of something lingering and excruciatingly mortal in his optics, like a smoldering flame under mounds of ash and soot, and the glass in his elegantly fingered hand is sent crashing to the far wall, splattering energon across the high risen walls of his room in a shock of color and radiance. Not a sound echoes the breaking of the glass, the spray of eerie luminescence, nothing but silence fills the void, mirrored by fathomless blue optics burning vividly in the shadows.

He looks back to the city below, and his face once more becomes expressionless, a living statue of unyielding control and perfection, optics dimming to a subtle shade.

His tower no longer seemed so beautiful, now that it was painted in the colors that brought it into being.

When passions run high in a moment of senseless panic, when energon is shed from the innocent and the optics of the many are cold and unmoving with the tides of hate and fear that overcomes them, is it so that those who look upon the damned with hatred become the damned themselves?

Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone.

We are Mahikashi.

AN: Poor babies! Everyone seems to be suffering somehow in this story. I just hope it all turns out for the best, but only time will tell it seems. Anyway, now one can have another insight as to the problems regarding the Mahikashi.

Please review and don't feel shy about pointing out mistakes…