Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mirage loves his home, but his devotion and loyalty mean nothing to the Towers.

Mirage was a product of a scandal. His lord sire—who already had a mate—was attracted to an entertainer doing gymnastics and he paid her extra for a one-night stand. When she chose to keep the sparklet, his lord sire brought her to live in the Towers as a servant so she would get the best medical care and better pay during her entire trimester. Alas, despite the good conditions, she passed during emergence. And to Mirage’s misfortune, his frame resembled his lord-sire far more than his carrier, revealing his sire’s affair and prevented the latter from sending Mirage to his carrier’s family as written on her will.

Mirage’s legitimate half-siblings despise him. His lord sire sternly told them to treat Mirage fairly, but his mate taught them otherwise. She took out her zealousness on Mirage since before he even learned how to write. She would remind him time and again:

“You are a mistake. We only keep you here because we pity you. No one wants you, and no one will love you.”

Mirage endured scornful looks, insults, gossips, backhands, and terrible forging-days. The only care he had received in the Towers were from his sire, his nurse, a few servants, and the guards. However, their care were limited by their duties, especially his sire.

His lord sire may be willing to give him everything he desired; Mirage always felt empty. Mirage loved his lord sire and he him, but the lord’s error wedged a barrier between them. Everything his lord sire did to make him legitimate were futile.

By the laws of Crystal City and the societal rules of the Towers, Mirage was heir to no one.

Thus, when the Towers needed someone to pay off their debt to a rival nobility on the other side of the planet, they have a perfect asset.

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Mirage,

I understand if you me hate for this. I will never forgive myself, either.

Believe me or not, this is the best of the worst decisions I’ve made for you. I cannot return you to your carrier’s family without risking their lives or putting more burden on your shoulders. Sending you to Vos is merciful. I know this sounds like an insult, but my spark can’t bear to see you living a commoner life while your frame that’s so similar to mine own paints a target on you everywhere you go. Your carrier was fierce, and you had her fire. But you seem to be bearing my cowardly torch, and I’m sorry for that. I pray you will become a better, braver torch than I’ve ever been, and that your fire will be brighter.

I advise you to build your own opinions about the Royal Eyrie of Vos. They are honourable mechs. They have their own culture, their own beliefs, their own rules. Their differences do not make them any different than any other spark on this planet. The Towers love to demonise groups whose way of life clashed ours. I want you to be your own person in this. You are Mirage first before you are of the Towers. Respect the Eyrie and they’ll respect you in return.

I will do my best to keep in contact with you, my bitlet. Be strong, be brave, be diligent. May Primus protect you from harm.

I love you!

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Chapter Text

Mirage did not know what to feel about his lord sire anymore. He read the letter three times throughout the long trip and was unable to find sense of it.

Before he boarded the private transport, his lord sire had hugged him in front of his mate and legitimate heirs. Mirage did not know why they must see him leave. Everyone in Crystal City knew they hate him. Nobody will fall for their courteous display like they think they would. If there was such a device to measure his urge to slap them the way they did him, Mirage assumed it would have overflowed if he didn’t turn it upside down.

There was no point to wallow anymore. He had finally left the Towers. They must be celebrating his long-desired absence. He could hear their cheers.

“The mistake is gone! The bastard is finally gone! Hurrah!”

At the same time, he imagined his sire’s pitiful cries,

“My poor bitlet. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”

It was childish of him to assume such things, but, in spite of himself, he couldn’t help it. His lord sire think he was that pitiful... But that was true, too.

Mirage could have run away to his carrier’s family a long time ago. He learned how public transports work, how to navigate himself around cities, how to find people without acting suspicious. If only his blasted frame were less flamboyant, perhaps it would be much easier to avoid attention. His lord sire had informed him of their names, what they look like, and their address. He could have left the Towers the moment he had the chance.

In the end, Mirage chose to stay with his sire, and now his sire had sent him farther than he was supposed to be.

On the bright side, Vos did not seem so bad.

No – it was magnificent!

The infrastructure near the borders were small then they gradually got taller as the ground level got higher until the buildings fused and supported each other. At the highest ground was the Inner Gate and passed that stood the main city.

Mirage have read about Vos’ city, and he felt like he was entering a fantasy world. From afar, it looked like an enormous chunk of land had detached itself from the planet, held down by thick cables. In truth, the entirety of the ‘chunk’ was a city built atop of older cities from ages past. Some buildings in the deepest parts were believed to be as old as the time of the First Ascendant Prime. Even the Towers weren’t that ancient.

At the highest point of the floating city, there stood the Eyries. They didn’t seem so different than the Towers, Mirage thought. Then the pilot pointed him at the Royal Eyrie – the biggest and most glamorous building Mirage had ever seen. It was lavished in silver, the light refracting on the carvings at the lower floors decorated the ground with colours, statues and monuments placed proudly on the ledges like guardians watching over their people.

“Holy stars!” he swore. He clamped his excited field shut as the pilot laughed.

His transport flew to one of the landing towers connected to the Royal Eyrie with a bridge. Mirage stepped out and was greeted by a slender femme Seeker whose paintjob were black with cerulean highlights. Mirage tried to remember if she had a position in the Vosian royalty; nothing came up.

“Welcome to the Royal Eyrie of the Winglord! I am Slipstream, at your service.” She made a greeting gesture.

Mirage made his in return. “I’m Mirage, Lord Iridium’s heir of the Towers.”

“Sir,” Slipstream regarded. “I’m here to escort you around. Your things will be delivered to your suite.”

“Can you tell me about the structure as well? I’d hate to get lost.”

“Of course! Every Eyrie is actually many buildings that looked like one from the outside. We call them ‘layers’ to make things simple. We’re currently on the outermost layer —"

It was more of a gate. Between it and the actual first layer were the gardens and training grounds. The first layer was open to the public as it had galleries showcasing the history of Vos. Mirage may visit there whenever he wanted. The second layer was where schools conduct important exams (by which subject or level, Mirage had no clue) and other spaces which the public can rent. The third layer was more private, only the staff were allowed to go in. The forth layer was where the royal families reside. Unless invited by members of the family or if one was an attendant, non-family were forbidden to step foot in it. The centre of the Eyrie was—to Mirage’s surprise—a wide open space from the ground floor to the top. Strategic escape path, he thought.

“Where is the throne room?” he asked Slipstream.

“In the second layer. You’ll get to be in there and meet the Winglord in two days.”

“I see— I’m sorry, what?”

“The Winglord wanted to welcome you personally, actually.” Slipstream said. “He had errands today and tomorrow. He’ll be able to meet you on the day after that.”

A pit formed within him. Mirage barely paid attention to Slipstream as she lead him to the staff suites at the upper floors of the third layer. Each of the suite’s door were far apart from the other. The inside must be huge, if not the same as apartment for the Towers’ servants. The mechs whom had taken Mirage’s luggage were already there. One handed Mirage the key pin to his suite then excused himself.

“Don’t worry about the Winglord,” Slipstream assured the Towerling. “He’s not so strict a mech, but customs need to be followed.”

“Just like the Towers,” Mirage jibed.

Slipstream laughed politely. “I’ll see you again tomorrow to help you to prepare. I’ll call you by hour six hundred.” She sent him her personal frequency.

Mirage sent a quick message of conformation and did the Towers gesture of thanks, “Thank you for the tour, Slipstream. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“And you, Mirage.”

Just as Slipstream turned the corner, a grounder speedster approached. He did not appear to be Vosian. His frame design seemed unique and unrecognisable to most speedsters Mirage had seen. He was taller than Mirage by a head, his paintjob white with yellow highlights, and his optics red. He stopped by the suite right next to Mirage’s and unlocked the door.

“Hello!” Mirage began with more enthusiasm than he expected, holding out a hand at the speedster. “My name is Mirage. I’m your new—”

“You’re the bastard mech the Towers sold off.”

He hand froze in the air. “Huh...?”

“News spread fast.” His new neighbour continued gruffly as he faced the smaller speedster. “I heard about you. Lord Iridium’s creation conceived out of wedlock. The Towers sold you to pay off a big debt they owe to the Royal Eyrie. Instead of paying it fairly and with honour, they gave you up because you’re Heir to No One. They only want you gone, and they took that chance. Am I right?”

Mirage withstood the glowering speedster’s stare and nodded as casually as he could.

“I’m going to be frank with you, kid. It may look like you’re going to comfortable here but with your circumstances, you won’t. You won’t receive one shanix of your income; your Tower does. So, whatever extra pay you get, you keep it on your person. Don’t create a bank account because your Towers will know about it, and they will squeeze it dry.”

“How do you know that?”

“Experience.” A brief pause. “The name’s Deadlock. I’m assistant to the Master of Weapons.”

With that name, it sounded like he was the Master of Weapons.

“I’m Mirage.” He replied with politely.

“Welcome to the Royal Eyrie, Mirage. See you.” Deadlock went into his apartment and shut the door.

Mirage stared lamely for a moment before entering inside his own apartment. How friendly, he deadpanned in mind, leaning heavily against the door. His luggage were placed neatly in the living room. He needed to unpack. He needed to make the bed, unfold the blinds, turn on the energon dispenser, set his desk, prepare himself for tomorrow and especially the day after that.

He stayed at the door. One minute went by, then two.

At the twentieth minute, the distant noise of engines, thrusters and people pulled him out of trance. Mirage ambled slowly to the balcony, wanting to capture his first sundown in his new ... place. So far from Crystal City. So far from his sire...

Mirage hurriedly opened the luggage holding his personal computer, took it out and logged in to his private bank account.

He still had shanix, thank Primus, but for how long? When will his six-digit amount suddenly went down to none? What will he do when— IF he was unable to log in all of the sudden. He refuse to burden his sire anymore. He had no power over the Towers’ mob decision, not after sending Mirage here.

His vision swayed and his helm pounded. Mirage stared at his money for a long while then forced himself to get up and make his house.

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Chapter Text

All night long Mirage tossed and turned, adjust his bed’s temperature that never felt right, and checked his bank account multiple times before fatigue claimed him mere hours before dawn. His head pinched, but he must not sleep in, not when he had an audience with the Winglord tomorrow.

Slipstream called his frequency at hour six hundred sharp just as she said. She told him wait for her in the staff’s mess hall on the second floor. The hall was packed to the brim with mechs ready for their shifts, and guards who had ended theirs. So many wings and almost no tires, save for Mirage, his neighbour and the minibot behind the bar counter. Mirage sat at a vacant table in a far corner. Away from most attention yet enough for him to see whoever came through the door.

He felt unguarded. Deadlock’s words spin in mind. News spread fast. Mirage tried his best not to spot whoever might be staring at him. If they do, he hoped it was only because of his frame. He hoped they only know of him by name. Yet Deadlock knew immediately who he was.

Speaking of Deadlock, he seemed to be telling him to keep his distance. Their optics meet when Mirage had entered the mess hall, and the white speedster gave him a long glare before adverting to the mechs he shared his table with. Part of Mirage was fine with it. Another part of him wanted to walk up to him and demand what’s his problem. The Towerling pushed away the urge. The last thing he needed was causing trouble that would end him in the streets. Or dead.

Suddenly he felt a ripple in the air, at the empty space beside him.

Mirage looked but saw nothing. He glanced around at the occupied tables near him if anyone felt something amiss as well. They kept taking their morning fuels nonchalantly.

CRACK! A black-and-purple Seeker popped from that ripple with a loud, blinding flash.

“MORNING!!” He screamed at Mirage’s face.

Mirage yelled and fell backwards, landing hard on the floor on his back. He propped himself up on his elbows as the Seeker cackled haughtily.

“Skywarp!” Mirage flinched at the new voice coming from behind him. It was Slipstream, fuming. “Really? He just got here yesterday.”

Skywarp? That Skywarp? Trinemate to the Winglord’s Crown Heir?

“Exactly why I have to do that.” Skywarp replied without shame.

Slipstream groaned exasperatedly. She knelt to Mirage and helped him up. “I’m so sorry about him. Are you alright?”

“T’was only a small fall. I’m fine, thank you.”

Skywarp snorted. “T’was.”

Mirage automatically force reset his vocaliser.

Slipstream glared at the bulkier Seeker then turned back to Mirage. “Let’s go elsewhere. Sorry for the bother, mechs!” she called at the hall as she lead the Towerling to the entrance.

In the midst of it, Mirage heard “Isn’t that the Towers heir?”

Skywarp and Slipstream were siblings, which explained their similarities in their wing shapes. (Not their black paintjobs.) Mirage wondered since Skywarp was trine to the Winglord’s Crown Heir, what did that make Slipstream? He had read that Skywarp was a commoner and any commoner who are trine to a royal family are became a member in royalty. There was no exact info about what the newly royal’s still-commoner family would receive. Mirage noted to himself to ask about it later.

Slipstream brought Mirage to a patio in one of the gardens. Vosian delicacies have been prepared for them, and they smell delicious. Skywarp complained that he could have teleported the three of them here instead of walking. Was he not scared using his ability so openly?

“You’re an Outlier.” Mirage blurted out.

“Duh.” Skywarp crossed his arms over his cockpit. “First time seeing another one like you?”

A chill slammed on Mirage. How did he know?

No. He can’t have known just like that. Stay cool, Mirage.

“What are you talking about?” he asked with a masked confusion.

Skywarp opened his mouth, but Slipstream cut him off. “Gentle-mechs, let’s eat the snacks before they turn cold.”

The delicacies tasted as magnificent as their smell. It brought Mirage’s mind off his worries for a moment. Once they were done, they went professional (though Skywarp was leaning far back in his chair as if he was sunbathing).

“I’ve been informed about your unique situation,” Slipstream began. “Usually when it comes to paying debts to the Royal Eyrie, they’d usually receive new servants or valuable trinkets. You may not be a legitimate heir by the Crystal City customs, but you’re still an offspring to a lord.”

My step-carrier would incline to disagree, Mirage thought. “Is that why the Winglord intended to welcome me in person?”

“Yes. Though the Winglord can be quite cunning—”

“I’ll say.” Skywarp muttered.

“—but he means well. He always does. You’ve actually been assigned to be my dear sibling’s attendant.”

Skywarp chimed in before Mirage could respond his surprise. “The Winglord insisted I need one. I can manage myself just fine. That traitorous Thundercracker took his side over me – his own trinemate.”

“There’s a rule about saying the word ‘traitor’ for no reason, ‘Warp.” Slipstream said sternly at him then returned to Mirage. “As I was saying, the Royal Eyrie hasn’t hosted a Towersmech in centuries. A lot have changed since that last time. With the ascension of the new Prime, there’s going to be more changes soon. The Winglord likes him very much.”

“Starscream doesn’t.”

“Starscream isn’t the Winglord. Now stop butting me and our guest!” Slipstream snipped.

Skywarp huffed “Fine, fine,” and leaned further back into his chair. Mirage expected him to shout or demand his sibling to apologize. He remained laxed. How odd...

Slipstream sighed. “My apologise, Mirage. We’re still getting used to this life of royalty. Skywarp and I were commoners from the Hanging District. One day we went to this year’s Trine Searching Ceremony after skipping many times and suddenly Skywarp trined to the Crown Heir and the Winglord’s great-nephew. By Vosian law, commoners who’re trine to royalty are adopted into royalty; their family welcome to live the Royal Eyrie. I hope you don’t mind learning together with us newbie royals.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Mirage replied, feeling less alone for some reason. “The Towers seem royal but we’re not as high profile as the Houses whose sparkline directly served the Primacy for generations. Like the House of Ambus for example.” Mirage pondered how his mentor was doing with the new Prime.

Slipstream smiled in relief. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

Mirage smiled back. “About my meeting with the Winglord tomorrow, what do I have to prepare?”

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Chapter Text

Mirage only needed to prepare two things: a well-adorned garment to present himself in and a gift for the Winglord.

The Winglord was keen in trying new delicacies. Slipstream said she overheard him wanting to taste one from Crystal City. “A pure Crystalline sweet” to be precise. Due to the Towers’ greediness, pure Crystalline sweets were forbidden to be sold in other states. Even local commoners don’t have the privilege to purchase the real ones, either. The cheap ones only stated they were “genuine”. They actually used additives and other ingredients to mimic the tastes, albeit closely. Mirage used to help a few servants steal a few boxes of the sweets from the pantry to share with their families. They work well for bribing the guards to keep quiet, too.

Then they were snitched on. The lord-consort fired the servants who stole the sweets and Mirage spent ten days under house arrest with only a quarter of energon in his tank. His half-siblings mocked him by eating their fuel and snacks messily in front of his room. The sight of the crumbs falling wastefully on the floor hurt more. His sire went on a business trip at the time. He had no idea about his mate’s actions until he returned when Mirage’s punishments were over.

Upon knowing about the thievery misfit, Lord Iridium scolded Mirage first, then brought him to the very shops who made the pure Crystalline sweets. Every little bite was made by hand. The workers risk losing their hands and arms repeatedly due to the hazardous parts of certain ingredients, yet they were willing to continue their craftmanship for as long as possible. It was unfair how much of their work would wind up in a dark room until they spoil.

The shops taught Mirage how to make the sweets, and he had mastered one: the Glass Crystalline.

Before he could start making it, he needed to know if the Winglord had any aversions to its ingredients. Slipstream lead him to the kitchens to ask the Head Mixologist. Skywarp followed along, to Mirage’s confusion. Luckily, the Winglord had no aversions, but the Head Mixologist refused to lend Mirage her kitchen.

“It’s for the Winglord,” Slipstream tried to convince her.

“Exactly! He’s a grounder and of the Towers. Sounds like an assassination attempt if you ask me.”

She had a point on the last part.

“We could try the kitchen in Thundercracker’s eyrie.” Skywarp suggested.

“After you nearly killed his mixologist? I don’t think so.” Slipstream jibed yet without venom.

“It was one time, and he’s fine.” Skywarp responded loudly but without anger.

Mirage observed the siblings’ interaction, feeling inapt. Are they always this intense with each other?

“You can use my bar!” said a new voice. The three fliers and the Towerling turned around and saw the four-wheeled, visored minibot who tended the bar in the staff’s mess hall. “On one condition: he—” the minibot pointed at Skywarp. “—stays outside.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t hurt anybody this time.”

“You almost hurt him. You know the rules. No teleporting in or out of the mess hall.” The minibot ignored Skywarp’s whine and went to Mirage. “Meeting with the Winglord, eh? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well then, we can’t risk the Winglord’s present getting stolen by newsparks. Thundercracker’s young relatives are as feisty as hungry turbofoxes. Take your ingredients and come to my bar. The name’s Swerve.”

“I’m Mirage. Uh...” Mirage hesitated. “I don’t have the ingredients yet.”

Swerve turned to the Head Mixologist. “Why didn’t you give him any, m’lady?”

“I’ve said it already: he’s new and of the Towers. He hasn’t asked, either.”

So being a grounder suddenly not a problem? Mirage pushed the thought away and asked for the ingredients.

The Head Mixologist was satisfied. She told him to send the list of ingredients through her frequency then went to fetch them.

They went to the staff’s mess hall with Swerve. The Head Mixologist had replaced Skywarp’s presence (who Swerve shut the door on). She was curious how Crystal City local sweets were made. Though Mirage assumed she was even more curious that a Towerling was able to cook.

Swerve’s bar was larger behind the counter than it seemed from the customers’ side. Mirage used to have a wider space when cooking, but he can manage with this.

“Can I watch?” Swerve asked.

“Sure,” answered Mirage. This was his bar.

As the minibot went to grab his stepping stool, Slipstream leaned over the counter and asked, “Can I watch, too?”

Mirage held his rising jittery at bay. “Of course.” It would be rude to exclude his guide.

The Head Mixologist squeezed beside Slipstream and gave a judging, calculating optic. She must be observing to make sure Mirage wasn’t making poison, or to learn, or both. He wanted to offer her courteously, but his vocaliser wouldn’t budge.

Mental tremor waited beneath his armour. It was midday, they was nobody in the mess hall except for them and the staff preparing for break hour far adjacent to them. Why did he feel like he was under a spotlight? His sire’s voice came in mind –

Calm down, ignore the world, focus on your task.

Ignore the world, Mirage concurred and began cooking.

He had forgotten how long it would take to make Glass Crystalline. When serving it as a dish (for one mech), it must be served in four thick layers that were stacked to imitate freshly cut transparent crystals. It took an hour alone to complete one layer. Each step cannot be split by parts. It must be done one layer at a time, or else the dough will harden unevenly.

Mirage completed the first layer whilst explaining his audience of three the steps of the recipe. Slipstream was fascinated. Swerve took notes. The Head Mixologist kept a stern optic on him. Mirage acted casual under her gaze as he started working on making the second layer.

By then, rest hour struck and mechs came pouring into the mess hall.

Ignore the world, ignore the world.

Mirage kept his optics down and focused on the task. He heard mechs asking, he heard them admiring, he heard some wanting to taste the sweet, and if the sweet was new to the menu. Then he heard “Isn’t that him?” “It’s the Towerling”, “—calls him Heir to No One”, “A lord’s bastard I heard”.

His thumb twitched and poked a hole on the hardening dough.

He quickly reached for the roller only for it to fall to the floor with a loud clatter.

Strangers turn their heads on him. Their attentions were on him. They were going to laugh at him—

“Keep calm, youngling.”

The Head Mixologist was suddenly behind the counter with him. She snatched the roller and wiped it swiftly with a cloth.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I’ll help you finish this faster.”

Did she truly intend to help him or to sabotage him? She appeared sincere despite the sternness on her face. He could retort...

He let her help. She’s the Head Mixologist. Refusing her help will make him look arrogant, misplacing himself further than he already was.

Respect the Eyrie and they’ll respect you in return.

I will, sire.

By sundown, the Glass Crystalline was done, including the edible accessories and its packaging. The Head Mixologist took the sweet to her kitchen for safekeeping, barking at the admiring staffs that it was reserved for the Winglord.

Mirage felt his elbows weighing a ton. He never felt like this when he made the sweet for his sire.

However, he cannot rest yet. He needed to choose a garment to wear for tomorrow.

He invited Slipstream to come to his suite so she would share her opinion. Skywarp tagged along, again, Mirage had no idea why. Slipstream wondered the same thing aloud, but Mirage allowed him, saying that a second opinion would be helpful. In truth, he’d rather not have a teleporting, unmannered mech to even know where his room was. Yet said mech was who the Towerling will be an attendant to. He’s bound to know at some point, unfortunately so.

Mirage had laid his formal clothes out around his suite before leaving. Three of them were laid on the bed, five hang neatly on the cabinets, one on the desk, one on the chair, the couches displayed his two capes, and a dozen brooches on the tea table. It was as though he had turned his suite into a shop.

Slipstream and Skywarp gawked at the sight from the doorway. Neither made a move to enter.

“Is something wrong?” Mirage asked, keeping his nervousness at bay.

Slipstream replied, “Oh no, nothing’s wrong. It’s just... Wow...!”

“I’m not going in.” Skywarp declared. “My turbines will ruin them just by walking near them. Have fun with the fashion show, Slip!”

There was a crack and flash in the corridor, and Skywarp was gone.

That’s the most courteous thing he has done today, Mirage thought. “Come in, Slipstream. Don’t worry, the cloths are stronger than they look.”

Slipstream sheepishly entered his suite, ducking her wings through the doorway as she did so. She looked at every cloth around the living room in awe. When she saw the open bedroom, her optics widen more. She pointed at the cloth laying on the foot of the bed.

“By Starfall’s wings – that one is beautiful! Which clothing is that?”

“That one is a poncho. I wear it like—” he paused; realisation dawned on him.

Heat rose up his face. Everyone in the Towers had somebody to help clothe them, especially if the clothing had cuts or decors that might tangle with one’s frame kibbles. Mirage had had only one servant help clothe him until the day of his departure. He was the only other mech beside his lord sire whom Mirage trusted by intimate means. He have worn some by himself, but there were always errors at places he couldn’t reach.

He had just met Slipstream. Despite being new, she’s still part of the royal family. He cannot ask her to do that! No, no, no!

“Like?”

“Err - like this.” Mirage picked the poncho up and wore it.

... or tried to.

He had put his head through the one of the holes meant for his tires. He fumbled for a second only to go through the same hole backwards. He fumbled once more, determined he had aimed for the right hole only to feel the sharp edge atop his head snagging the clothe. Scrap!

Slipstream gasped. “Here, let me help!”

Through the poncho, Mirage saw the faint outline of the slim, winged figure rapidly approaching him. His knees suddenly gave way, and he fell on the floor beside the bed.

“Are you okay?” The Seeker asked worriedly.

How embarrassing... Mirage forced himself to laugh, “Ah, how clumsy of me. Did something tear?”

“No, but it got in under your tire. Here, I’ll help.” He felt her clawed hand grabbing him by the shoulder and the other grab his arm as she hoisted him to sit up. The clothe fumbled and twisted, then she lifted the clothe off of him.

“Thank you, Slipstream.” Mirage wanted to sink into the floor. “My apologies, I usually have someone helping me out.”

He expected a ridicule. Instead, she said, “Oh, I can help you.”

“But— We just... I don’t want to bother you.”

“Nonsense!” Slipstream replied politely. “Everyone needs help to wear garments. You don’t want cloth getting in your seams and rip, right?”

Oh... It wasn’t just a Towers thing. Of course it wasn’t! Fliers need more help dressing up especially with their wings. How stupid could he be.

“Come on,” Slipstream stood up and stretch out a hand at him. “I’ll help you out.”

It was just a small gesture, but it meant a lot to Mirage.

He took that hand and felt like he made a new friend. His first friend in ages.

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