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It took two long minutes for Mirage to realize the mech caught in the trap was Skywarp.
The delay was more than just embarrassing; there were many, many circumstances in which a lapse like that would get him killed, or worse. Despite that he had only encountered the seeker in the field in a handful of rather brief instances, Skywarp was distinctive and fairly well-known. Mirage had studied the Autobot intelligence dossier on him backwards and forwards, as he had for all high-ranking Decepticons, and he should have been prepared to recognize him confidently and without hesitation.
Except the hunched and bedraggled figure on his hands and knees near the mouth of the cave was hardly what Mirage had been expecting. As he watched, the other mech struggled to sit up, crackles of electric violet leaping from one armor plate to the next as the surrounding air fizzed and popped dangerously. For one unsettling moment, it seemed as if reality itself was distorting around him, the world in full being pulled inescapably towards a single point: the black and purple seeker. Then, there was a vividly-colored burst of light followed by a sickening crack and a ragged scream. Once Mirage's visual receptors reset, Skywarp was laid out flat in the scrubby grass where he'd been kneeling, his frame sparking and his wings twitching behind him in a way that looked both strained and frantic.
Frowning, Mirage ducked behind the solid trunk of an old, massive tree to reevaluate the situation, dropping his illusory cloak once he was out of sight to conserve energy. When Jazz had dispatched him to investigate the disturbance at this supply cache, he had assumed he would find a threat too powerful to tackle on his own. After all, every camera and sensor in this area had rather abruptly gone dark just moments after the cache's defense mechanism had been triggered. That was no easy feat; there was sure to be a whole squad of Decepticons waiting for him, or at least an immensely powerful point one percenter. Thus, as was appropriate to his role, he had planned merely to gather as much information as possible in order to relay an accurate and comprehensive report back to HQ to help High Command determine the best course of action. Now that he was here, though…
The sun dipped partly behind a cloud, shifting the patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor, as Mirage leaned back into the trunk and considered. He knew just enough about the cache's defenses—Wheeljack's gravity snare—to work through what must have happened. The trap was designed to anchor any intruder in place by generating a field of localized artificial gravity, strong enough to weigh down a mech's frame until he could barely rotate an actuator. Of course, Skywarp would have immediately activated his own outlier ability and tried to teleport away, and Mirage was guessing Wheeljack hadn't compensated for what might happen if those forces were to interact. Recalling the Decepticon's pinched, panicky expression and his overall battered state, he wondered just how long Skywarp had been at it.
One lone seeker, even an outlier, was hardly an army. Skywarp's strength and ruthlessness were extensively documented in his file, and Mirage wasn't fool enough to believe himself a match for the mech in a fair fight. What he found before him now, however, was a far cry from the fearsome and lethal instrument of Megatron's air superiority that he had expected. High Command was undoubtedly very busy. Surely the most responsible decision would be for Mirage to alter his mission parameters and simply handle things: shut down the trap, take Skywarp prisoner, transport him safely back to base for questioning. Being sent out on his own must mean he was authorized to act on his own; he was, of course, an intelligent bot fully capable of adapting in real-time to reinterpret his orders.
Wheeljack had supplied him with the gravity snare override codes prior to his departure. Stepping from the shelter of the trees into the clearing around the cave, he drew his weapon and leveled it at Skywarp, simultaneously running a frequency scan for the generators hidden nearby. Vibrating his vocal coils, he let his vocalizer produce a meaningless noise to draw the Decepticon's attention.
"I will agree to deactivate the gravity field," Mirage called out to him, "if you, in turn, agree to surrender. That's likely the best offer you'll receive, so I would recommend taking it."
Scarlet optics lifted to gaze at him weakly, and Mirage clamped down on the sudden alarm that pulsed in his fuel lines. There was what appeared to be genuine fear in Skywarp's eyes: an intense distress that bordered on panic. He looked like nothing more than a hunted, cornered turbofox. It was a reaction that was difficult for Mirage to reconcile with the reports and reputation and rumors of the cold and merciless Elite Trine.
He could almost hear Prime's voice in his head, the steady, resounding quality it took on when he was at his most impassioned and inspirational. An uncomfortable twinge stirred in his spark casing. Apparently Autobot moral responsibility had taken root in him, after all. With an internal sigh, he transmitted the override codes and strode forward to where the other mech was hunched in on himself with anxiety and pain.
It was easy to read on Skywarp's face the instant he realized that the force holding him in place was gone. With barely a glance at the gun still aimed at him, he scrambled to his feet—or tried to. His gyroscopes hadn't yet reconfigured, and he stumbled, pitching sideways in the same moment that the air around him seemed to pull tighter, snapping with electric charge. Fighting for balance, he slammed face-first into Mirage with a thunderous crash, sending them both tumbling, the tip of one large wing nearly slicing clean through the exposed cabling at the Autobot's elbow joint. Mirage hardly had time to process the injury before all of existence once more bent and buckled, rushing in towards them; then, he was engulfed in a great purple flash, and he was shouting through the sensation of half his body being savagely torn apart.
He could not accurately determine how much time had passed before he regained his senses and understood that he had not died. He was on his back in the dirt, his plating badly dented, his weapon lying out of his reach nearby. His legs and hips were pinned by the weight of Skywarp's frame, which was convulsing with jerky spasms. Thankfully, his arm was still attached, though he was leaking energon from the seam where the seeker's sharp edges had breached the shielding and insulation to damage the connective wires and fuel conduits underneath. Mirage felt his body thrumming with a strange, staticky buzz, soon overtaken by his rapidly swelling anger and embarrassment.
"Get off of me," he growled, shoving at the other mech. He attempted to wriggle himself free, flailing his good arm in the direction of his dropped pistol. The movement drew Skywarp's attention; he tried to drag himself upright, reaching one shaky hand to intercept. Mirage pushed him again, jabbing at the seeker's torso with his knee and rocking himself back and forth to gain leverage. With all the strength and momentum he could muster, he rolled, grabbing the other and throwing him to the ground with a noisy clatter of armor. Skywarp grunted a curse. Half-crawling, both bots clambered for the fallen gun.
Mirage's fingers closed around the grip just nanokliks before the Decepticon tackled him, knocking him down with surprising force as he clawed at the Autobot's wrist. They wrestled for a moment, a quick flash of intense, concentrated violence punctuated by dull thuds and the metallic clash of their frames. When Mirage finally managed to extract himself, he hauled himself to his feet and swiveled the weapon back into place, gritting his teeth against the painful throb of the jagged scrapes and long gouges down the length of his forearm.
The satisfaction of victory was, unfortunately, rather short-lived. Mirage felt his left leg wobble, then give out; before he knew it, he was sitting down hard in the grass, a sick plummeting in his tank as he stared at the crushed plating of his ankle and the hissing, deflating remnants of his tire. Belatedly, he remembered to aim his pistol—but Skywarp hadn't moved. He lay supine, cockpit glass streaked and filthy, his shoulders heaving and his optics dim with exhaustion.
There was a period of two or three astroseconds in which Mirage truly believed he was going to calmly reassess his circumstances, update his intel, and devise a new plan. He got as far as a tentative probe of his comm systems—now unresponsive, non-functional, and most likely shorted out—before he promptly lost his cool.
"What is wrong with you?" he shouted. His ire was bubbling over, and he knew he was being rash, but in that moment he was too outraged to care. "Are you trying to get both of us killed? What in the Pit were you thinking?"
Skywarp's gaze flicked towards him but he said nothing. Being ignored only plunged Mirage further into the swell of his resentment. "Answer me, Decepticon," he demanded. He gave an exaggerated wave of his gun hand for emphasis. "And don't even think of warping away. I've no intention of letting you run."
Turning his head, Skywarp stared up at the overcast grey sky and said in a voice that was strangely flat, "Can't."
"Can't?" Mirage narrowed his eyes. "Can't what?"
"Can't run," the seeker replied. It was difficult to see his expression. "Can't warp. Might as well get on with it."
"With…? What are you talking about?"
The question was met with a vague, open-handed gesture. "You know, end it. Shoot me. Whatever it is you're going to do. Just do it and don't drag this out forever."
The Autobot felt his lip twist with distaste. "And execute a wounded mech lying unresisting in the dirt? Don't be barbaric. Besides, you know as well as I do that you're far more valuable as a living prisoner than a greyed corpse."
"Not like this." Skywarp sat up with a grunt and faced him. Mirage squeezed the pistol's grip reflexively, tracking him, but the other only shook his head, his flaperons low and trembling. "You saw it yourself. Dunno what this fragging trap did to me, but my warp's gone. Busted. The Decepticons've got no more use for me."
Mirage scoffed. "What a ridiculous assertion. You're a highly-ranked officer. Your faction has agreed to exchanges for soldiers of much lower standing."
Skywarp shook his head again, insistent. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers curling into the grass, wringing big handfuls of it in his closed fists. "You Autobots never understand. Rank's got nothing to do with it. Without my warp, what's the point?" He nodded at Mirage. "You're an outlier, too, right? You're that little Autobot with the illusions. So you should know."
Not entirely clear on whether he should be offended, Mirage began to say, "Well, I don't think—" but apparently the seeker hadn't finished. Mirage wasn't even sure that he was listening. His gaze was distant, unfocused, and he was obviously building to a panic again. As he spoke, the volume of his voice rising steadily, he drew his knees toward his cockpit, every plate of armor pulled snug against his frame, his body language radiating anxiety and dread.
"High ranked? High ranked is nothing. I'm only useful because I've got my warp. I don't have smarts, I can't scheme like Screamer. I can fight decent enough, yeah, but I'm no powerhouse. I'm no Thundercracker. The Decepticon army's got plenty who can throw a basic punch. And without my warp—there's nothing. I'm nothing special. There's not gonna be any place for me."
Abruptly, he seemed to remember he wasn't alone. His helm whipped about, and there was something profoundly afraid in the deep red of his eyes that left Mirage unsettled, his fuel pump racing.
"You really think you'll get some kind of deal for me?" Skywarp laughed once, rough and without humor. His optics reset and refocused. "If I don't have my power, I've got no more worth to them than scrap. Megatron's not gonna trade you for a broken mech."
The noise of the forest beyond their small clearing seemed loud in the silence that followed. Although it was too clouded overhead to tell, Mirage's integrated chronometer informed him it was a little after this planet's midday, the sun having just slipped past its zenith. A brisk wind wound through the treetops, swaying branches and susurrating among the leaves. Unfamiliar fauna of varying sizes went about their business, picking their way cautiously around roots and stones or scampering swiftly up the knobby bark of trees. As he contemplated what he might even say, he became aware of the high idling whine of Skywarp's engine, its pitch jittery and agitated.
Carefully, Mirage stretched out his injured leg before him. "Well, if that's genuinely how the Decepticons operate," he said with a sniff of disdain, "then I, for one, can't understand why any outlier—any reasonable mech—would choose to ally with them." Moving slowly, he pressed his palms down flat to either side of him and tried to hoist himself to a standing position, bending his knee and letting his ankle very gradually take his weight. He'd made it only about halfway before a dagger of searing pain shot through him. With an involuntary cry, he dropped, hitting the ground hard enough that the impact resonated up his spinal strut. He sucked air into his intakes with a grimace, and said in a tight voice, "In any case, I doubt we'll have the opportunity to test the truth of your theory. Neither of us is going anywhere now, thanks to you."
Skywarp's wings stiffened behind him, quivering with stress and irritation. Swiveling his torso, he shifted position, his own discomfort plain in the strained wince of his expression. "If your Autobot pals are so great, can't you just call 'em up to come get you?"
"Yes, if you hadn't fried my comm systems, you dolt. Along with the whole sensornet in this area." Mirage's sigh was drawn out and weary. "No, both of us are stuck here for the foreseeable future. Truly excellent planning on your part."
Skywarp frowned and, once again, the conversation lapsed, an awkward lull that hung between them. Fingers probing the boxy shape of his own chest, Mirage located and retrieved the emergency survival kit that was tucked away out of sight, affixed to the bottom of his armor. Wary, he kept as much of his awareness on the seeker as he could spare as he unrolled the bundle of supplies and got to work on his leaking cables and crushed plating. Despite the severe limits to his skill with field medicine—Ratchet would certainly have scrutinized his hasty repairs with a critical eye—he managed a quick fix that at least reduced his pain, blunting it. He was still in no shape to walk or even stand, but it was a start.
When he looked up from sliding the tools back into their slots, he found Skywarp watching him in a sideways manner that was likely meant to be subtle. The other mech was still exuding nervous energy, but on the whole appeared calmer, his emotional outburst having run its course. His attention lingered on the medical instruments, and Mirage couldn't help letting his optics travel down the Decepticon's chassis, taking inventory of his many varied scrapes and dents and gashes. The guilty prickling feeling in his spark casing was returning.
Clamping down on the churlish impulse to vent noisily and turn away, Mirage instead set his jaw and gave in. "All right, then. Come here. I'm no medic but I'll do what I can."
The relief on Skywarp's face was palpable within moments of receiving the first pain patch, adhered to a bit of his protoform visible through a plating gap at his waist. His reaction only made Mirage's spark spin faster, awash with a conflicted mix of exasperation and moral obligation. In spite of his best efforts otherwise—and in spite of the mess the seeker had gotten him into—he felt bad for Skywarp, and finding a Decepticon pitiable to any degree was a development he had decidedly not been prepared for. As he passed Skywarp the survival kit's compact welder, their fingers brushed, and Mirage jerked away instinctively with an uneasy rush of his intake fans.
Flustered and confused by his own loss of composure, he blurted without thinking, "You know, you aren't exactly what I was expecting."
Bright, hot sparks leapt from where Skywarp was tracing the welder along the angle of his hip. His joins were neat and even, his earlier jumpiness diminished enough for the careful work. Mirage tracked his movements automatically. "Huh?" The seeker's tone was distracted, his face scrunched with concentration. "What's that mean?"
For a moment, the Autobot floundered, berating himself for speaking. He tried to wave the whole thing away. "No, nevermind, it's nothing. My prior impression of you was formed at a distance. Obviously there would be differences. Inaccuracies."
Skywarp gave him a fleeting glance. "Prettier than you thought?" The remark was tossed off absent-mindedly like it was reflex, a thoughtless habit.
Mirage let out derisive laugh to cover his growing discomfort. "Of course, the infamous seeker vanity. Wonderful to learn that, at least, is no exaggeration."
Switching off the welder, the other mech pivoted to peer at him curiously. The hint of a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Real quick to change the subject," he pointed out.
"I'm not—" Mirage broke off, irritated and glaring. "That's highly inappropriate. And absurd. You assume too much."
Perversely, his rebuttal only seemed to bolster Skywarp's cocky attitude. The Decepticon held out the device to him with a knowing smirk and winked, one optic blinking rapidly off, then on: an inane, pointless habit many Cybertronians had picked up from one or two of the organic species they had encountered centuries ago. Before he could stop himself, Mirage let out an indignant huff and immediately regretted doing so. Snatching back the welder, he flushed with heightened emotion, frustrated and off-kilter.
Skywarp snorted in clear amusement. "Primus, you Autobots are easy." He picked loose blades of grass from his seams and rubbed a palm over his cockpit, trying to wipe away dark green stains. Mirage extracted a polishing pad from the batch of supplies and handed it to him. There was a trace of genuine interest in the look the other directed his way as he accepted it.
"You are that bot with the illusion powers, right? Mir—uh… Mirror?"
"Mirage. I am, yes."
"Is that why you're helping me?" Skywarp swapped the pad to his other hand and swiped it over a bulky thigh. "This some kind of outlier thing?"
"No, it's just—" At a loss for further explanation, all Mirage had to offer him was an uncomfortable shrug. He placed the survival kit down beside him and cast about for what he might say. Why was he helping a Decepticon, much less someone like Skywarp? He was sure his motivation wasn't anything as base and frivolous as attraction. Mirage knew how to relax and have fun, and, like most mechs, he was certainly capable of appreciating a sleek and powerful seeker frame. Skywarp himself was undeniably pleasant to look at. But such superficial motivations were for leisure and peacetime—and besides, were far below the standard to which Mirage had always held himself.
No, there was more to the answer that floated tantalizingly beyond his reach, hovering where he couldn't quite see, like the sensation of surreptitiously being watched. He let his own gaze roam as he ruminated, and it soon fell upon the overturned patch of ground near the entrance to the small cave housing the Autobot cache. He could see long furrows dug into the dirt where the Decepticon had clawed desperately for the leverage to stand.
"You know," Mirage said slowly. Thoughts of the other's distraught rant drifted in circles in his processor. "Your ability to teleport isn't necessarily damaged permanently. It's not unreasonable to assume you'll regain it with adequate fuel and rest."
Skywarp's helm snapped around to stare. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"
Mirage considered. "The trap that ensnared you is gravity-based. I'm not an expert in the science of it, but I imagine the direct effect of it on your warp should have been minimal. At least in a long-term sense; the artificial gravity field would have prevented you from leaving, of course, as it was designed to do with any trespasser."
"Didn't you turn that thing off, though? And it's still not working." Skywarp shook his head.
"It seems likely that you simply exhausted yourself straining against the amplified pull of gravity as you tried to escape." Mirage leaned backwards onto his hands, adjusting the position of his injured leg. "As I said, I'm not an expert. It's only an idea I had."
"That's… huh." The seeker looked down, examining himself, his face lined with thought. He remained quiet and reflective for some time.
Now that it was clear they weren't an immediate danger to each other, Mirage mused, these pauses between them were beginning to feel almost… companionable. Rather than being comforting, this realization only further upset the delicate equilibrium already fluttering in his spark. He knew—had known all along—the Decepticons were just mechs, ordinary Cybertronians like anyone else. While it was the case that, prior to the war, his status had shielded him from a number of hard truths he'd since learned, Mirage was not quite so naive. And yet, Decepticons were the enemy. They had always seemed fundamentally different somehow. Deviant. He'd heard enough stories from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker alone about the depravity of seekers, particularly the Elite Trine, to give any sane mech nightmares.
In light of this, his own experience with Skywarp thus far was… perplexing. There was much less to him of the cold, ruthless soldier that Mirage had expected, much more uncertainty and dismay. He was brash, reactive, emotional, troubled. He was vulnerable.
With a peculiar restlessness humming through his fuel lines, Mirage said, "Do you really believe your people wouldn't come for you? That they care only for your unique ability?"
Skywarp glanced at him and shrugged. There was no resentment or hostility on his face as he asked, "Don't yours?"
"Of course not," Mirage replied automatically, but inwardly, he felt his engine stutter. A tiny needle of doubt wormed its way into his conscious mind from the depths of his processor.
Surely, he was valued among his comrades—he was confident he was—but the other mech's question had managed to cut straight to the core of Mirage's own private fears. Others might commend him or respect him, but did they actually like him? How well did any of them know him, or want to know him, beyond knowing what he could do? When was the last time he'd been dispatched on a mission or given orders that hadn't been assigned to him exclusively due to his singular talent?
If he lost his powers tomorrow, Mirage wondered, what would become of him? What would his place with the Autobots be?
Hurt and off-balance and worn out as he was, he must have been less guarded with his thoughts than he'd intended. Skywarp had been studying his expression; now, the seeker sat up on his knees and shuffled sideways for a better view of his face.
"I'm right, aren't I? That's what you're thinking. I knew it. That's just how it is for mechs like us. Autobot, Decepticon, doesn't much matter."
A jarring judder of his pump made Mirage suddenly, intensely aware of just how alone they were in this tiny space enclosed on all sides by thick underbrush and towering trees. He couldn't help noticing how near to each other they were, enough that the heat of Skywarp's exhaust washed over him. The other scooted closer, gesturing as he spoke.
"I knew you'd get it. Because you're like me. Only outliers really know what it's like to be an outlier."
"I-I suppose so," Mirage said, for lack of a better response. For some reason, his fans were whirring loudly, laboring to draw in and expel the necessary air for his cooling systems.
"What's it like?" Skywarp's voice dipped low like they were sharing a secret. "How's it feel when you do it?"
"Do what?" Mirage asked. He did his best not to stammer.
The seeker leaned towards him even more, an inquisitive gleam shimmering in the radiant blaze of his optics. "When you do your thing. Your fancy magic tricks. When you reach into yourself and make a mirage."
The emphasis he placed on the final word sent a shiver through Mirage's chassis that did not go unnoticed. He could see it in the slight curve of Skywarp's mouth—a mouth he caught his eyes lingering on for just a little too long.
The other mech had moved enough from beside him that they were now sitting face-to-face: Skywarp resting on bent knees, Mirage with his legs still extended before him. The ongoing symphony of sound from the forest seemed to recede into the distance as they watched each other. There was the sense of something intangible passing between them, something both provocative and unwise, tinged with a hunger that glowed electric. Mirage felt like his head was spinning.
He had yet to provide an answer, but Skywarp didn't seem to care. Optics dazzlingly bright, the seeker slid forward, easing one knee between Mirage's thighs and the other around the outside of Mirage's leg, effectively straddling him. This close, his engine was a heavy growl, its vibrations reverberating through Mirage's plating in a way that he felt keenly in the vicinity of his hips. Illuminated blue met coruscating red as Skywarp angled his head lower.
"You said you're not attracted to me," he murmured. "I think you were lying, little Autobot." The air spilling from the vents on either side of his helm was stiflingly hot. His features settled slowly into a crooked grin. "But that's what you do, right? The master of illusions. You know something, Mirage?" Skywarp's frame loomed, casting him into its shadow, giving the impression it was engulfing him. The jet brought himself down alongside the smaller bot's audial sensors, bumping the front plates of their armor together, and Mirage let him. Skywarp pitched his voice at the level of a whisper. "You would make an excellent Decepticon."
Without having made any conscious decision, Mirage seized Skywarp around the back of his helm and kissed him, deep and fierce and reckless. Skywarp responded readily enough that he had to have been expecting it. His lips parted as he let his touch wander across Mirage's shoulders and down to the plating of his chest. His fingers traced tantalizing patterns, and it was all Mirage could do to keep his back from arching in return. He sucked at Skywarp's bottom lip, and was rewarded with a faint noise of pleasure that left him aching for more.
Skywarp let his hands trail lower and—either deliberately or by chance—his knee shifted between Mirage's legs until it was pressed up against his modesty panel. Grip tightening on the seeker's helm, Mirage groaned. He groped along the edges of the other mech's wings, feeling rounded cockpit glass scrape his chest as Skywarp enthusiastically pushed his tongue into Mirage's mouth. Engine purring, he reached around to run exploratory fingers up and down Mirage's back, tweaking kibble and caressing along sensitive seams. Gasping, Mirage clung to him, momentarily helpless beneath his touch as he nipped at the seeker's lip and licked into the heat of his mouth. Their tongues entwined, and Skywarp gave a low, appreciative moan that felt like a sharp jolt all the way through every one of Mirage's fuel lines.
Skywarp moved again, and before he knew what was happening, Mirage found a splayed hand in the center of his torso, gently guiding him down. The other mech was at his neck, working his teeth over the delicate bundled cabling, and Mirage fought the urge to squirm.
Then, very suddenly, Skywarp was disengaging, though his palm remained a firm weight on Mirage's chest, pinning him to the ground. Mirage forced his optics to reboot and stared, not quite comprehending, at the emergency field ration that had appeared in the Decepticon's other hand. It looked suspiciously similar to—
Without a word, Skywarp slapped the energon patch onto a turbine housing, where it dissolved and was rapidly absorbed into his systems. There was a dizzying wobble to the world around them, a flare of brilliant purple, and then the seeker was gone, leaving nothing in his place but the oddly empty sensation of vacuum.
Mirage sat up and glanced to the side where he'd set the survival kit after rolling it back up and resealing it. It lay open and strewn across the ground, very plainly rummaged through in a hurry.
His face burned hot with dawning realization, and every circuit of his body yearned to scream out the rush of his shame and anger, to let his raw feelings override all pretense of composure. How could he have been so careless, so stupid? Primus, he was no better than a newbuild. He had been laughably naive. A complete and utter fool.
A meter or so away, the air shimmered, surged inwards. A loud vwop echoed through the trees, and just as abruptly as he'd vanished, Skywarp popped back into existence before him. Grinning, he let an object fall from his hand, flickered one optic in that absurd, unfathomable wink, and then disappeared once more, leaving Mirage thoroughly baffled and reeling.
It took an astrosecond or two before he'd recovered enough to inspect what the Decepticon had dropped just within his reach. At his feet lay an intact handheld comm unit of the sort used frequently in the field by both factions as a backup to integrated comms systems.
Retrieving the device, he fiddled with the controls, swiftly tuning it to one of the encrypted Autobot frequencies he had memorized. With one finger hovering over the button to transmit his signal, Mirage shook his head.
"An absolute shameless idiot," he muttered.
It had been a very long and tiring day, and so as he spoke, Mirage did himself the courtesy of pretending not to notice the upturned quirk of his lips or the tingling pulse of charge still buzzing beneath his armor. Scooping up the scattered pieces of the emergency kit, he pressed the button on the comm unit and firmly shifted his focus to finding a way back home.