𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 ━ transformers

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

It's weird, seeing him in my head and not in the room with us. Instead, my mind conjures an image so pristine that I feel like I'm in the cold, dusty room with him, hand pressed against my abdomen, blue liquid leaking out of it.

He's coughing, but he seems to be over whatever happened to him early. Now, he's focused on cursing me out in every language that he knows even though I didn't even say his name.

And I swear on Primus, I will take your fleshy bones and snap them into nothingness, he says again. At this point, I'm over the threats--especially since I know he's not actually here.

Everyone is giving me odd looks, but I can't say anything. I won't say anything. How could I claim to know the one creature that could help us without seeming like a complete lunatic?

"Eleanor, is everything well?" Ratchet asks.

Ratchet? By the Allspark, I have not seen him in a what feels like vorns. What the slag is he doing in that horrible form?

I nod. My wrists dig into the cuffs. "Why do you ask?"

"Well. . ." He trails off, pursing his lips. "I am really unsure of how to describe this, but-"

"Your eye--" Ironhide interrupts, pointing to his own, "--it's glowing, like it did in the room."

"Glowing?" I ask, stomach dropping. Automatically, my hands reach for my eyes, but I haven't seen my reflection since before I was taken. I don't what I look like, haven't for over a month. "Wh-What are you talking about?"

"Here, it is better to show you." Ratchet sighs, pulling a small, handheld mirror from who knows where and walking over to me slowly, as though he were sneaking up on a deer. "Do not be frightened, okay. It is normal for the body to look different after one has not seen it in so long. You will be different, Eleanor. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"But you are still human."

He hands me the mirror. I take it with shaky hands. It's a bit hard to hold it with my hands currently bound, but I hold it up to my face, and what I see almost makes me drop it, a sob escaping my throat before I can do anything to stop it.

I am almost aghast, almost disgusted by what I see. I knew I had scars--I was okay with that. My scars were a part of me, and though I didn't love them, I lived with them. But everything else. . .

My skin, once tan and flawless, is now pale--a pale so white it looks like my skin is translucent. Papery. Ugly. So, so ugly.

There are more scars. More scars. I touch them, run my hand over them, skin touching tears touching tissue. The mirror lays in front of me. My crying face is not pretty, but then again, I'm not pretty because I don't look human. Not in the way it matters. Not in the way I want it to matter.

The worst part are my eyes. Eyes that I used to love more than anything, the only part of my body that I was truly happy with is another piece of torture that will haunt me forever.

My right one--it's. . . How do I even explain it? It's not glowing, not really, but there is a blue tint to it. Not like ocean blue or the pretty sapphire that makes you think of stormy skies and dark caves on the shores, but light blue. Light like Ron's--like Ironhide's and Ratchet's and Optimus's.

My left one is a milky green, and it is the only one crying tears. Why is it the only one crying tears? Why isn't my right one working? It's glossy, but no liquid falls.

"Why won't I cry?" I ask everyone. No one. The world. Starscream and Barricade. My hand reaches for it, claws it. "Why can't I cry?"

Not them. Not them. They don't cry. Starscream made sure I knew it. Their eyes don't get moist. They don't feel remorse or sorrow the way that we do. They do not cry.