Femme For Hire
Authors Note: This was a hard chapter to fit together! While I have my notes planned out, my muse ran away BIG TIME! I also had a bad experience with a new doctor, I'm still shaking - ain't never going back there again. FINITO! Doctors suck.
Please note that this is set in the VERY early days of the war, and Optimus is still learning how to be a Commander. He isn't the all-knowing, wise, powerhouse legend that he is now (although he's getting there!). Enjoy.
Chapter Two
Iacon Command Centre, seven orns into Elita One's mission... and still no contact.
Jazz frowned, not seeing what he had come to find, "Where's Optimus?"
On the tips of his agile feet, Jazz peered hopefully around the small Command Centre. Having just entered the room, he had hoped to be immediately confronted by the huge towering form of the Autobot Commander. The mech was always easy to find in a room. Just head for the biggest, tallest, mass you could find, with a cluster of adoring Autobots around it, and there he was. Unless Omega had dropped in for a visit... but he had no clamouring groupies.
Leaning over a table sprawled with strategic data and the latest comlink transmissions, Prowl spared the smallish silver mech a glance, "Not here."
"Oh." Jazz let his body sag down. "He's moping again?"
Prowl frowned, considering his answer. He liked Jazz, the bot had the sharpest CPU anywhere, with an easy sense of humor (and if Prowl would ever allow himself to be pushed that far, a lovely pint-sized aft too, and that visor he wore made him want to stare all day in the hope of catching a look at the elusive inquisitive optics hidden underneath) but he didn't utilise the latest slang speak the younger mech's were fond of. His processor took a moment to configure his answer.
"...if you want to call it that, then yes."
Jazz shook his head and muttered a few expletives. He looked up from under his visor as a black thick mass rose from its seat at the rear of the room, looking like the ascension of doom itself.
"I'll get the fragger," Ironhide announced in a menacing growl, stomping his over-sized frame past an open-mouthed Jazz.
"Okay!" Jazz said brightly. He looked back at Prowl who had narrowed his gaze at Ironhide's passing. "Boss bot is in his quarters?"
Prowl hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. Jazz was trustworthy. "No. He's in Elita's."
"What?!" Flinching and spluttering, the small mech looked astounded. "Oh. That's... sad, you know? Really sad. We need to take him out and get him over-energised or something, get some potent stuff down his throat and let him talk it out."
Prowl appeared disturbed at the thought of the Great Optimus Prime sprawled over a table and sobbing out his sorrows, "Uh, no. We do not."
Elita's quarters...
Optimus Prime had entered Elita One's private quarters without paying close attention to what he was doing. He'd just drifted through the base corridors until he arrived at her door, over-rode the security codes, and stepped inside. His great frame relaxed visibly. His helmeted head dipped. This was her domain, it made his spark feel better to just... be there. While he wasn't absent from his duties as Base Commander – he'd never shirk his duties - he couldn't concentrate or be confident about the decisions he was making for the Autobot cause. His cause.
One small automatic light had lit up one corner of the room when he entered, barely caressing his stress-tight form with faded white light. The ridges and planes of his face appeared stark. His body seemed drained of its usual vibrant color. Harsh. His presence made her quarters seem even smaller than they were. She didn't have many artefacts or belongings, her personal space was mostly bare, and she had tastes just like his own; simple, un-cluttered. No particular style. He didn't want to touch her things. He only wanted to be near her, and this was the closest he could get.
Femmes treated their quarters differently from mechs. They cleaned up, tidied, and made sure furnishings had matching colors. They invited friends in for a chat. Mech's only cared about where to hang up their guns, and how big the recharge berth was for tumbling upon with a femme.
His optics brightened and dimmed alternately as he thought haphazardly, his CPU crashing anguished ideas and realisations together. Did he really love her that much? He thought he did. What was love anyway? He didn't think he had been in love before. Was love causing this? Hurting his spark, turning his CPU into a dead zone, depriving him of satisfactory recharge and causing thoughts of her to be at the fore front of his over wrought processor? Must be love. And did he always visit her quarters now she was gone because of guilt or sorrow?
Was she... dead now?
So he just stood there, merely one hesitant step inside the door. Not moving. Hands hanging limply by his narrow hips. Silent. His metal mass contained his anger, grief and fear within a tiring structure of almost savage mechness.
Outside in the hallway, oblivious to the young Optimus Prime's nervous breakdown, Ironhide drew to a halt outside Elita's door, having had to walk past the other few femmes in the female section of the army's small residential area; not an unpleasant task by his standards. The armored door was, of course, locked and sealed.
Some of the femmes had poked their head's out of their doors, wondering what mech with the big heavy footsteps was invading their territory now. They had already seen Optimus. He hadn't been discrete. A dull, depressing figure trooping past. Seeing Ironhide's scary physique, most disappeared from sight quickly. Except for a femme with light blue armor, and a rifle hanging from her re-enforced hip with enough power to make Megatron wince...
"I was waiting for you to turn up. He's been in there for a while now."
Ironhide's head turned, a happy smirk on his mouthplates and his optics brightening from their threatening gaze. "Chromia."
The femme smiled, liking the view she had of his solid male physique. "Knew they'd send you in. Only the toughest..." she gave him a languid parting wave and withdrew into her own room.
Ironhide shook his head. No time for femmes now. He had a simpering, 'woe-is-me' aft to kick. He placed his hand on the door panel and accessed the control unit with his own CPU. Optimus must have used his own over-ride code to get in, and then set it to stop anyone else from coming in after him. But Optimus wasn't too bright at utilising door security protocols. Ironhide's systems located the code in a stray data string where Optimus had failed to cleanly remove his blundering essence, and grumbled as the locks disengaged with heavy thunks from top to bottom.
The door opened without further drama, ushering him into the dark interior of Elita One's private room. He went to take a step forward and almost walked straight into Optimus Prime's rigid unbreakable back.
With a squeak, Ironhide managed to rock backwards on his feet to avoid slamming into Optimus. "Slag it! YOUNGLING!"
The larger mech didn't move or react. Still as stone. No, 'I apologise, Ironhide', no order to leave him alone, no wild fist coming at his face. Nothing.
"Hn." With a roll of his colossal shoulders, Ironhide took a step around Optimus to face him. Expecting to see anguish. Despair. Someone contemplating taking themselves off-line. Absolute depression. Perhaps even unreasonable anger.
Instead he was confronted with a dirty, dull metal, expressionless mech. Not a flicker of movement or sound came from him.
Ironhide propped his fists on his hips and arched his chest out, looking up at his tall Leader. "You look like slag."
Large optic sweepers closed and opened once. Nothing else. Optimus was looking through him. Ironhide had the horrible feeling that he could have been Megatron and the reaction would not have differed in the slightest. That far-too-handsome, carefully structured face that Optimus protected with a specially made face mask in battle was utterly blank.
Ironhide groaned internally. Better keep talking... this was going to be one of those episodes. He turned on his best jovial manner.
"Now me, I can look like slag and pull it off. I'll still have femmes stuck to my aft wanting attention. You, on the other hand – no. It's bad."
It really was. How the most handsome, broad, hydraulic heavy, muscle cable bound, droolworthy mech could look so fragging awful, Ironhide did not understand. No charisma, no smile, no intelligence radiating out from his faded optics. Then he noticed something else. He arched an optic and snorted, looking over Prime's thick shoulder at an empty space on his wide back that should have contained something vitally important.
"Where's your rifle?!" he demanded, aghast.
It was normal to see the handle of Optimus Prime's formidable weapon standing out comfortingly upon his back. Always. Without fault. They all knew that anyone standing behind him for safety in a battle would be swiftly protected with the great weapon. But now...
Ironhide ran a hand over his own optics with a grunt, "Oh, good Primus, you've really lost it. We can't let the others see you like this. It's a disaster."
He and Ratchet had thought they'd put a true Leader in the top position. A mech with titanium cables for guts, great smarts, amazing potential, limitless power for crushing 'Cons, and with outstanding femme attracting charisma and looks. That was their Optimus Prime, and more.
"...Lost...?"
The Weapons Specialist jerked at the sound. He was coming back. Primus knew how many more of these 'episodes' he could endure. Now to keep him talking. "Yeah, that's right. You've lost your aft-spawned CPU, you know that?"
Prime's optics moved. His body creaked, hydraulics whistling, hands clenching. "I've lost... lost..." his angular faceplates twitched from blank, to anguished, and back again. "Elita. My... fault. Me."
It was force of will that kept Ironhide from reaching out and hugging the stupid lugnut. He only ever hugged femmes, and even then, only during interfacing.
"Oh no, that femme you've got can handle herself without a problem, I fear for the 'Cons, I really do," he frowned, "no, wait, I don't, but anyway, let's get you turned around and back to your own quarters, yeah?" His hands touched the sides of Prime's bulky chest, getting him to turn slowly. "That's it, keep'em moving."
"Need a hand?"
A body just as big as Prime's but a touch broader, and lacking his outright elegance, was blocking Optimus' way out. Large hands reached out and grasped their young Commander gently. "Come on, Optimus, you need some rest."
"I can handle this, Magnus," Ironhide grunted, pushing at Optimus from behind, his thighs straining as he leaned in. Prime was one heavy lump to shove around.
"Sure you can! But we love teamwork, don't we Mags?" Silver three-fingered hands snuck up between the bigger mechs and patted Optimus on the hip. "Let's go Boss bot, back to your quarters. One foot in front of the other, yep, you're doin' great, see! Easy!"
Their Commander's legs moved sluggishly. The long powerful thighs lifted and dropped with listless activity. Large feet plonked without any direction in mind.
Watching, Ironhide growled, spinning the gyro's in his cannons. He didn't like receiving 'help'. Ultra Magnus was walking in front of Optimus, coaxing the dazed mech onwards while Jazz used deft touches to keep the huge mech moving along. Teamwork indeed.
"When he's more experienced, he'll cope alright with things like this. Some rest, support, refuelling, and a kick in the aft, and he'll get better. We need him."
Ironhide groaned. Not him too! "Ratchet!"
"Oh, be quiet, 'Hide," Ratchet waved him off, his optics following Optimus Prime's slow progress down the hallway. "His spark is overwhelming his CPU. He can't function. And honestly, if he was sparkbonded to her, he'd probably be even worse."
The black mech loomed over the shorter CMO, snarling, "Who else knows about this?"
"Just us, and Prowl. And the femmes probably think he's gone a bit strange, so his reputation as Commander Femme Magnet will be spoiled." Solemn optics looked up at Ironhide, "We're not going to leave him alone with your brand of psychology, Ironhide. I mean, seriously, ouch. He's still a youngling."
Ironhide took a swipe at him with one hand, but missed. Ratchet had already moved off after his patient, calling at Jazz not to put dents in Prime's aft with his enthusiastic pushing.
"Dents. I'll put dents," Ironhide muttered trailing slowly after the small crowd ahead of him.
Ratchet took charge of the morose Leader once they had reached his rooms. Ultra Magnus rounded up Ironhide and Jazz, taking them away while Ratchet did a quick physical check of Optimus (frowning at the results and waving a disappointed finger around) and then sent the large mech to his recharge berth – early. With orders not to move off of it unless it was an emergency or the base was under attack.
Optimus had silently followed the CMO's directions. He didn't even have the energy to curse Ratchet's departing aft out the door. But he found recharge something far beyond his ability. He now understood the phrase 'too tired to recharge'.
"...Ugh."
Lying on his front upon his oversized recharge berth, Optimus Prime lifted his head shakily and raised an unsteady hand to his face to stop the bright light of his communications terminal from burning out his sensitive optics. It was the only light in the room. Normally the small light would be inconsequential, but Prime's poor physical condition was a major worry. His optics required some significant downtime to re-set the delicate crystals within themselves as routine maintenance, but since Optimus wasn't giving them enough recharge time to do so... ouch. Bright light hurt.
Swivelling his optic spheres within their casings hurt like murder. His optics ached. His head hurt.
It was still a long lonely time until Cybertron's weak dawn flooded the small window of his private quarters. From a Commander's point-of-view, he could get up and begin his duties early, going against Ratchet's orders, but then... his CPU was barely functioning as it was, but he couldn't stop thinking about...
Elita.
Primus, he'd sent her to her death...
Optimus choked out a groan. His great head sank down to rest its bulk upon his forehead on the berth. Rolling onto his side, he curled up weakly. Knees to his armored chest.
Where was she? Why hadn't they heard from her? Didn't she know how much he... how much...
His hands gripped the sides of his head with a deep groan of despair. "No..."
On the other side of Cybertron...
"GET UP THERE YOU RETRO-FITTED, TANK OF FILTH!"
The small steel can on wheels being shoved over the wall by an irritated, out-of-patience Elita One, shrieked and warbled its own slew of curses. Its short arms gripped the top of the wall and hung on. It didn't want to get chucked! The femme pushed, panted, swore and finally – with an impossibly big thrust – got the recon bot over the other side. For something so small the thing weighed nearly as much as Bumblebee!
It landed on its side with a whistle and gurgle of displeasure, then promptly began oozing oil all over the ground from a busted fuel line.
The red femme with the sleek lines, chrome inserts and all-business armor landed beside it. She grimaced while rubbing at the middle of her sore back. "Primus... I thought Wheeljack said you were 'un-bustable'. Why didn't you bounce? And where are you drooling from now?"
The podbot got itself upright using a propped strut then bounced indignantly on its three wheels and produced a small display screen listing what needed repairing. She frowned, ignored the screen (she never could work out what the instructions said, that was mech stuff) and turned it upside-down with slim hands.
A long digital peal of indignation came at her.
"Oh, shut it, you'll attract attention. I'm fixing you."
The bot stayed uncomfortably silent and put up with 'the fixing'. At least her hands were more gentle than the big clumpy mech's back home. It was eventually set upright again.
"Right. You're good." Elita wiped her hands off on a silver cloth she dragged out of a hip compartment, and squinted her optics into the distance. "I'm pleased we've survived this far. Head Command thought we wouldn't. Notch one up for the femmes."
Podbot opened a slot on his front and ejected an empty datacase at her in contempt. He wasn't a femme! Elita merely lifted one optic ridge at him in amusement.
"Now, while this place ahead of us is deserted - as far as Autobot intelligence knows, anyway - we must still adhere to silence and stealth since this is enemy territory, so no whistling songs, grouching about how filthy the ground is or wanting to play games. Yes?"
The bot blinked some lights at her.
Elita eyed it, "Uh huh. I'm extrapolating that means yes. Let's get going..."
The tall femme started forwards, picking her way through debris and shattered buildings with her scanners on full and a rifle in her right hand, the podbot trundling along behind her. She was heading for the original home of Megatron before he graduated from sparklinghood and became the High Protector of Cybertron and then on to being the vicious Decepticon Leader.
The starting place for the Decepticon uprising. Kaon.