Duty Bound - Part 7

Transformers (G1) Verse
Characters: Jazz + Ops Bots, Optimus Prime

Rating: M

Warnings: Violence of the battle kind, mechxmech

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the below mecha. Boo-hoo.


A/N: Thank you so SO much for all of the reviews/faves/alerts. I am so glad that there at least a few people who like this story and it has kept me tweaking this chapter for months now. ;)
Okay…so, yeah it's been a while since the last update of this story and I must beg forgiveness for that. On the bright side, you get super long chapter as a result. I hope that you enjoy it!


(Jazz's POV)

Patience.

Patience is a game that I am all too familiar with. I have learned to play it well and to appreciate the sometimes long joors of waiting that comes with it. There is a sort of stillness to it, like balancing on an energon blade's razor edge. To be impatient—to slip and cut oneself—it can mean all kinds of very bad things that I'd rather avoid. Things that have left both visible and invisible reminders on me from the past—scars that make me who I am, as well as who I am not.

The static-laden thrum of Hound's hologram wrapped around not only his frame, but mine and Bumblebee's as well is a minor comfort as we stand as flush as physically possible given our frames to a carved stone wall. A little ways down my scanners can pick up Mirage's energy signature as well. Thankfully I am only one of two bots that can detect an invisible Mirage. The other is standing a couple of yards down from me.

The silence stretches on wrapping us in its thick fog. The only interruption is the steady drip of water somewhere a little ways down from our position that keeps niggling at the heightened sensors in my audio horns. They are currently tweaked to be a bit more on the sensitive side at the moment. Something that I'm sure Ratchet would love to know. What can I say? The mech just has personal issues with bots adjusting their own software or hardware. For what we are doing I will risk being subjected to the lengthy and vitriol lecture from the good doc later. It is all worth it to me.

I just need the signal. My systems are all primed and ready to go. All that they need to kick into high gear is the ignition.

By now Prime's forces should be suitably occupying the Decepticons that are stationed at this makeshift base. Trailbreaker calculated that we have about an hour to play with before back up arrives from the Nemesis. At least there is no Megatron to deal with this time—Mirage confirmed no more than a day ago that he is still in the process of being reconstructed from our last rumble with the Cons. Small favors from Primus, I suppose.

It doesn't change the fact that Prowl has been missing for a little over a week now. A week for those damn Cons to have done whatever they wanted to him. I'm no fool and I know that Prime isn't one either. Yeah, I kind of shield him and the other command staff from the worst of what the Cons do to our bots when captured, but it doesn't take someone like Perceptor to figure out the majority of the bad news that is left unsaid. Of course, both Ratch' and Prowl are fairly privy to the risks associated with capture. The doc because he usually gets the job of putting me back together (physically at least). Prowl because technically he is over the Ops division and therefore my boss. More so than that, he's probably one of the few bots who really knows me and has helped me get through some pretty rough slag in the past.

Here's hoping that I'm not going to have to return the favor.

Sadly, it hasn't been looking like that will be the case. We'd wasted a couple of weeks searching every nook and cranny of the planet and started to venture even beyond that to our forces on Cybertron before we just so happened to luck out. Primus, I thought that it was a trap at first, but it's looking more and more like a random gift from above.

Blaster—and thank the Matrix for him—ran across a short transmission by a couple of fliers nowhere near any known Decepticon bases a day or so ago. The communication itself was fairly innocuous and dull-witted, but the location was an odd one even for the Cons. At that point, I had expended the majority of our leads and was running dry in may ways, so if there was even the slightest chance of some real intel I wasn't going to overlook. 'Raj was still out spying on the Nemesis, so I ended up sending Bumblebee to the coordinates with Cliffjumper as back up.

They confirmed that not only was there some ramshackle Con base, but that 'Screamer and his gang were hanging about along with some Casseticons. Multiple Casseticons, which of course means Soundwave is more than likely lurking nearby. Considering that he normally does not leave old Meg's side when he's out…well, let's just say the chances of our missing bot keeping company with them is on the upper end of the possibility scale.

All of that has led us to this moment. To my Ops team scrambling into position courtesy of a hastily assembled plan using the old divide and distract technique. Prime has all operable mechs attacking this place from the outside keeping the enemy focused on them while the three of us sneak in from the back.

A ping to my comms has me moving before I even dismiss the message. Sounds like Prime's doing his job—now its time for us to do ours.


(Prime's POV)

Missiles sail noisily by my audios screeching like birds of prey as they chase their targets. Almost half-consciously I file the results of their impact in my processor. Other thoughts way heavily on my processor straying my concentration from the battle taking place around me. Pressing thoughts centered around the bots missing from this skirmish, especially the bot that is conspicuously absent from my side.

My second. My pillar of confidence and stillness.

He has been MIA for no more than two Earth weeks and already his lack of presence has sent ripples throughout the Ark and its occupants. I wonder if he knows just how essential he is to the Autobots. How much a part of everyone's lives he has become. Yes, there was a time when Prowl was a distant and mysterious figure to most (myself included at the beginning), but the world has moved on since then. My tactician may not be the most extroverted spark of this ragtag team, but his care and involvement in the other mechs' lives no longer goes unnoticed.

It is just that certain mechs have an interesting way of showing their appreciation.

Speaking of the devils…

A blur of crimson and gold race past me before transforming into root mode and leaping head first into the fray (literally). Their war cries are full of power and rage and noticeably lacking the normal glee that they particularly reserve for battle. I have noticed that the two have been fiercely protective of our SIC ever since a time many vorns ago when he personally saved both of their chassis when they blundered because of their own stubbornness into a trap. The closeness between the twins and Prowl as well as the rest of the inhabitants of the Ark overall has increased exponentially over our time spent awake here on Earth.

Our close proximity was bound to either drive us apart or bring us closer together as a unit. Thankfully, it was the former and not the latter. I can only hope and pray that it serves us well today. Without Prowl's normal tactical oversight, Trailbreaker has stepped in to fill his pedes temporarily. The large, black mech is an excellent tactician in his own rights and has worked directly under my second so I have little doubt that his strategies in battle are sound. I just hope that they are enough.

I find my gaze continually scanning the battlefield for a glimpse of black and white plating—either Jazz's or Prowl's—as it will either signal our success or our failure. Gritting my denta I hunker down as another strafing round slices the air above my helm. Taking a few precious microseconds to target I fire a few shots at the red and silver jet as it reaches the edge of my weapon's range. The loud report temporarily drowns out the sounds of fighting surrounding me and for a surreal moment I follow the path my shots take. My rifle aim is true as one of Starscream's thruster shatters then explodes belching out smoke and orange-tinged flame.

The Air Commander's screeching curses are easy to make out over the din as he attempts to distance himself from the field. No longer concerned with his presence for the moment I quickly take note of where my mechs are and how they are fairing. Time. We just need to buy Jazz and his team enough time to rescue Prowl. After that it does not matter to me. We can sound a retreat and run away with our driveshafts tucked between our legs for all that I care so long as my second is back amongst us.

(Flashback -The Ark, shortly after the Autobot's revival)

"If that is all for now security-wise, I would recommend that all bots become familiar with the Sit Rep regarding the local sentient species and their culture. Based upon Prowl's calculations we will no doubt have interactions with them sooner rather than later."

A quick glance around the room at my senior staff is met with nods of agreement and I allow myself a small smile behind my faceplate.

"Very well then, you are dismissed. Go in peace."

My head of Special Operations and Senior Communications Officer are the first to leave, fairly bounding out of the hastily cleared meeting room. No doubt they are eager to do exactly as I instructed and learn more about the Homo sapiens that inhabit our temporary refuge. The others are far more sedate in their exit, although Ratchet does seem to be running a little shorter than normal. I can imagine that the unknown technology of this planet has his hackles raised as far as immunizations and the like goes.

Only one mech remains, still in the process of gathering his myriad of datapads and organizing them before he gathers the neat little pile up. That too brings a smile to my face, but for a different reason. Such a simple, mundane act makes things seem just that microspec more normal in our upended world. It is something that I greatly crave at the moment. Well, that and one other thing…

As he stands straight and confident the overhead lights flash sharply against his plating. It would appear that at some point my tactician has taken a moment to tidy himself up to his normal immaculate appearance, unlike the rest of my troops. The deep gloss of his armor is both enticing and intoxicating. It may seem as though it was only yesterday since I claimed that sinewy form, but my frame says otherwise and I am helpless to stop the sharp rev that echoes throughout the now empty room from deep within my engine.

Optics quickly connect with my own at the sound and I am drawn in further by the bright blue lights that gaze upon me. The look that he is giving me is both shrewd and calculating. Indomitably my second is weighing his options and analyzing the outcomes that his battle computer provides to his processor. A fairly standard behavior of his that I am all too familiar with, but typically one reserved for work and not this. His analysis is lightening quick and a decision is reached before my mouth plates even open to suggest anything.

Smartly, he turns and marches by me, but not before swaying his newly altered sensor panels in just that certain way that could seduce the strongest of bots. Again, sinuous in ways that metal—even living metal—should not be capable of. But the lure works and I follow his exit out of the room, fans pulling in an increasing amount of the planet's atmosphere in preparation for what is to hopefully come.

The walk down the warm orange hallway is uneventful for the most part. We strangely run into no other bots, but that is probably because of the plethora of information that Teletran I and Prowl have gathered to absorb. If I did not know any better, I would say that my tactician had anticipated this preoccupation by the rest of the Ark's crew and had in fact encouraged it. Strategists are definitely the sort to be wary of.

As we near my new quarters I take the last breem to become visually acquainted with my second's new alternative mode. There are more edges than I remember from his previous armor, but the sharp lines suit him and the curved door panels are an added bonus. My servo reaches for the lower edge of one without my knowledge until a sharp look stops it in its path. The polar optics that regard me now hold a hint of the fire that lies within him. It captivates me now the same as it did that first time that the tactician approached me.

We are barely through the door before I can not restrain myself anymore and descend upon him. Plating perfectly smooth and warm to the touch slides against the microfine sensors on each digit as I skim both servos over the wide arching panels upon his back. He does not hesitate to respond to my advances, perhaps even as eager as I am to return to this bit of normalcy as well.

There is no resistance as gently I use the same black and white sensor panels to turn him around. Our height difference is a marvelous thing in these kinds of situations. Optics now darkened to the same shade as the daylight sky above the Ark meet my own. The look he gives me churns the ember inside my chestplates suffusing my frame with its sudden excess energy.

Slender, pearl white fingertips slide along my forearms where I have yet to release my grip upon his sensor panels. They leave a trail of fire in their wake as seamlessly they glide up, past a heated grill to lace around my neck chords. A slight tug pulls my helm down to his level and he does his best to meld those pale lip plates to my own.

Moaning lowly, I reach down and hook my servos under his aft and easily lift his frame and bring it to rest against mine. The flush press of his plating to my own is an irresistible sensation that I sorely missed. Adjusting the firmness of my hold upon him I take command of the situation and grind myself into him barely containing my own strength. The low, near non-existent lighting in the room casts an eerie glow upon everything leaving Prowl bathed in only hints of its glow. His sharp profile is briefly outlined against the dark as I move us across the antechamber all the while re-claiming his mouth in an unbroken kiss.

We come to an abrupt stop as I practically walk into the cool metal of the bulkhead. The nearby wall will have to do for now as I am loathe to take the time and effort to find where exactly my berth is situated in relation to us. Slender thighs wrap tightly around my waist and half-consciously I meet the action with a hard thrust of my own. My second's face plates screw up as he breaks our locked lip plates to cry out. The movement exposes his throat and my favorite spot upon his body—a small patch of protoform that is occasionally exposed at the upper part of his chest, just above his hood.

Latching onto the exposed area I suck and lave the soft, pliable metal tasting remnants of the light wax that transferred from his armor. A quiet whimper escapes him and it only serves to ratchet up my desire for him that much more. Our movements steadily become rougher and less coordinated as licks of electricity pass from his flaring field to mine and back again. I barely keep myself from completely crushing his slighter frame to the unbending wall behind him—tempered by the knowledge that it would cause him more pain than pleasure to have his hinges pressed against so heavily.

Panting echoes hollowly in the stillness of my quarters—his softer in tone, but quickened—a lovely counterpoint to the silence that would otherwise occupy this space. A sharp-heeled pede scratches down the back of my leg as the black and white braces himself more firmly against me. The slight itch of pain/pleasure makes me hiss between bared denta, as well as spurns me on. Within a breem I have brought his systems to a fever pitch as fans and vents work furiously to countermeasure our pleasure. But I know what he needs to fall over the precipice that he is balancing so precariously upon. Trying so desperately to hang onto and retain what little control he has left.

Well, that can not be allowed.

Freeing one servo I reach for the brilliant crimson chevron flashing alluring in the darkness and apply firm pressure to the very edge while pulling ever so slightly on the sharp metal.

The reaction is instantaneous as he arches into me while crying out his release. The overload flashes through his systems and elegantly along his frame while I ride it out and take in as much expended energy as I can stand before succumbing to my own overload as well. Our cries project loudly in the space before dying down and being replaced by the scratch and pop of cooling metal.

Legs suddenly numb I slide down gracelessly to the floor, Prowl strutless in my lap and possibly offline for the moment. I take a moment to bask in the freedom I feel as the constant pressure and weight that seemed to have been bearing down upon me since our awakening has dissipated. Perhaps being stranded on an alien world is not the worst thing that could have happened to us…

(End Flashback)

I still can recall the first time I embraced his frame in its new Earthen alt mode several decades ago. Such a short span of time to a Cybertronian, but if nothing else my time on Earth amongst the human race has taught me to appreciate every moment for what it is. Perhaps that is what led me to look deeper into my own spirit and to find an answer to the riddle that is Prowl and my relationship.

When no Datsun is spotted during my quick visual sweep I try not to let my resolve falter at the misgivings that I continue to have. Will I see him again? Will there be time to straighten out what lies in my spark and discover the mystery of his? Pulling myself together in resignation I join the melee and aid my mechs. We must persevere however long it might take to get our tactician and friend back.


(Jazz's POV)

Blue smoke eerily rises from the crackling hole in Ramjet's silver helm. Thankfully Mirage is a good shot coupled with having fast reflexes. We nearly ran over the conehead in our haste to locate our target. I'm already making mistakes leading my team and that has to stop. It won't do Prowl any good if I get us knocked offline and captured trying to rescue him. Frag, he'd probably give me a rash of slag for it—he's had no hesitation doing so in the past, good friends or not. Believe me the mech can give Ratchet a run for his credits on lecturing.

A nod and the blue and white spy simply disintegrates from view and I feel him move ahead of the three of us. I take lead next with Bumblebee following and Hound covering the rear position. The tracker is the most heavily plated out of the lot of us, so he's best suited for his current role at the tail of our miss-matched Ops train. Moving quickly we follow Mirage's rapidly dispersing EM trail and play shadow to the living shadow.

Thankfully, the base by all appearances is deserted. I hope that Prime and his team are givin' the Cons hell. I know I will be once we succeed at goal #1 of our mission. This place is getting leveled as far as I am concerned. I know that Optimus won't like it, but he doesn't have a say in the matter at this point.

The pathway splits into three halls ahead—each dimly lit and looking equally ill-kept—bringing our little Autobot train to a halt. The Cons must have erected this base in a hurry. The halls and doorways can barely be called that. They're more like the jagged holes a human infant would produce when gnawing on something. Seriously, a termite could do better.

Up until this point we've been moving by luck and a vague sense of how Decepticon bases are typically designed. I didn't want to take time that we just don't have to send in a scout to figure out the layout. Definitely a risky move on all of our parts, but then again so is leaving Prowler in the servos of the enemy any longer than we already have. If Prime is the shining beacon guiding our faction, then Prowl is the nuts and bolts keeping us from flying apart. He's got to have made it this far. He just has to.

A thick slab of steel that seems to double as a door blocks our current path any further. That's promising. It's the first closed door that we have encountered throughout our little personal tour of the Con's base. If they felt that they need to thoroughly seal this area we may just be on the right track. I tap Raj on the shoulder plate or at least the empty air where my sensors say his shoulder is and motion behind me. I want him out of the immediate line of fire in case the slag flies. He's our only back up strategy.

Delicately, I alight my left servo against the cold metal surface and jack up the gain on those sensors. I can't see things picture perfect, but I can pick up traces of other helpful hints like heat and energy signatures. There appear to be two that I can detect—one almost directly on the opposite side of this door and another fainter one a little ways down. It's a safe bet that the one closest to us isn't our absent Datsun. The Con's don't like to be in the habit of keeping their prisoners well-fueled.

Silently, one finger is raised to the left signaling my mechs of our enemy. Bumblebee takes position on my right just a little behind my larger form and targets the location that I tight beam him. Working my own brand of magic I overload the circuits of the door's lock and the massive piece of hardware lets out a mighty screech as it forcefully pops open.

I get a brief look at Dirge's surprised face plates before a blaster discharges at takes him out. Bumblebee hefts his smaller handgun with a quick grin and I nod back to him—a grim smile on my own face.

That expression quickly falls as I assess the tight space beyond our busted door and offline conehead. The form slumped against the furthest portion of the holding cell is a bittersweet sight to see.

Prowl.

Just by how he is leaning against the wall, I can tell that the mech was not put there under his own power. Even at his worst, my friend always somehow manages to retain his decorum and dignity. I've always been a tad envious of that particular quirk of his.

I nearly fry myself on the cell uplink in my rush to get to him, only marginally managing to not trigger the alarm that is undoubtedly encoded into the holding cell's programming. A hiss from over my left shoulder originating from where Mirage is hidden lets me know that he also happened to catch my little slip up. Shaking out slightly numb digits I calculate my next move before re-tackling the security system.

Focus. I need to stay focused.

Fingers that show more dexterity than they certainly look capable of weave the wiring into an intricate pattern—removing some connections while establishing my own. The quiet brush of fibers against each other is soothing white noise to my busy processors as they remain immersed in the delicate work of rewiring the security track. No more than a breem passes as I do my thing. My team is at the ready guarding both my back and Prowl's as I piece together the final reroute.

The brilliant pink glow of the energized bars fades before altogether sputtering and dying out. A lack of a subsequent siren and no broadcast signals lets me know that I at least managed to properly disable the security system in spite of my earlier fumble. Sadly, overriding the circuits cuts the power to the otherwise normally automatic doors leaving us with little choice, but to force them open via brute strength. Hound takes up a spot behind me as we both grip the heavy, steel door and together slide it with all of our might. This place was definitely not meant for long-term occupation. It lacks the refinement and dare I say 'niceties' of your usual Con prison.

Pushing through, I make it the few steps to where Prowl is slumped over and my spark curls painfully at the sight of him. His doorwings are completely gone for some reason, making him seem much smaller than normal…almost delicate, but that may just be because of the missing armor that is giving that illusion. Helm to pede is covered in dents and abrasions while viscous fluids lazily drip out of various junctures and ports on his body forming a disgusting, murky puddle beneath his frame. Some portions of plating have started to grey, but I take some measure of relief in the mere fact that he still mostly has his colors (asmuchasIcantell). At least he is still alive.

My servo gingerly cups his cool cheek plate, but it garners no reaction (not that I expected one). I am only partially surprised to find that it is shaking slightly—whether from being upset or being angry I can't really tell. Even when I tilt Prowl's helm up, straightening it out to get a better look at him he does not cycle up. The cadence of his systems simply continues their sluggish, chugging and sometimes irregular plod.

Energon freezes in my lines like polar ice as I get a better look at some misaligned plating along the side of his normally pearl white helm. It looks as though his central processors have been physically accessed and as I work through the fear that worms its way into my core I begin to notice several other areas of his helm where once white plating is charred and disheveled. The signs of trauma to those areas of plating hints at the Smore sinister actions that more than likely have occurred.

Energon boils in my lines from both white-hot fury and fuel-pounding fear. They've physically hacked him. In my mind, there is no question that it was Soundwave himself who did it. I've seen plenty of his victims after the fact and can recognize his handiwork anywhere. The mech is brutal and apathetic in his assault. Uncaring of the state of his subject so long as they are online enough for him to reach his goal. I can imagine the telepath's frustration when his continued mental assaults and hardline manipulations got him nowhere with our tactician. Prowl's better than that, but that would just push Soundwave to more desperate measures.

How long did Prowl have to endure endless attacks upon his memory core and processes?

How well did his specially encoded firewalls fair against such a master infiltrator and hacker? Especially if it is what I suspect and Soundwave resorted to bridging my friend's systems the old-fashioned, analog way. Not many have the patience or knowledge to resort to such methods, but when it happens a mech is stripped of most of his higher functions—sometimes permanently. But I have no time to ponder or worry about that.

Our first priority is retrieving Prowl. Ratchet is waiting with 'Jack just beyond the line of fire along with Skyfire to do whatever is needed to fix and hopefully save our mech. A tap on my shoulder from Bumblebee is enough to warn me that our time is quickly running out. Of course, my chrono says the same, but I am having difficulty keeping an optic on it in my HUD.

Pulling a slender vial out of my subspace I pop the seal before quick upending it into Prowl's back up fuel port. The darker energon is a condensed version of the medical grade that Ratchet uses tailored specifically for this purpose—keeping a bot online.

Not waiting for it to take effect, I quickly wave in Hound. The army green mech is fast to join me in the now cramped cell and bends down to carefully retrieve our second. I notice how particular he is with the placement of his servos being mindful of the missing sensor panels and the raw patches of exposed protoform along his frame. It can't be helped that some wounds are likely to be aggravated. Let's just hope that they don't decide to reopen or else we'll have Prowl bleeding out on us.

Once again Mirage takes lead followed by Bumblebee and Hound. I take up rear guard this time to watch out not only for my team's backplating, but my brother-in-arms' as well.

We almost make it to the exit point with no incident. I say 'almost' because of course we had to run into trouble on the way out. That blasted cat bot, Ravage, blocks our path along with his master. I don't hesitate to fire at Soundwave's faceplates as Bumblebee does the same with Ravage. The Decepticon scout howls in pain as the blaster hits its mark and connects with a hip joint. The massive blue Con is a different story and my shot merely serves to push him back a step or two. Pushing Hound to the side I rush the larger mech in the hopes that it will buy my team some time. Two things happen near simultaneously that I had not counted on in that moment before I crash into Soundwave—Ramjet apparently managed to online again as he looses a shot straight at my unprotected back. Also, an invisible mass intercepts and knocks me flat allowing the energy blast to pass by me and directly into the telepath. Mirage just as quickly materializes and sends another shot at Soundwave for good measure while I play Twister and take down Ramjet preferably for good this time.

The following silence is loud in the narrow space as we wait with tuned audios for anything else. After a few seconds pass without any more interference my spy and I manage to untwist and gather ourselves up while Bee and Hound join us. Both have a relieved smile upon their faceplates. Energy coursing through my frame, I smile wickedly back before tipping my helm towards our now clear exit.

"Shall we?"


(Prime's POV)

"We have him!" Jazz's voice crackles across a short range comm. tightly broadcast for my audios only.

Black and white weaves a path along the outskirts of the battle—too difficult for me to miss as I am so attuned to that familiar color scheme. Throwing caution to the waning fight waging around me I crane my helm trying to see that monochromatic frame more clearly. I ache for simply a glance of him—some sign that verifies to my own optics that he is alive.

The form draws closer, surrounded by the three other different-hued frames. I can not stop the feeling of disappointment, as well as the constriction my spark makes in its chamber as I recognize the form as being that of Jazz and not of my second. Starting suddenly in the next instant, I realize why I had mistaken him for my tactician. What originally looked like sensor panels from a distance becomes alarming clear to my optics. It's Prowl's form strutlessly hanging over my Third's shoulder plating like some lifeless bag of parts. The tightness in my chestplates increases exponentially and I am moving to intercept their path before I even realize it.

Ironhide's curses echo behind me as he scrambles to follow my hurried flight and—I imagine—watch my back as I can no longer focus enough to do so. Everything has become what they call tunnelvision to me with the light at the end of said tunnel being my Second.

Even from the distance that I am at something seems off about his form, but higher processes seem to have escaped me at the moment. I am a helpless slave to my spark from helm to sprinting pedes as I push my systems to meet them. He must be alright. It just can't end this way.


A/N: Hopefully that was not too difficult to follow with the changing perspectives and flashback. As always, please, please, please let me know what you think. Your comments are a great help to me. There is just one more chapter of this saga left, so consider yourself warned.

Please tune in next week for the exciting conclusion to this PWP gone wild (or something like that). Bonsai!