Part 10

Half an orn later, Ratchet sat with his pedes up on his desk, editing his records while First Aid updated their list of supplies. Ratchet savored the quiet. His patients were all repaired, although Redvalve and SteelCasing were in a separate room for observation, and Jazz was lost in deep recharge. The medbay was quiet enough that Ratchet thought he might be able to slip in his own quick recharge.

Then Prowl walked in, meeting Ratchet's optics for a second before sitting on the edge of the closest empty berth. A moment passed. Prowl moved a few files on his datapad, tilting his head to make sure his databases were in perfect order. Neither of them spoke.

Then Prowl sighed and set his datapad down, giving Ratchet a look.

"Did you want something?" Ratchet asked with a small, bitter smile. "Sir?"

Prowl heaved a long vent and gripped the edge of the berth. "Jazz's spy tchk to attack us tchk show loyalty to Megatchk. We managed to make it look real, with tchk Mirage disappearing in the fight. I am sorry tchk wake up Jazz, but we needed to know."

Ratchet stared at him a moment longer, then huffed and came to his pedes. Prowl sat a little straighter, moving with Ratchet's hands as the medic tilted Prowl's helm back, exposing the crushed servos and exposed cords.

"You know," Ratchet said, "you take all the fun out of being self-righteous, you know that?"

Prowl grunted once. He stared at the ceiling, reading the helpful hygiene and self-maintenance posters Ratchet had pasted above the berths. In the washracks, remember: one breem with sealant cream. Going on a mission? Did you check your coolant level?

Prowl frowned at a picture of Ratchet snarling. Obey or be slagged. That couldn't have been approved beforehand.

He tried to clear his vocal processor again. "So how long—?"

"Shut up," Ratchet said, inserting a thin probe into the slits of Prowl's armor. "I can fix it, but you'll have to let it rest awhile. Just a couple joor, starting now."

A low vent followed, but Prowl didn't argue. He twitched as his crushed circuits were stripped out and new ones laid, sparking faintly as Ratchet tapped the new parts in and delicately attached them to their casings.

"I'm rebooting the whole assembly," Ratchet said, beginning to reset the throat armor in place. "You can probably just sit back and relax in your office for the rest of the shift, let the new parts take and—"

Blaster's personal request signal blinked on his internal comm. Ratchet cut himself off, looking at Prowl to make sure the other officer was receiving the same alert. The data flowed in from Blaster almost too quickly to absorb, a long string of coordinates and abbreviations that spelled out an ambush, wounded incoming. Names of mechs followed with injuries listed, starting with the worst. Ratchet hissed. One spark chamber breached, two pedes gone, an arm assembly blown off at the shoulder—

"Slag," Ratchet muttered. "Slag it all—First Aid, get some supplies and a few squad medbots out at the entrance. We'll triage there. It's gonna be crowded as is—dammit. Get our other patients on their pedes and down to the brig medbay. Guzzlegush and SteelCasing can make the walk, but Redvalve'll need a lift and..."

Ratchet's voice faded, and he faced Prowl again.

Both of them shared the same thought. The other mechs were simply injured. But how to move a paranoid assassin without hurting him or killing anyone else?

"I'll—" Prowl's jaw snapped shut at Ratchet's look.

I'll take Jazz, Prowl said on their internal comm. My office is quiet enough.

Won't work, Ratchet said, shaking his head. He needs a berth.

My quarters, then, Prowl said.

Ratchet gave him a look as if trying to diagnose his malfunction.

"Your quarters."

Yes. Prowl met his optics evenly. I've recuperated after repair on my own berth. I imagine he can as well.

"That ain't the..." Ratchet vented and turned around, gathering a long syringe already resting on his console. "Okay. All right. You got no idea what you're letting yourself in for, but I don't have any options right now. Come on."

Prowl followed, sidestepping as First Aide passed by with cases of supplies and transport slats to be loaded up when he transformed to his alt mode. Ratchet opened all the doors in the bay as he went, flipping on lights and rousing his walking wounded patients.

"Emergency situation, mechs," Ratchet called over his shoulder. "Everyone up. Head to the brig medbay. You can finish your repair cycles there. And don't let me catch you wandering off or going back on shift—you're still in disrepair and if you don't think you need to be there, I'll give you a reason."

Half tempted to talk to Ratchet later about his threats, Prowl kept his focus as they went into Jazz's room. Ratchet shushed him, then turned to his patient and set the syringe against Jazz's elbow joint, sliding the needle between the slits of his armor. Even in his recharge, Jazz whimpered, turning his helm.

Prowl grimaced in sympathy. He'd felt Ratchet's syringes before. The needles were thick enough to pierce their sensitive cabling.

"This'll keep him out for awhile," Ratchet said, pushing in the last drop of glowing blue fluid. "Can you clear the hall just in case?"

Already doing so, Prowl said as he finished the message to Ironhide. He frowned at the older mech's suggestive snicker. There. Our way is secure.

"Great." Ratchet scooped up an armful of thick straps, then a large bottle and a box of several white packets. "Pick him up and let's go."

Prowl blinked. "I can just—?"

"Shut up." Ratchet didn't turn, already halfway out the door.

Prowl suspected the medbot was internally conferring with First Aid and issuing orders to the squad medbots on base, likely cajoling Wheeljack away from his own work as well. There would be no help from him.

He looked back at Jazz. Ratchet wouldn't have said to pick him up if Prowl could have hurt him, and Prowl had carried wounded mechs before. He eased his hands under Jazz's pedes and back, pulling him up in to his arms. He hefted Jazz close, tilting so that the saboteur's helm rested on his shoulder.

With Jazz so up close, the fractures on his frame were obvious. Thick canvas bandages and patches covered the deep rents along his shattered pede, but hairline fractures riddled his whole body, radiating out from his shoulder and hip where he'd taken some of the worst hits. Each crack was filled with sealant, healing from the inside out.

Jazz's vents came slow and deep, his patched hood rising softly. If Jazz was in pain, at least he didn't seem to feel it for now. A good sign was that his body was cool, no longer suffering on the edge of meltdown, and his radiator no longer whistled with air rushing over dried coolant.

Carefully edging through the door, Prowl carried Jazz to the main medbay and found Ratchet finishing giving instructions to First Aid. With one arm over a small gray box, Ratchet glanced at Prowl and nodded once, then started out toward the Second's berth chamber.

"We'll get him restrained to your berth," Ratchet said over his shoulder. "Mainly as a precaution. These packets I got are his energon supplements, helps his armor heal up. He needs it every couple of cycles—I put a schedule and dosages in the datapack I'm sending you. Don't miss a dose."

They turned a corner, heading down into the officer's row, and Ratchet unlocked Prowl's door with his medical override. As he went in, dumping his supplies on the desk, he snorted.

"Nice place," he said, looking over the empty desk, bare floor and spare furniture. "Real lived in."

I don't require any more, Prowl said stiffly, taking Jazz to the berth.

Holding his breath so he didn't jostle him, Prowl eased Jazz down, sliding his hand up along Jazz's back and cradling his helm as he lay him straight.

Ratchet's datapacket downloaded into his cortex and, when opened, showed Prowl a simple schedule of feeding: one supplemented energon every two joor, with the next dose due in just half a joor. The supplements lay in wrapped little packages with directions on the front. Prowl scanned them—regular steel and carbon additives to mend the cracks faster, he assumed.

"Help me with these," Ratchet said, tossing his box on the floor and opening it up. His hand came back with a handful of kevlar mesh woven into a web of thick straps.

Did your bandages tangle? Prowl asked. He knelt and took one end of the mess of lines, stretching them out and finding not a tangle but a net. What...?

"Anchor it on the corner there," Ratchet said, pointing. "These berths might not be med-standard, but they got their own hooks and catches for emergencies."

Taken aback that here was something about his berth, his personal recharge station, that he didn't know about, Prowl followed Ratchet's motion and found latches that he'd previously assumed had to do with the berth's structure. At the net's corner, a long belt with a metal lock dangled awkwardly, flopping just past Prowl's fingers until he snatched it with an irritated snort, wrapping it around the latch and clicking it shut.

"There we go," Ratchet said, already locking down the last corner with practiced ease. He gave each one a hard yank, tightening the belt Prowl had fastened. "Okay, now I feel better about this."

Prowl frowned, studying the net now covering Jazz. The kevlar mesh was flexible enough to fit snugly against his edges without pressing painfully into his compromised frame. When Jazz woke up, he would find himself held fast in the berth.

He won't like it, Prowl said, thinking of how fidgety Jazz could be.

"Don't think I don't know it." Ratchet double-checked the fasteners, then slid a hand under the net. "There—had to make sure it wasn't too tight."

Prowl looked between Ratchet and Jazz, between Jazz and Ratchet. His optics narrowed as he analyzed the length and width of the straps, the materials, the tensile strength, coming up with how heavy duty the mesh must have been rated.

He will wake up as dangerous as before? Prowl asked.

Silent, Ratchet glanced at him, then nudged the box under the berth and gave the net one more hard pull, as if trying to wrench the kevlar free.

"Look," Ratchet said, glancing at the door to be sure it was shut. "I ain't got more than a breem, so I gotta say this quick, but what I'm about to tell you is a medical level 'need to know' only, got it?"

Prowl nodded once. Medical clearances were the one link in the chain of command that Ratchet held above the top officers, perhaps even Optimus. Over the vorns, the medical officer had come to know every weakness and secret of every mech in the Ark. He knew things about Prowl's doorwings that would make the Second in Command die of embarrassment if the rest of the Autobots knew. And the mech was deadly secretive with those clearances. He had to be. Everyone trusted him as much as they feared him.

"Jazz...you know he gets slagged to hell sometimes," Ratchet said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But sometimes, on the really bad nights, he comes back more Decepticon than Autobot."

Prowl hissed, glancing at Jazz as if a purple insignia might reappear. His security clearance—

"—is safe," Ratchet cut him off, shoving a finger in his face. "That's the point. If you're gonna go off on some insinuation fest, lemme know so I can kick you out and stick someone I can trust in here with him. He's gone through ten times more slag than I like to imagine, and he needs repair, not an interrogation."

Prowl held up his hands, waving and stepping back as Ratchet's voice rose. Ratchet's anger was legendary among the Autobots, not because he was loud—Sunstreak could beat him for volume any day—but because Ratchet knew exactly where his authority began and ended, and he never threatened anything he couldn't do. If he wanted to kick Prowl out of his berth for an orn, then Prowl would recharge in his office.

I didn't mean it that way, Prowl said quickly. It's merely another variable I need to analyze, that's all.

Ratchet gave him a long look, about to say something else, when he blinked and his face twisted in disgust. Cursing about panicked medbots who couldn't send a clear communique, Ratchet turned to head out. He came to a halt at the door, however, leaning against the frame and looking back over his shoulder.

"If he wakes up and doesn't know you," he said, "don't take it personally. You might have to force feed him that energon."

Prowl waited for more direction, but when Ratchet added nothing, his doorwings drooped.

...is that it? Prowl asked. This is hardly a plan. What do I do when he wakes up?

"Talk to him," Ratchet said, turning toward the corridor. "Sometimes touching helps. You know he hates being confused."

Still feeling lost, Prowl didn't call him back as Ratchet left, locking the door with his medical override. Prowl narrowed his optics at that. Why lock them in?

He glanced at Jazz, at the net binding him to the berth. Locked fast in recharge, Jazz vented deeply, quietly running repair programs and twitching as his basic circuits hummed. Prowl narrowed his optics and came closer, extending his doorwings and pushing his sensor array to maximum sensitivity.

It was true that Prowl was not a war build or even retrofitted for combat, save for a little reinforced armor, but his sensor capability more than made up for his lack of battle prowess. Tactics models were built for recording data and processing billions of calculations for the best result. Transmissions from satellite and radio, scouts beyond the front line, endless reports from all the Autobots in the entire Ark, the intelligence brought back by Jazz and Spec Ops...all of it filtered through Prowl's cortex and drew a vast picture of the battlefield. Every mech was part of Prowl's optics or audios, the entire complex array simply a grander version of his doorwing sensors.

A soft susurration caught Prowl's attention. The faint whisper hovered just underneath Jazz's internal workings, constant between the clicks and hums of motors and analog switches. Careful not to tighten the netting across Jazz's compromised frame, he sat down on the edge of the berth.

Quietly raising his doorwings and stretching them out above Jazz, he went still, listening to the tiny processes going on inside the smaller bot. Servos clicked, energon trickled through his cables in slow steady beats, driven by the low hum of his hydraulic pumps. His engines whirred at their lowest setting, shuddering enough to whine as it slipped gears and slid back to low. Jazz winced but didn't wake, too drugged and too weary.

Prowl smiled faintly. He remembered a much younger Jazz from many vorn ago, already battle-shocked and weary of war, hunched over in pain as his red optics glowed against a Decepticon insignia. So much time had passed since then. With Jazz's systems lulling him into a reverie and Prowl's calculations fading into a familiar background noise, he called up Ratchet's scheduling and began to read through it. A supplemented dose of energon in another few breem—he would have to wake Jazz for that, and then talk him into going back into recharge.

A thorough polishing...Prowl looked forward to that. True, medicinal polish carried a strong scent of mineral sealant and liquid polycarbonate, but gently rubbing that into the dents and cracks in Jazz's armor would bring the small bot' nothing but relief, easing both the pain and the intense itching that broken armor sometimes caused.

And then would come the whining. Jazz craved movement, often fidgeting and even dancing when he had to attend a meeting for any length of time. Being strapped in place under a net, unable to do more than twitch, would send Jazz into a paroxysm of needling, cajoling, begging, and if Prowl wasn't lucky, threats and promises of retaliation.

There was no telling how long he would be trapped here with a frustrated Jazz. Prowl flipped his communications array to active and searched out Ironhide's comm signal, pinging him for when he had a free moment. If anyone knew what could keep Jazz distracted, it would be the older mech.

Ironhide took a breem to respond. Prowl dipped into the messages and relays flying between mechs and reasoned that the triage of wounded mechs had been far more complex than Ratchet had guessed. Likely everyone was busy.

Ironhide's reply came short and terse. Ain't got the time to spare, sorry.

Understood, Prowl said. When you have a moment, then—

Prowl's wings ignited in pain and made the room explode in white sparks across his optics, flaring bright as his sensors screamed. He froze so tight that his armor shuddered. Crushed circuits crumbled under the twisting metal of his left doorwing as a hand fisted around its connecting strut and yanked.

Prowl's vocal processor shrieked static and high pitched basic tones, then crashed and went silent. He toppled backward and slid before he was grabbed and held awkwardly on the berth, resting his whole weight on his mutilated doorwing.

The lights spun around him before he was roughly turned. Prowl saw loose and partially cut straps, saw a flashing blade no longer than a finger. Saw Jazz sitting up, eyes scarlet and focused on Prowl without a byte of recognition.

"Not a sound," Jazz said, bringing the knife up so that the blade pressed against Prowl's throat cabling. "You scream like that again and they'll find your energon splashed all over these walls, got it?"

Jazz loomed over him, adding pressure on Prowl's doorwings. Prowl thrashed reflexively, felt the pain rise to a crescendo and turn into a white blur of agonized numbness. The screaming sensors turned into a single distant buzz, and Prowl could do nothing more than drag in weak, shuddering vents, mute and deaf to the world.

Jazz said something, his mouth moving with no sound. Prowl drew a shuddering vent, felt the knife press against his throat cables hard enough to cut into the thick casing. Not a full slice, just enough to prove that Jazz meant to kill, to ignite a line of pain across his throat.

And then Prowl felt nothing. His pain receptors overloaded and crashed, taking several systems with them. His diagnostic routine went haywire. Audios, offline. Vocal, crashing. Visual, compromised. Fine motor control, compromised and crashing. Sensor arrays, nonresponsive, assumed catastrophic damage. His frame protectively locked his joints as repair subroutines came up, drawing his higher functions back into his cortex, effectively forcing him to retreat into his mind.

Seized up in stasis lock, unaware of what Jazz might be doing, Prowl found himself in a most unique situation. Often he glitched from the sheer amount of variables Jazz could introduce, but this time only two outcomes presented themselves.

Either Jazz would kill him, or else Jazz would forget about him for now and kill him when Prowl came out of stasis lock.

That explains why Ratchet sealed the door, Prowl realized.

A moment passed as he considered that. Ratchet had known this might happen. Ratchet knew what Jazz could do. And still Ratchet had placed him in here with Prowl, who though no slouch in a fight was also the kind of mech that Jazz chewed up during a mission.

Still alive. Jazz had chosen to kill him later, then. With a little more life presented to him, Prowl began to run calculations.

When he woke up, he would still be incapacitated by pain sensors. Those would need to be disabled immediately. Numb doorwings would send him reeling. His balance gyros would need instant recalibration. Jazz was probably already taking his gun. He would need a full synaptic charge loaded at his fingertips—he would only have time for one shot.

One after another, he set delayed commands on timers, each a nanoklik after each other, all of them a bare nanoklik after he would come back online. Rushing so many commands would push his processors to burning, but he would grab every statistical percentage of success that he could.

At the edge of his processing, he kept one optic on his repair percentage. When the repairs hit twenty five percent, he would be mobile enough to follow his set commands. He settled in to wait, patient as no other mech could be, watching his repairs creep along.

Less than a breem. He would take Jazz by surprise and disable him. And if he did not succeed...

That did not require calculating.