—up, pull up, pull up!
Thundercracker banked hard to the left, away from what millenia of experience warned him was coming. He had a brief flash of Bruticus grabbing a mech, the purple glow of unstable energon that grew brighter and brighter, and then—
Up! Skywarp yelled, rising up past the cloud layer. Everyone up! Out of blast range!
Blast of wha—
Ion Storm cried out as the concussive wave washed over him, nearly shaking him out of the sky, and he pushed his engines to breaking, climbing up after Skywarp.
Primus, that's huge!
A second explosion followed, turning everything white. Thundercracker shut down his sensors—there was no time to warn everyone to do the same. The Armada were all experienced flyers, but even battle weary veterans sometimes forgot the basics.
When the light faded, he looked down. Doubted his own scanners. Looked again. Rescanned as more signals came in from the rest of the Armada.
Am...am I seeing this right? Skywarp gasped. The Ark…
Primus...
Someone exploded!
Who was it?
Was that one of ours?
What's going on down there?
Where's Bruticus? Where's Megatron?
Was that Motormaster? I'm trying to comm him—can anyone reach him? Was that—?
Can the chatter! Thundercracker snapped. Report in—repeat, all Armada, report in. Everyone to eleven klicks up—we'll try another fly over, see what we can see.
Are we still weapons free? Nightflight called.
What? No—no, weapons tight, Thundercracker said. Repeat, weapons tight. Don't fire at jack slag unless you're taking fire. We have to see what's changed down there—
Dust is clearing up here, Verminator called in. Aerialbots are just hovering—sitting ducks—
Aerialbots have 'do not fire' tags! Thundercracker said. Do not fire on—
Thundercracker wasn't fast enough. Acid Storm screamed over both him and Verminator, his digital vocal riders promising real violence regardless of whose side they were on.
Of course they're hovering! Acid Storm raged. Their base is half-slagged! You fire on them and I'll dump my whole payload on your aft!
Thundercracker winced at the heat in Acid Storm's voice. As the rest of the Armada finished their roll call, with the worst injuries being half-melted wings from Nightflight and Tailwind, Thundercracker turned his flight on a long circle around the volcano.
Keep your Primus-damned voice down, Thundercracker warned him. You're lucky Megatron's not listening—
Because he can't hear it, Acid Storm said. Because you made this channel just for the Armada. Because you're not stupid—Megatron didn't care if we all got hit in that wave.
We were high enough—
He's right! Nightflight said. That was an energon blast! How much just went up? He's been cutting our rations for months!
I can't get Motormaster, Terradive said. Or Brawl. Swindle's comm is in and out…
What are we supposed to do? Acid Storm said. All the energon the Autobots grabbed from us—that's supposed to be why we're here, and now it's probably gone!
Thundercracker grit his denta. There was no argument he could make. He ordered them to keep their distance, stay on the edges, and hold all their fire. At their comfortable altitude, he didn't think anymore blasts could reach them as they gathered information.
Can anyone find Megatron? Thundercracker said. A visual confirmation, anything?
Nothing, said Ion Storm. If he's out there, he's cut his trackers.
He's got us doing all the fighting, Skywarp said. All the dying, too.
There was another flare from the Ark, a brief flash of fire as if it was trying to take off. Then the Ark's lights completely darkened, and the ship began to list to one side.
...wasn't going to fire on the aerialbots, Verminator muttered. Just saying they're easy targets right now.
...sorry, Acid Storm said. We're circling them. Me and Ion Storm, Nova Storm.
They're letting you? Skywarp said.
I don't know that they even realize we're here. They look...I mean. Scrap. It's like the survivors at the academy all over again.
Thundercracker shut his optics for a moment. So much time had passed. The day the Vos Academy vanished under the old Senate's bombardment—why should the loss still sting?
Can you keep them there? he asked. Keep them from firing on you?
I think so. I've got Fireflight with me at least. We're missing Silverbolt—Whisper came and took him with.
Whisper? Thundercracker said. Huh. Guess their Prime wasn't lying…
They came around the side of the mountain. Below them, the Autobots began staging a field hospital within the shelter of a rocky hollow. As the sun sank, the Autobot headlights lit the hollow like a little haven in the dark, illuminating the rows of wounded as their medics moved between them. The frontliners guarding the wounded aimed at the passing jets, but they didn't fire, and the jets didn't fire, either.
There were a handful of purple decals amongst the red decals—not being hacked for parts, but receiving treatment from the enemy.
As bots moved in and out, helping the worst wounded, Thundercracker saw Whisper flying at the side of the aerialbot leader, helping carry in a wounded Autobot.
Huh… Thundercracker watched them a moment longer, then came around over the battlefield. The dust was clearing. The grounder Autobots were beginning to rally.
What do we do? Skywarp said. Thundercracker?
Thundercracker frowned. Without Soundwave or Starscream, and in the absence of Megatron, he was in command of the entire Armada. Not that there was a real chain of command. Megatron commanded all. Without Megatron, they couldn't be expected to know what to do.
At least, that would be Thundercracker's excuse for doing nothing.
We wait for Lord Megatron's orders, Thundercracker said. Fly the perimeter. Don't drop anything—we don't have spare munitions. Just...swoop in, stay high, don't get hit.
Look busy, Skywarp said. Got it.
Thundercracker thanked his forethought for creating this secondary channel. It would have seemed—to anyone listening in—that the Armada had gone silent for the sake of flight secrecy. Instead they schemed and planned and ducked the orders that might have won Megatron the day, if his soldiers had been more confident in his commands.
But at least five, maybe six Decepticons lay in pieces on the battlefield, and it hadn't been Autobot bullets that did the deed. And no one in the Armada was eager to join them.
Jazz's vents refused to completely fill—he gasped for each mouthful as he fired, locked another target, fired, and fired, and fired.
This was not how the fight should have gone.
Optimus would have rallied mechs to him and led the charge into battle. Prowl would have spread his forces out in a pattern to best use their abilities. There would have been some logic, some predictability—everyone would know who was where, who the mech beside them was.
But a fight out in the open was not a fight that Jazz wanted. Circled by jets, in close combat with the grounder Decepticons, the Autobots had no advantage on the field. Nothing but the natural chaos of war. And Jazz meant to fan that chaos into sheer insanity.
All the purples and oranges of the sunset had vanished so that the sky was black with scattered stars behind the clouds. There was no moon tonight, barely a crescent, and the only lights from the Ark came from the fire slowly devouring the last scraps of the steel frame. Autobots and Decepticons relied on their night scopes until Jazz's coded warning, and then his dazzling light show blinded every 'Con targeting a red Autobot sigil.
That was the cue for Hound's holograms, dozens of ghostly cars and trucks pouring out in all directions, barely silhouettes in the dark. Their outlines glowed as they moved between the Autobots, disguised in the long beams of swinging headlights, their spectral frames half-revealed, half-hidden, their turrets blinking as if firing bullets and lasers.
Adding to the fog of war were Smokescreen's clouds of dust and magnetized particulates. He pulled wide circles around Hound, camoflouging him while spreading cover for as many Autobots as he could.
But camouflage could not stop bullets.
I don't like this plan! Hound said, crouching as low to the ground as he could manage. I swear I feel shots flying right by me.
'Right by' is better than 'direct hit,' Mirage said. I think I've taken two to the tires. Won't be rolling any time soon.
Just keep those holograms going, Jazz said. If those stop, we got real problems.
Yeah, 'problems', Hound grumbled. I swear, my own nuts'n bolts're keeping me too high off the damn ground.
Jazz didn't answer. He didn't know if he was trying to win or just stalling the inevitable. From all around him, he heard the cries of wounded mechs, felt bullets whirring by, the sting of energy shots blasting across his armor. But every time he demanded another roll call, damned if every mech didn't answer back.
Somehow the Autobots were still in the fight, still holding their own.
One squad was out in the dark, lights off, sweeping up wounded bots and picking off 'Cons when they could. Another squad had pulled to the very edge of the perimeter, sniping jets who tried to come in for a strafing run. And Jazz's own force was pulling all the fire toward themselves, giving the rest of the army time to regroup and gather themselves back into a fighting force. Somehow the bullets and tracer rounds and energy shots did not connect.
It's 'cause we're so low to the ground, Groove said. They keep aiming too high.
Jazz didn't think that was all there was to it. Something wasn't right with the Decepticons' planning—but he couldn't spare a moment to process when the fight took all of his focus. Coming out of the night, 'Con grounders looked just like a 'Bot in that crucial split second, and even if they were blinded, their wild firing was still just as deadly.
Jazz felt blinded as well—without a battle map, an overview, the schematics of where the Decepticon forces were massing. Teletraa's aide had blinked out with Bruticus' suicide attack. With all the dust and holograms and darkness in their favor, Jazz was reduced to the input of his own optics.
He needed Prowl. He needed Soundwave.
And they were gone.
Prowl and Soundwave were gone.
He didn't want to think about it, tried to push the thought away, but they were gone—
The desperate keen came out of his throat like a wail—swallowed up in the roar of engines and gunfire.
A missile streaked by, impacting somewhere behind him. The explosion threw him to the ground, and he transformed into alt mode, speeding forward to lessen the shock of the blast. With rocks and dirt showering the ground around him, he transformed back and found a Decepticon coming right at him screaming in rage—
"—OFF YOUR DOORS YOU RUSTED—"
A blast went off on Jazz's right, a missile landed on his left. The cacophony sent his audios ringing with a high pitched whine and rendered the whole battle silent. With nowhere to dodge, he opened his sonic array to its highest level and focused its targeting straight at the mech. The soundwaves compressed, intensified, turned hot in his own speakers—
—and the Decepticon he recognized at the last second as Sledge skidded left, rolled, flipped over him as he ducked, and vanished into the dark, coming apart as Hammer fell with him.
Jazz didn't hear them crash. His array pounded at top volume with heavy metal he could barely hear over his crashing audio horns. The guitar riff kept time with his spark. He had pushed too far ahead of the rest of his forces—the Decepticons were beginning to circle. His sonics sent another pair to one side, his rifle shots punched through a hood, a windshield—he leaped forward, one hand gripping the rocky ground, the other up and firing, and the 'Con streaked by, already greying out even as the dead frame kept skidding forward.
In another few minutes, Jazz could have painfully bought himself more fighting room, enough to fall back into the holograms and dust. He already had partial cover from the burned out shells of Decepticons who'd driven too far into their swirling mass of confusion.
But even the best veterans could be felled by the simple bad luck of the rock under his hand crumbling in his grip. His wrist bent too far and cracked, and he came down in a heap, rolling on his back with his rifle already up in his good hand. Beams spotlighted him from the sky, a low flying helicopter coming in close, blades turned downward even as two lines of aircraft fire came down around him.
Through his pede, through his pelvis, through his doorwing—slugs of plasma went through his steel frame like water. He didn't feel the pain, trying to clamber up on one good pede while still firing. He was overheating—couldn't vent—couldn't move. His shots had some effect—the helicopter blades chipped, sparked, bent and broke off, but Jazz just couldn't get one hit through to the mech behind the rotors, and all Jazz heard was the 'Con's horrible, triumphant laughter—
Laserfire cut through half of the blades, then sliced down across the tail rotor.
A hand came up into view just behind the helicopter, tightened around the landing skid, yanking backward so hard that the top rotor audibly squealed as gears ground together. A sonic wave swamped its systems, growing in intensity until its windshield shattered and its electrical systems shorted out. With a low moan of failing systems, the helicopter fell the last meters out of the air and crunched into the ground, only to scream as claws slashed across its main engine. The mech didn't gray out, but its systems sputtered and fell silent.
Prone on his back, Jazz looked up with wide optics, laying sprawled at Soundwave's pedes.
Scuffed and singed, Soundwave stood protectively over him, with Laserbeak flying a low circle overhead and Ravage padding behind him. Wordlessly, his cassettes vanished back into the night, their respective scream and snarl revealing that they were driving off any Decepticons with hopes of taking out the third in command or a traitors communications officer.
Soundwave bent on one knee, offering his hand. His mouth moved, and when Jazz didn't respond, Soundwave switched to their comm.
Jazz, warbuild in civilian frame, he said. Should rememberSoundwave, Prowl, want him in one piece.
For the first time since the battle started, Jazz took a full vent.
Beside them, Groove sped by, accompanied by a low flying Spasma. Just behind, establishing a line outside of Hound's holograms, Seawing and Submarauder drew even with Dead End, accompanied by Snare's rumbling engines as he swooped low overhead. All of them had been stripped of armaments, and all of them had scavenged the spare rifles, gattling turrets, and missile launchers that littered the ground.
Reinforcements are here! Mirage announced on the Autobot frequency. Orders, Jazz?
Jazz reached up and took Soundwave's hand, letting the taller mech pull him upright, leaning on him as his wounded pede and hip shook with exertion.
Prowl? Jazz asked.
In Ratchet's triage, Soundwave said. Badly wounded, stable. Broadcasting input from our former Decepticons.
Broadcasting? If Prowl's wounded, then Blaster should—
Blaster, wounded, unconscious. Prowl, broadcasting through Soundwave. Jazz desires uplink?
The last question was given with cautionary tags. It only made sense. Without the Ark, there was no stabilized, central broadcast point. Teletraan couldn't serve as the hub—now Prowl was the hub receiving and sending. If Prowl crashed, the disrupted signal could send Soundwave and Jazz reeling at the wrong moment.
Yes, Jazz said without hesitation, holding tight to Soundwave. Link me in.
He only realized what he'd asked for when the touch blossomed in his cortex.
A fractal of petals opened to allow in Soundwave and, through him, Prowl. The third pathway opened in his mind, permitted into his systems, and Prowl followed his guidance, flowing in the direction Jazz dictated. Soundwave amplified Prowl's signal, laying in his own data like a breeze following a river.
How could logic be so warm?
How did ruthless practicality soften as it touched Jazz?
Amidst the imperfect scans, the gaps in the map, the lag of speeding 'Cons and 'Bots, the dark night and the burning Ark. Amidst all the chaos, there was relief and joy and desire smoldering under the surface. In the center of the fight, despite their own pain, they'd found each other.
Soundwave and Prowl were not gone. They were there beside him, their data in his own cortex.
It was like a long draft of the finest energon, the sweetest kerosene.
It was a clear vent after mouthfuls of dust.
It was...a distraction.
There was no time to dwell in that comfort, and Jazz gently pushed Prowl's connection to arm's length. This was no time for anything else, sweet as it was.
Where's Prime? he demanded. Megatron?
He didn't really expect an answer. He expected a rueful apology, the chaos of the battlefield being too much. Instead Prowl guided Jazz's attention away from the fight, upward, sweeping past the Ark up the side of the volcano, nearly to the top.
At first, Jazz didn't see anything. The night was dark, almost moonless and covered with clouds, and the light of the carnage left his optics overcompensating. It took a long moment of adjusting without the fire and glare in the way before he saw them.
Optimus had found Megatron. They were barely visible, just glinting light on steel, sparks drifting down the rocks as they fought with mace and ax, rifle and gun barrel.
Jazz didn't waste time with explanation. He gave a command on the Autobot frequency. In unison, every able bot swung their headlights up the rocky ledges. Shadows lengthened, rocks tumbled through the beams into the darkness. And then they caught Megatron, spotlighting him as he swung his energon mace down—
—against the Prime's ax. Megatron raised his fusion canon—
—only to grimace and step back as Ironhide unloaded a blast of liquid nitrogen into Megatron's face.
Thank Primus that Ironhide's with him, Jazz whispered, only in the next second to watch Megatron's canon strike point blank. Optimus pushed Megatron off target, saving Ironhide's helm, but the blast still took his bodyguard's arm and part of his side.
Fliers! Jazz called out, not even sure how many of them were left. Back him up!
Silverbolt was already there, peppering the side of the mountain with shots that barely caught Megatron's attention. Aerialbots Skydive and Slingshot followed, plummeting out of the protective ring of the Decepticon Rainmakers, darting past with their own fly-bys.
Their efforts were not enough to deter the Decepticon leader, but it was enough for Silverbolt to get in and take Ironhide from Optimus. Silverbolt kicked off of the mountainside, using gravity to speed his fall, but he wasn't fast enough as the heat of the fusion canon came level with his helm. Silverbolt's optics widened, watching the energon brighten—
Optimus drove the axe deep into Megatron's shoulder. There was a spray of energon, pieces of steel and wires breaking free, and Megatron dragged the barrel back to slam into Optimus. There was a brief loss of balance, Optimus struggling to keep his footing as the rockface crumbled under his heavy pede. Overhead, the Decepticon jets began to circle closer, drawn in by the fight, the tantalizing closeness of victory.
Megatron grinned to see them, opening his mouth to give the command—
A streak of white, red, and gold flew by Megatron, clipping his hand with a jet wing. As Megatron jerked back with a yell, Starscream soared high with a curse that went unheard over his engines. Megatron fired a useless shot—Starscream kept climbing into the air, transforming and coming to a halt in front of Thundercracker.
The current commander of the Armada transformed, followed by Skywarp, and then Verminator and Terradive and the rest of them. They hovered in front of Starscream, his shrill voice to high up to be heard. From his hand movements, he was making violent threats and scathing insults, and from the look of the rest of the jets, they were shouting just as loudly. None of them were watching Megatron anymore.
Jazz's jaw dropped.
How in the pit…?
Starscream, very distracting, Soundwave nodded once.
Distracting nothing, that crazy bird just neutralized the whole damn Armada.
Megatron saw the battle slipping away. He was left with Optimus, the Autobot leader unsteady and battered but still alive, and Megatron now stood alone in his fight. From this height, he saw the entire battle sprawled before him. His grounders spun their wheels, content to waste time, only the most fanatical of them spending themselves to attack the remaining Autobots on the field. His jets circled uselessly, waiting to see who would emerge victorious.
He needed to create some incentive, spur them back into the fight. That always meant making an example of someone.
And there came Fireflight diving in conveniently close, his optics blurred by his first real loss of war, the only home he'd ever known.
Pitiful how the little thing overestimated his flight, forgetting that Megatron had his own thrusters. Megatron reached up and plucked the flier's wing, crumpling it in his grip. Amidst Fireflight's electric, glitching scream, Megatron flung the small jet down the side of the mountain to crash in the dust.
Ignoring the Prime for now, Megatron leaped after the aerialbot, controlling his fall, landing lightly on the sand a few meters away. It wouldn't do to splash himself with Fireflight's energon.
"I will not have my army waiting on the sidelines!" Megatron said over the rumble of engines now quieted by the sudden display. "Waiting to see who will be victorious. You know who the true victor of this fight will be. If there was any doubt…"
His consonants clipped in anger, Megatron charged his canon, raised it to Fireflight's obvious spark case. Flightflight struggled to his hands and knees, fell on his back, his wing trembling where it had crumpled at the joint, looking like a bird in broken flutters. His engines sparked and went out, damaged in the crash. Megatron's terrible canon glowed bright.
Fireflight shut his optics tight.
Which saved him from dust in his optics as Acid Storm landed heavily, standing between him and Megatron's canon.
Every mech on the field froze as both sides held their collective vent.
