Part 60

Fittingly, it began to rain.

The rain flickered in their headlights. Cold, cleansing, it damped the fires of the Ark into a dull glow against the cloudy sky.

Optimus slowly reset his optics, giving a long, shaky vent as the rain scattered the dead frame. He stared at it for a long time—black ash, black mud, black slag—and the mess sank slowly into the sand. It would be long days, perhaps weeks, before the earth completely washed away what was left.

"...did...did you wanna bury it?" Jazz asked, seeing his look.

Optimus ran his hand down his faceplate, his fingertip catching on a gash on his mask. He winced at how deep the scratch ran—a memento of his last fight with Megatron.

He felt a strange, empty weightlessness.

"No, Jazz. As you said, the Decepticons have a different way than we do."

Thundercracker watched the last concussive round tear one more bit of steel apart. Then he turned and took a step closer toward the Autobots. His approach made the nearest of them flinch and grip their weapons, but he thought the step was worth risking their anger. It got him away from the pile of slag—a little needed mental space.

"You said you have fuel," Thundercracker said. "Supplies."

"We do," Optimus nodded. "And you're welcome to what you need."

"What's the catch?" Thundercracker asked.

"My mechs are wounded and tired," Optimus said. "And unless my officers can tell me otherwise, I don't think I have bases close enough to handle all of them for the night. I'd like to quarter a few with you."

Thundercracker's optics widened. "Autobots...bunking with 'Cons? Are you crazy? You really think that'll fly?"

Optimus tilted his helm to one side. Fireflight still stood nestled in Acid Storm's arms, but the other two rainmakers were just as gently tending to his wings as they were to their comrade's wounds. Whisper and Silverbolt were hand in hand; Spasma was splitting some of his fuel with Groove.

Thundercracker caught his meaning, chuckling ruefully. He opened his mouth to respond—

"Megatron has fallen! Now I, Starscre—"

The familiar refrain broke off before it could truly start. Above them, Skyfire caught Starscream in a deep kiss, wrapping him up in his larger arms and holding until Starscream gave in. Skyfire turned the jet so that his back was to the meeting, and he motioned a circle with his hand.

Sorry, sorry, Skyfire said, could you speed this along? He's really wound tight. I could take him somewhere…?

Thundercracker winced and gave a sidelong look at Optimus. "He defected—that crazy canary's your problem."

Optimus vented. "True enough, but you'll have to get the fuel at our Mt. Hood base. It's built for our fliers, and he'll have to fly in with the rest of you."

Thundercracker gave him a long glare. "...fine. Hopefully that's the hardest decision we'll have to make."

"The hardest decision will be what to do about Cybertron," Optimus said. "But for tonight, that crazy canary is yours."

Thundercracker began to divy up his Armada, sending his injured mechs to balance out the wounded Autobots gathered in triage. After that, with a handful of the nearest Autobot bases presented to him, they both managed to assemble teams that they didn't think would immediately fire on each other, too weary on one side, too close to empty tanks on the other.

And each team had defecticons and cross-cablers to serve as liasons. Skyfire and Starscream, Whisper and the Rainmakers with Silverbolt and Fireflight, all headed to Mt. Hood. The Seacons took Depthcharge and Seaspray to the Mead base. Optimus and Thundercracker would take their own partisans to distant rendezvous points to cool their helms.

Which left one more major group that needed an officer.

Rumbling engines and shouted orders turned Ratchet's triage area into the usual logistics nightmare of organizing the wounded. Worse—they had to organize in the dark with only their headlights while the rain turned the road muddy and sluggish. The night wind blew sharply across the mountain, making every mech shiver as their wiring turned stiff.

Both Optimus and Thundercracker supervised—or rather, they watched from a courteous distance after a single icy glare from Ratchet, who did not have time for two faction commanders interfering with his medical caravan. As far as he was concerned, and as he loudly voiced from time to time, they best served simply being nearby in case any of the wounded, Decepticon or Autobot, took issue with the mech they lay beside.

The casualty list was long and growing longer as more survivors were found and dropped off. Swindle, somehow still alive. Rumble and Frenzy, found at the edge of the smoldering wreckage of the Ark. Rewind, sitting on Blaster's shoulder with a kevlar dressing over his optics. There were more, a good half of them Decepticons—all of them bewildered by where they were and too injured to protest.

Sitting on the edge of First Aid's rear doors, Jazz kept a protective watch over Prowl, who was safely tucked away in the ambulance. Two hasty kevlar patches had been smacked on Jazz's wounds, with a medical shutdown on his wounded pede. His dwindling voice and the slow bleed of energon through his bandages didn't stop him from arguing with Optimus.

"—can't send me along," Jazz argued. "This crew's already got Prowl and Red Alert—"

"Both of whom are in no condition to lead," Optimus said.

"There's Ratchet," Jazz said. "He could lead 'em all outta hell in a handbasket if he tried."

"And he's too busy putting mechs back together," Optimus said.

Optimus knelt on one pede, gently laying his hand on Jazz's shoulder. It was easy to forget how much smaller Jazz until they were right next to each other. A porsche martini was a tiny thing compared to a trailer rig, and Jazz looked almost swallowed up in Optimus' hand.

"You held this army together like no one else could have," Optimus said. "The Ark was falling, you were all alone, and the Autobots were on the point of disintegration. Now we have to split our forces, and I need someone I can trust to shoulder the weight of the world and come on out top. I need you here, Jazz."

Jazz frowned, but not out of anger. He looked like a sullen sparkling who knew he wasn't about to get his way. His optic ridges were high, just above his visor, giving him the rare look of worry and frustration that only Optimus ever got to see.

"You're 'bout to head off with no bodyguard," he muttered. "And no air suppport. Or tactical officers. Or—"

Optimus chuckled. "I am 'heading off' with most of our front liners and half the Aerialbots. Not much more you could do there. But among the injured, with Decepticons thrown into that mix? I want my best troubleshooter to hold that together."

Jazz let out a long vent. His only consolation was that he had most of his Spec Ops bots with him. But that was cold comfort when Beachcomber and Bumblebee were locked in reboot, and Smokescreen and Hound were limping with slugs still lodged in their armor.

Jazz was going to try one more argument, but Ratchet called the mechs to line up in order, organizing them carefully so no one was in danger of falling behind.

"Time to roll out," Optimus said, standing. "I'll see you in a couple of days. Take care of Ironhide for me."

"Don't worry," Jazz grumbled. "I won't leave him on the side of the road, tempting though it may be."

Optimus smiled. "And make sure you and Soundwave take advantage of the downtime. Prowl's going to need someone to keep him occupied while he mends."

Jazz scowled at the insinuation. "Et tu, boss man? Et tu?"

But First Aid was already starting to drive, and Jazz had to haul himself back into the cab and shut the door. Nestled safely inside, Prowl lay still, locked in recharge to rest and repair. Jazz put his hand on Prowl's shoulder, thumbing off some of the soot that had gathered on his armor.

"You still awake?" Jazz asked.

No answer.

"I meant you, mech."

In the corner, Soundwave lay folded up neatly in a surprisingly small package, the majority of his mass locked away in subspace. The blue and gold player held two cassettes, Frenzy and Rumble, tucked in deep recharge and self-repair.

"Monitoring cassettes for Ratchet's medical records," Soundwave answered. "Also in contact with Laserbeak, Ravage."

Jazz nodded once. First Aid was the lead vehicle in the caravan, but the headlights behind them were too bright to see clearly beyond spotting Soundwave's two functional terrors keeping pace alongside the ambulance. He kept Ratchet's comm open on standby, checking off and on with Mirage in the back.

"How're your bots doing?"

"Rumble, Frenzy, stable. Blunt force responsible for most damage. Will repair...in time."

"What happened?" Jazz asked. "I didn't...I didn't know what was going on in there."

Jazz didn't look at Soundwave, nor at Prowl. He stared at a distant point beyond the white wall and didn't move.

Soundwave studied Jazz intently, hearing the low bitterness in Jazz's voice. Normally it was impossible to scan Jazz without motion blur. Now Jazz held still, perfectly in focus. Soundwave didn't have to calculate the percentages on why Jazz looked so upset.

"Jazz, rallying embattled Autobot forces after demoralizing attack," Soundwave said. "Kept faction alive."

"...but not Prowl," Jazz said. "Not you."

"Jazz—"

"Didn't even remember your cassettes," he said softly, "or the damn 'Cons in the brig."

"Jazz—"

"Those bastards would've just smelted down with the whole damn base...and Prowl...Prowl took missiles from a damn jet, and I—"

"Jazz, as bad as Prowl."

The calm statement caught Jazz's attention—or at least it seemed to, as he tilted his helm just slightly. Soundwave had to guess at where Jazz was actually looking. The visor wasn't just good at hiding Jazz's aim in a fight.

"Prowl, calculations can lead to failure," Soundwave said. "Jazz, invents failure after victory."

"Mech…" Jazz shook his helm as if amazed that Soundwave had missed the obvious. "Prowl almost died. You had to get Blaster and your cassettes and our 'cons..."

Soundwave gave a low, hollow laugh.

"Jazz, merely left something for other bots to do. Not responsible for entire Autobot faction."

Jazz frowned. "You had to save my sorry aft."

"...rescue, very close call. Percentages of success minimal." The stereo gave an audible vent and somehow looked like it settled down to lean against First Aid's side. "This alt-form, aggravating. Soundwave, desires holding Jazz and Prowl. Cannot offer proper comfort."

"Heh. Can't say that don't sound good. Just...kinda folding up and ignoring the world a bit."

Jazz shut his optics. He couldn't feel the wounds piercing his frame, but his systems knew that he was hurt. Deep weariness settled in him, cold and damp from the dark hours of the morning, his joints and seams grinding against each other. But he couldn't recharge yet, not that it mattered. He was the kind of tired that wouldn't let him sleep.

"Prowl's okay, right?" Jazz blurted. "I mean...not all right. But, like…"

"Prowl, stable in self-repair," Soundwave said. "Systems quiet but present. Jazz, cannot sense Prowl?"

Jazz shifted in his seat, wincing as an exposed wire popped.

Yes, their link-up was still active.

Prowl's systems tied directly to Jazz's.

Jazz felt him hovering at the edge of his senses.

He didn't dare try to touch.

"Yeah, he's there, just...kinda don't wanna push, y'know? Might wake him up."

There were a half dozen reasons why Prowl wouldn't wake from a medically induced recharge cycle, but Soundwave didn't push. He made a soft sound of understanding.

"Prowl wounded, but will improve."

Jazz shifted again. Mirage pinged in with the usual 'all clear' signal, which he would do every minute until they arrived. It assuaged some of Jazz's worry.

"Don't s'pose your two cassettes are transmitting?" he asked.

"Ravage, Laserbeak triangulating with Ratchet at lead," Soundwave said. "Jazz, desires updates?"

"Anything," Jazz groaned. "Just distract me from...everything."

Soundwave didn't respond except to open his frequency. The constant repetition of coordinates, speed, troop position, and clear skies washed over Jazz, a steady hum of all the voices in the caravan reporting in, updating Ratchet on medical status. And the small chatter of mechs on both sides forced to ping each other to keep pace, awkwardly making introductions, painfully embarassed that they might have been the one to shoot the other mech. Grateful as mechs slipped one another the painkiller code while Ratchet pretended not to notice.

Jazz felt his wires loosen just a little.

Maybe Prime's plan was going to work.

Maybe.

He really wished Prowl was awake. Or that Soundwave hand room to transform and hold his hand.


They arrived at the bunker hidden along Pyramid Lake. By the time they rolled in, most mechs were limping at half-speed, exhausted and running on empty. Jazz stayed awake just long enough to settle Prowl in a berth, to see the entrance sealed and camouflaged again, and to receive Ratchet's instructions on tending both Prowl and himself. Then Ratchet was gone, off to see to other mechs, and Jazz was already falling into recharge, stretched out on the floor beside Prowl.

He'd only seemed to shut his optics when he woke again.

The room was still dark, and florescent light trickled in from the door, open just an inch. He sat up, reaching a hand out to the berth, and found that he was laying on it. Clean kevlar patches dotted his frame where he'd been shot. But as he looked down at the bandages, his balanced tilted. His gyros spun—he leaned forward, resting his arms on his pedes, waiting for the dizziness to stop.

"Ah. You're awake."

Jazz looked up too quickly—the room turned around completely. He grabbed the sides of the berth and shut his optics, but that only made him feel like he was listing to one side. He opened his optics again and stared at the faint lights in the corner.

Prowl's optics, he realized. Prowl sat in the dark corner, ramrod straight and still in his chair.

Jazz started to complain and felt his vocal box seize up. He grabbed his throat—his panic made him briefly forget the spinning.

"Your vocals are repairing," Prowl quickly explained. "Ratchet said another day before you can speak again. He said that you strained it and snapped the connectors."

Jazz frowned. But when would that have…

Ah. The explosion, and the scraps of Bruticus falling over him. Ratchet pushing his vocal processors as they made their last stand. The sun going down and the Ark burning. The dust and smoke in his gears, the chaotic roaring plasma and concussive fire, the strange silence punctuated by rhythmic bolts of Decepticon fire.

He felt like he might purge energon, but there was a bare minimum in his tanks.

"There are stabilizing coal tablets on the console," Prowl said. "By your left hand."

Jazz slowly, slowly turned his helm. The tablets were a blur, but he felt for them and found a small cube of blue medical energon as well. A moment passed as everything dissolved into his systems. There must have been a depressant mixed in with the energon—his helm stopped spinning as his frame grew a little heavier.

Prowler—

He started to ask how Prowl felt, or what time and day it was. And then he stopped.

His voice was down. He could use their frequency, but…

But that link was changed between them. Anything he said was no longer just a simple question.

"Jazz, still scared."

He tensed. There wasn't enough space in the small room for the larger mech, but Soundwave's voice came from very close. Jazz glanced down and found the cassette deck on the nightstand behind the energon cube.

He gave a faint snort. As if they hadn't said that before. As if all of them didn't know it was true.

Soundwave continued. "Will wait. Previous attempts woefully miscalculated. Jazz incalculable. Therefore, will wait to be allowed access."

Jazz wanted laugh. Wanted to demand how long they would wait. But he didn't have to ask. He knew. They had waited before. They were waiting now. They would wait forever, quietly calculating in the dark, watching.

Jazz felt folded up and tired and hurt. The army was split into pieces. His Prime was out of reach. And there was no way of knowing what the Decepticons were doing. He felt like he was cut off and falling.

But he had Prowl, and he had Soundwave. And, if he was honest, that thought was no longer the intimidating sense of being stalked. Just the echo of fear, an echo of vulnerability. Hadn't he clung to Soundwave? Hadn't he clung to Prowl's signal after being sure he was dead?

Jazz reached out and scooped up the cassette deck, setting it on the berth beside him.

Sneaky, he said with a tired laugh. Y'all feeling as worn as I do?

...worse, Prowl said slowly, tentatively feeling his way through their link-up, alert to any sign that Jazz wanted him out. When he felt no push back, Prowl eased in more confidently. Ratchet says another week before I may walk.

Through the link, Jazz felt Prowl's systems tied to his own, the phantom of Prowl's pain all along his pedes and back and doorwings. Flashes of memory accompanied each injury—the missile's concussive wave, the heat of the burning Ark, the final flash of the engines like the edge of a smelting pit.

There was a curious touch from Prowl, pointedly noting Jazz's wounds. A little self-conscious, Jazz allowed access to those memory files, but doing so brought with it the repeated wave of emotions of the battle. Certainty that Prowl and Soundwave were dead, increasing panic hiding behind the calm facade...and the intense reassurance of Soundwave's sudden appearance. The relief of Prowl being alive.

Jazz cringed. His feelings lay bare—he couldn't hide when the two of them were already inside. Prowl's confusion made Jazz remember distant memories of fighting off the larger mech pinning him in the corridor, of the force downloads while surrounded by enemies. Of shrugging off such missions to his friends and willingly accepting yet another go.

Soundwave slowly transformed behind him, holding him flush. Jazz was surprised at how well he fit against the larger mech, lifting his pedes obligingly as Soundwave shifted, and now Jazz was nestled, laying back, warmed by the heavier engines thrumming against his back.

Prowl didn't move to join them. He didn't need to, already there in their singular cortex.

Jazz could no longer tell where one of them began or ended. Their thoughts were alien to him, startling in how their ideas moved like flowcharts, but he understood the concern, the need to be close, the want to soothe away the hurt. Prowl was escaping his own pain by floating in Jazz's thoughts, and Jazz's own hurts eased as he let him in, both of them sinking and resting in Soundwave's frequency.

Removing Soundwave's mask and visor had only revealed the slimmest degree of himself. Inside Soundwae, Jazz found the mech's fierce hold on Prowl and himself, treating them like lifelines over the empty void left after he abandoned the Decepticons. Megatron had so long been the foundation of Soundwave's life that to leave that all behind still left gaping wounds in Soundwave's processing. No wonder he had crashed so often.

And there were new gaps, a relief tinged with loss—Frenzy and Rumble alive, but unable to properly dock within his repaired casing. The inevitable separation that would have to follow, and putting off that separation for the sake of winning back Cybertron. Jazz didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't try. It would come in time, and he would be there for Soundwave when it happened.

He and Prowl, both. Like the constant sound of a clock, Prowl lingered a little behind. Overwhelming joy at being welcomed inside, mournful regret at pushing too hard before. As Jazz pulled closer, Prowl eagerly settled against him, the quiet and steady rhythm carried on their collective frequency.

Jazz caught that rhythm and clung to it. Prowl's pain was clearer now, sudden shocks that had dulled to deep aches, all the worse for how alien they were. Prowl had never suffered the terrible frame-rending wounds that a warbuild or espion became familiar with, and Prowl took the offered shelter and sank into them.

Every song had its tones, and every song had its silences. Jazz found his empty spaces being filled—the voids made by fear and hurt now satisfied by their confidence, their calculations finding overhwelming percentages of success.

What is this? Jazz asked. This ain't what it was like before, me an' Prowl.

This is not a normal link, Prowl said.It is Soundwave's telepathy.

It is Jazz and Prowl, Soundwave said with satisfaction.

It was...comfortable. Jazz wanted to know several things—what time was it? had anything new happened? were they still safe?—but neither of them were worried, and he trusted their judgment. For now, there was no dizziness. No yells or bullets or pain.

Just two sparks floating with his own in the dark.


The great war was not over.

Cybertron still remained under Shockwave's control, which he would not give up easily. And coordinating the effort to oust him would take careful planning and managing of shared resources. The Earth was plentiful with hidden pockets of energon, but to refurbish their remaining deep space vessels would take time and cooperation. Parts had to be repaired or even created, then fit into ships that had long ago been repurposed into bases and put through intense combat.

But the war's focus was now on Cybertron.

They were going home.

It would take years, perhaps.

But they were going home.

Which was the only reason some of the Decepticons didn't blast their way out of the negotiating chamber. In a small supply depot nestled in the Rockies, Thundercracker sat at the long table, flanked by Acid Storm and Nightflight. On his side, Hook leaned forward with his helm in his hands, shutting his optics as the day's compromises drew to a close.

Across the table, Optimus likewise leaned back in his seat, weary but with bright optics. Each bullet point required his signature and security seal to lock the conversation in where they had finished, to be resumed the next day. The talks were draining, but it felt like a return to a semblance of civilization. Prowl sat at his right hand, tabulating the last figures of resources being shared back and forth.

"How," Hook started, glaring sideways at Prowl, "are you not snapping that datapad in half?"

Prowl looked up, surprised at the question.

"It...hasn't done anything to deserve it?" he said slowly.

"It exists," Hook grumbled, smacking his own datapad. "I'm sick of all these numbers. I'm seeing them when I recharge, endless numbers flying out of their columns. Mechs weren't meant to be number crunchers."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "Ah. Yes, information management can be...repetitive. I could offer you a few management tools, a download for voice to text?"

Hook considered it, then shook his helm once. "Can't let anyone say you tampered with our systems. I'll push through...and then hit it with a missile when we're done."

Thundercracker was adding his own final signatures and security seals, rushing through the process and then having to go back and fix what he'd missed before he could press submit.

"If this keeps up much longer," Thundercracker muttered, "I'll end up blasting the damn things while we're still in here."

"Preferably after giving me time to go," Prowl said. "I don't have the armor that everyone else does."

Thundercracker chuckled, taking the comment for a joke. Hook merely waved his hand once.

"I'll wait 'till you're out," Hook said. "Those chairs go too slow."

"I should hopefully be rid of this chair by the time we finish," Prowl said. "Not much longer now."

"Agreed," Optimus said, finishing his last seal and uploading the progress. "We're hammering things out pretty fast here. We'll end up with a complete treaty before we even start putting a fleet back together."

"It is amazing," Thundercracker said, "what you can do when you stop fighting and start...well."

He looked pointedly at his security detail, then at the two mechs flanking Optimus. Fireflight and Skydive stood still, rifles slung at rest. Behind him Acid Storm and Nightflight looked similarly attentive, but at the way they all shuffled or adjusted their grip, there was no doubt that they were speaking via personal frequencies.

Prowl cleared his vocals.

"Speaking of which, Soundwave just contacted me. They are waiting with Skyfire at the landing pad."

"Sounds good," Optimus said. "You're relieved here. Go rest."

With a nod, Prowl reversed his seat, rolling out first. He felt faintly ridiculous as a vehicle in a wheelchair, but no one ever looked twice as he went by, receiving and returning salutes as he picked up his own security detail. Escorted by the twins, he passed the motor pool and headed out to the landing pad carved into the mountain side.

A few seconds after him, Optimus and Thundercracker left the conference room, stepping out into the overcast glare of the late evening. The base was still humming with activity. Energon cubes were laid out for pick up, pallets awaited incoming medical and mechanical supplies, and—Optimus smiled—his bodyguard was walking down from the landing pad.

"Ironhide," he said. "Ratchet swore you weren't cleared for release for another day and a half."

"At the latest," Ironhide agreed. "He forgot I was in the room across from Jazz."

Optimus vented. "Jazz isn't supposed to be out, either."

"You gonna tell him to go back?" Ironhide asked, jerking his thumb back toward the landing pad.

Optimus followed his look. Skyfire sat on the circular asphalt, holding Starscream in his lap, watching the fading stars as they waited for the supplies to be loaded up.

A little beyond them, at the edge of the mountain, Prowl had joined up with Jazz and Soundwave, who welcomed him into their small circle. To see Jazz smile wasn't unusual, but this wasn't his usual brash grin. There was joy at seeing Prowl, an eagerness to take his hand and let Prowl touch his face. And the warbuild behind them, now wearing his visor and mask once more, sat so that he could more easily shield Prowl's small, lighter frame with his own armor.

"I'm sure Prowl properly submitted a request to Ratchet," Optimus said. "After Jazz slipped you all out. In any case, it's good to see you up on your pedes again, my friend."

Optimus glanced over at Thundercracker, who was coming up to stand beside him.

"I think we can let our security details go, hm? I doubt anyone's going to try anything with so many of our own mechs intermingled."

Thundercracker gave a low laugh.

"They're just a formality anyway," he agreed. "Our lovebirds would stomp any assassins quick enough."

He waved his hand, dismissing his jets who transformed and flew up toward the clouds, followed quickly by Optimus' fliers. Thundercracker graciously didn't mention Ironhide remaining by Optimus—the bodyguard was venting hard just from the walk up.

As Thundercracker looked back over the field, more and more of their mechs coming in for a sleepy recharge as the shift changed, with new mechs going about their duties. Mixed evenly were red and purple decals, giving each other wide berths, nodding warily to each other. The tension would have been worrying except they had all been hand picked as bots with cross-cabling sympathies. And so far, it was working.

"Has there been any more talk about decals?" Thundercracker said. "On your side?"

"I have a few that I know will remove their Autobot sigils," Optimus nodded. "My pacifists. But they've said they won't be doing that until Cybertron is free from Shockwave. After that…"

He shrugged.

"They certainly never wanted to fight."

Thundercracker 'hmm'ed as if that made sense to him. Optimus chuckled at his confusion.

"What about yours? Any Decepticons going neutral?"

"Just a few," Thundercracker shrugged. "A couple of the ones already crossing cables with your civvies. Probably more once we take Cybertron." He glanced sideways at Optimus. "…you really think we can?"

Optimus smiled. It was impossible to see, hidden by his mask, but his optics brightened and his demeanor turned light. To Thundercracker, he felt like Optimus could see all of his worries and fears.

"Shockwave has had vorn upon vorn to consolidate his power," Optimus said, "and the fight won't be easy. But you defeated a far more powerful foe with little more than love."

Thundercracker scoffed. "Weak sentiment—"

"No," Optimus said, turning and meeting the jet's look. "This victory was kindled with romantic love, true, but Megatron never realized what you were doing. He couldn't. He took that sentiment as treason, as fear. But you protected your forces from his anger. You cared enough for your army that you faced down Megatron himself, not knowing how your own mechs would respond. And they rallied to that love. You should trust your 'weak' feelings a little more, Decepticon. They serve you well."

Thundercracker didn't know how to respond to that. He'd discovered that he didn't know how to respond to a lot of what Optimus said. His notions of freedom and sincerity went against everything that Megatron had ever said. And Optimus was a Prime. Worse, he'd been a civilian before that. But Optimus didn't sound like the civilians of Cybertron in the past, like what they said about warbuilds. Optimus never said that Decepticons were evil monsters, hated civilians, or only knew how to destroy.

Optimus never acted as if the Decepticons were evil.

"Decepticon..." Thundercracker said. "It used to mean freedom. Rebellion. Now I'm not sure."

"Autobot came to mean functionist," Optimus said. "You're not the first whose faction was changed to fit someone else's agenda. You can reclaim what it used to mean."

Thundercracker considered that. Then looked at Optimus.

"What did Autobot used to mean? Before functionism?"

Optimus gave a soft vent.

"Autonomous bot," he said. "Individual, self-determined. Free."

Thundercracker smiled. "You put a lot of faith in that. Freedom."

Optimus nodded once. "What are you going to do with it?"

"With what?"

"Your freedom." Optimus gave a glance from Thundercracker to Skyfire and Starscream. "Don't think I didn't notice."

Thundercracker groaned and rubbed his helm. "I know, I know…"

"'Crazy canary', was it?"

"I've been trined with him and Skywarp since forever," Thundercracker said. "And Starscream's been trying to bring us around about Skyfire, and...I mean…"

Optimus waited with overly bright optics.

"Skyfire's shiny?" Optimus said.

"...real damn shiny," Thundercracker sighed.

Anything else would have been teasing. Optimus put a restraining hand on Ironhide's back, unable to bop him on the helm this time. He bid farewell for the day to the jet, who joined Starscream and Skywarp in surrounding Skyfire and pressing their courtship on a bewildered shuttle.

"Poor Skyfire," Ironhide said once the jet was out of range. "Three high strung jets? Like falling in love with a hornet's nest."

"He started with Starscream," Optimus said. "After that, anything is easy."

"Pfft." Ironhide shook his helm. "No. After Megatron, anything is easy."

Optimus didn't answer. But he hoped.

Up ahead, his two top officers committed what would have been unthinkable even just a few months ago. Megatron's former right hand mech sat on the dusty rocks, letting Jazz lean in close against his casing, nestlng Prowl in close between them. Animated as always, Jazz was telling a story with his hands, sometimes touching Prowl, sometimes touching Soundwave. Ravage sat a discreet distance away, keeping watch, as Laserbeak flew a long patrol along the ridge.

"I think you're right," Optimus said. "After all of this, anything is easy."

Late that night, after seeing Ironhide settle into recharge, Optimus withdrew into his own quarters. It was small, much smaller than his room on the Ark—and that still hurt to think about. It was an acceptable sacrifice if it brought about the end of this conflict, but it had been home for ages.

He sat at his work console, squeezing into the cramped space between it and his berth. Here, no one would disturb him until the morning. Outside, the night patrol rolled through the base, their headlights flashing briefly through the window. He listened to them drive on, watching another set of headlights on the far edge of the base. A quiet night.

He brought up his datapad and navigated to the surnet. Red Alert had allowed updates once again, and the forums buzzed with questions and discussion and arguments. Decepticons and Autobots grumbled and fought and explained, the first tremulous contact between their sides in memory. It was messy, but it was better than bullets. It was interaction as they started learning how to live with each other.

And part of that interaction was purely fictional.

Optimus found that he had a dozen stories to catch up on.

Kaon Forum :: Cybertron AU :: Jazz :: Prowl :: Soundwave :: "Spec Ops" part 60 :: complete

Sipping the day's last energon, opening the commentary box as he went, B-Ball-Bot settled in to read.

end