Part 30

Inside one of the small Ark meeting rooms, Prowl sat at the head of the table where a large screen had been mounted directly into the surface. Around him, with their own smaller screens, sat Hound, Bumblebee, Beachcomber and First Aid. All of them sat slumped, optics glazing over as they stared at boxes and boxes of text and numbers in front of them.

"I think I got all of Over-the-Edge's comments," Hound said, his words slurring as his helm threatened to hit the table. "And Mech892354's, too."

"Send them to my screen," Prowl said, his gaze never leaving the rapidly flashing data. "Begin searches for BrightLight and NumberOneFighter."

"...yessir." Hound put his helm in his hands and started a new search, resetting his optics as the letters blurred in front of him.

"I've finished Zapwing!'s and HotTwin," Bumblebee said around a yawn. "Send them to you, sir?"

"Yes," Prowl said. "And look up the user name Oasis."

Bumblebee looked at him, venting as his shoulders drooped, then nodded once.

"Um, sir." Hound's faceplate warmed and he kept his gaze focused intently on his screen. "Oasis ain't in any trouble, is he?"

"He is a potential sympathizer to Soundwave," Prowl said. "Minimal risk, but I need to know who he is before any overly aggressive Autobots find out."

"Um." Hound clenched his fists, then released them, laying them flat on the table. "Oasis is Mirage, sir."

Prowl blinked and looked up. "How do you know that?"

"I've..." Hound put his face in his hand. "He's asked me to write some things for him."

At that, First Aid looked up from his table monitor. "Really? You've written stories on the sur-net?"

"Kinda." Hound didn't have to open his optics to feel Prowl's burning a hole in his helm. "Mostly poems."

"How can you be certain Mirage is the one who asked for them?" Prowl demanded. "Unless he used his real name on the sur-net."

"Naw," Hound said, forcing himself to push out every word. "We started writing things together, and...well..."

"I am compiling this database for security purposes," Prowl said. "To Red Alert's specifications. I cannot skip any entry unless I have absolute evidence—"

"It's berth poetry," Hound blurted out. "He reads 'em while we're...I mean, when we're..."

All of them froze, and Prowl's jaw snapped shut as he realized just how solid Hound's proof was. Prowl's doorwings snapped tight as he couldn't help the image that sprang into his cortex, and how his cortex suddenly altered the picture to include himself and Jazz. No one spoke as similar thoughts filled the room, and Hound tried his best to melt into the table.

"That. is. beautiful." Beachcomber smiled dreamily, waving his hand idly in the air. "In the midst of war, romance and love blossoming around us and posted as inspiration for all to see. Kinda gives you hope for the future, huh?"

First Aid glanced sideways at Beachcomber, adding that comment to the long file he and Ratchet were still compiling on the blue mech's sanity, then at Hound, who looked like he'd given up all hope completely.

"...understood." Prowl glanced back at his monitor, then heaved a long vent and set the data to compile. "We will return after this database has completed populating. Return after shift and we will finish. And...Hound. You may belay the order about Oasis."

Hound nodded silently and wouldn't look up until Prowl had left the office. As soon as the door had shut, all of them looked at Hound.

"Are you okay?" First Aid asked, leaning up on the table. "That had to feel so awful."

"Admitting to love and joy?" Beachcomber gaped. "If only more 'Bots and 'Cons could do the same, then this whole crazy war—"

"Shut up, 'Comber," Bumblebee said. "Not everyone likes having their private information broadcast for all to see."

"Not under their own names, at least," First Aid said. "Hound, I swear, you know we won't say anything."

"I know..." Hound vented and stood slowly. "Thanks, guys. Don't suppose none of us will have any secrets by the end of this, though."

All of them fell silent, glancing at each other, imagining their own berth habits that might be dragged out into the light. Bumblebee lowered his helm, tapping on the table, and even Beachcomber sighed and leaned back in his chair, loathe to see his friends so anxious.

"Sometimes," First Aid mumbled, then coughed and spoke a little clearer, "sometimes me and Groove and Streetwise...sometimes we pile up in the hangar and recharge with each other."

As the others looked at him with widened optics, he rushed to explain.

"I mean, it's not like we're exchanging cables," he stammered. "We just kind of collapse on top of each other, and...well, those are the best stories, I think. No cable crossing or anything. Just...being close."

"Those are good reading," Beachcomber said. "For sunny days outside by the beach. I kinda like the cross-faction stuff myself...set after the war and everyone's friends again."

Firs tAid flinched slightly. Beachcomber's voice held none of the dreamy quality it normally did. Slower, under his usual volume, his voice matched his distant stare into the screen. First Aid added a note to Beachcomber's file, inquiring with Ratchet if they should up the dose on Beachcomber's cortex numbing agent.

"I'd settle for not being written about," Bumblebee said. "I'm not in all those spy thrillers like Jazz is, but I'm in enough. Missions don't go nearly as well as those stories make them out to be."

Hound nodded once. "True. If our missions ended up like all of them stories, we'd of won this war by now just by overloading the 'Cons into submission."

All of them paused, the same idea running through their minds. And then they all laughed and shook their helms.

"On that sobering note," Bumblebee said, "I'm out. Gonna grab some energon and hit the washracks. Anyone else?"

"Nah," Hound said. "Think I'll take a spin around the Ark and then meet up with...well, anyway. I'll see ya later."

He left before he saw Beachcomber's congratulatory fist pump.

"I gotta get back to medbay," First Aid sighed. "I'm still technically on shift. If I'm lucky, it'll be empty and Ratchet'll let me recharge on a bay."

"And I'm off to punishment monitor duty," Beachcomber said. "Never let it be said that Prowl doesn't know where the stash is. He just picks and chooses when to bust you for it."

"'Stash'?" FirstAid echoed. "Beachcomber, just how much are you—?"

"No no," Beachcomber said, waggling one finger in solemn dignity. "Haven't been busted again, so it don't exist."

"But..." First Aid blinked, resetting his optics as Beachcomber ambled out the door. "What? I..."

"Don't try to understand him," Bumblebee said, patting him on the shoulder. "Mech's loopier than a rear coil spring."

Leaving First Aid to updating Beachcomber's file, Bumblebee left and headed for the mess hall, dragging his pedes more and more. When he accidentally bumped another mech in the corridor, he blurted out an apology and leaned hard against the wall. More tired than he'd realized, he decided to skip the washracks and bolt down a cube at the bar.

The mess hall was emptier than he expected. Only a handful of mechs sat around the room, mostly by themselves, all of them entranced by their datapads. Bumblebee vented and went to the bar, sitting up on one of the stools. It didn't matter if they were all reading up on news or mission debriefs. After so many cycles locked up with Prowl, he couldn't help but see all of them as sur-net readers devouring more fiction that he would have to analyze.

Biting off a muttered curse, Bumblebee waved at the bartender, a gray mech with chips and white flecks in his armor.

"You look like you're about to fall over," ShotGlass said. "Want something with a kick?"

Bumblebee shook his helm. "I skipped between shifts, so just a double ration and then I'm headed to the berth."

"Just let me check off on that," ShotGlass said, turning to the screen built into his bar.

Bumblebee heaved a vent and lay his helm on his arms, resting with optics half-shut. Waits like this were common for mechs who frequently went out at odd hours, needing to verify their energon use so no one over-energized or took more than their ration. Energon was too precious to waste.

"I thought we stole a ton of energon cubes from the 'Cons," Bumblebee said, not so much arguing as simply making conversation.

"Yup," ShotGlass said, tapping a few buttons. "But Red Alert hasn't given it the okay, yet. Says we hafta clear that it isn't poisoned or rigged to make our fuel tanks explode."

Bumblebee nodded absently. "Eh...there's worse problems to have—"

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Bumblebee shut his optics tight, grimacing at the sound of Slingshot's voice. The smallest Aerialbot, not much taller than Bumblebee, plopped down on a stool beside him and knocked the bar with his hand, rattling Bumblebee's denta.

"Hey," ShotGlass snapped. "Lay off."

"Hey, hey," Slingshot said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. "I'm just saying hi to my buddy over here, the super popular secret spy. Ain't that right, 'Bee?"

"Not in the mood," Bumblebee said, refusing to look at him.

"Aw," Slingshot said, drawing out the word. "Secret agent mission tired you all out? Need someone to help work out the kinks in your cords?"

"Y'know," Bumblebee said, sitting straight but with his shoulders still slumped. "I like you a lot better when you're part of Superion...when you don't have a mouth."

"And I like you better," Slingshot said without a smile, "when you're getting it from some 'Con. Did you get it from Soundwave? That why he has you in all'a those stories?"

Weariness made Bumblebee's cortex slower than usual. As the insult registered, Bumblebee couldn't move, too stunned that anyone, even Slingshot, would attack him like this.

"...take off," Bumblebee said, sitting very still and staring at the far wall. "Before I forget regs."

"Oh, like—what was it?" Slingshot smirked. "Spec Ops #84—Regulations to Lust?"

"Shut up," Shotglass said, "before I call Ironhide on your aft."

"I'm just wondering," Slingshot said over him, his smile turning into a snarl, "why's Soundwave writing stories with the little pipsqueak here—"

"'Cause he can tell a half decent paint job from slag," Shotglass muttered, scoffing at Slingshot's orange helm and faceplate.

"I just wanna know," Slingshot said, leaning forward as if he could intimidate them with his slightly shorter height, "if Spec Ops #84 is legit—"

"No," Bumblebee ground out between clenched denta.

"—'cause Soundwave wrote you pretty damn accurate—"

"Shut it—"

"—so did you turn traitor and screw your way out—?"

Slingshot couldn't tell how he landed faceplate first on the bar, a hand clamped on the back of his helm and his arm twisting behind his back. Pain flared under the dented steel of his faceplate.

"Mission 84," Bumblebee said, his voice soft and dead flat, "the real mission 84, was where I had my arm blown off, Mirage nearly had a round put through his spark, and I thought for sure we'd lost Smokescreen. I spent so many orns in medbay 'cause I couldn't keep energon down to save my life—I had to have it inserted straight to my cables. My voice box was nearly scrapped and my audios were all but slagged. That sound sexy to you?"

Slingshot's pedes scraped against the floor. Bumblebee leaned all of his weight against the other mech's pelvic joint, keeping enough leverage to hold him against the bar. It was a trick Jazz had taught him, one among many, so that Bumblebee could use his lower center of gravity to manhandle mechs larger than himself. And the same trick seemed to work on other short mechs, too.

"Hey!"

Bumblebee looked up. Two other Aerialbots, Powerglide and Air Raid, stood in the mess hall doorway, fists clenched and surprised to see their teammate locked in place by the smaller mech. From their looks, they'd obviously come to a decision about who was at faut.

"Let go of him!" Powerglide demanded. "No one's beating up an Aerialbot on my watch!"

"...great." Bumblebee stood straight and shoved Slingshot backward to land on his aft. "Is it too much to hope you're here to clean up your mess?"

"Oh," Air Raid scoffed, coming closer step by step. "We'll clean up, all right."

Bumblebee sent a quick ping to Mirage, Smokescreen, anyone about what was about to happen. A moment later he felt a quick touch from Jazz and the usual official order to avoid a fight, along with an encrypted carrier message that 'Bee had better make Spec Ops proud.

As Slingshot got to his pedes, smacking away the offered help from his comrades as he turned toward Bumblebee, the little yellow bot squared off, keenly aware of how empty the mess hall had become.

"I just wanted to take a damn nap," Bumblebee grumbled.

A heavy thunk made him turn. ShotGlass had slammed down Bumblebee's double ration on the bar, overly filled past the proper measuring line. The energon glowed pink with orange flecks, a sign of kerosene for an added kick. Bumblebee glanced at ShotGlass, who nodded once.

"Sure, okay." Bumblebee downed the cube in one go and set it back on the bar. A rush of power came into his fuel tanks, reinvigorating his systems. He knew enough that the crash would probably leave him in a collapsed heap, but for now, he was wide awake and ready to fight.

The sound of rushing mechs cam from the hall. Ironhide was probably already on the way, but no one would reach Bumblebee before he'd faced three Aerialbots on his own.

When you're fighting more'n one mech, Jazz had taught him, say something. Get 'em mad. The madder, the better. The more they screw up, the longer you live.

Bumblebee made a show of counting the three of them, pointing at each of them in turn and then tilting his helm.

"Hm...this fight seems a little unfair. How about you go get the rest of your team and then come back later?"

The snarls from both Powerglide and Slingshot almost made Bumblebee flinch. The only thing that kept him from taking a step back was Jazz's implied threats if Bumblebee didn't win.

I am so getting my aft handed to me, Bumblebee thought to himself.

Tired, his joints beginning to grind from sitting still too long, Prowl thought about heading to the washracks. A good oil bath would soothe the gears in his pedes and shoulders.

But the sun had completely set and the outside patrols and daylight teams would be coming back to the Ark, eager to wash off the dust and grime. Meanwhile the night shift would be grabbing a quick steam cleaning before running off into the darkness. The washracks would be busy, hard to grab a single berth, and Prowl refused to rinse off among the lower ranks.

Not that he thought he was better than they were. But the presence of an officer tended to make the other mechs nervous and overly polite, and that just made everyone feel awkward.

Instead he turned his pedes toward Jazz's office. Prowl had something of a report compiled, and that would give him a good excuse to speak to Jazz, professionally if not romantically. And maybe Jazz wouldn't be so angry anymore. Or maybe Jazz had listened to Prowl's apology and would be willing to hear him out.

He knocked once at Jazz's door. "Jazz, I have a preliminary report-"

He stopped short. Empty and dark, the office yawned open with no warm laughter or welcoming. The chair stood behind the desk, canted to one side from how Jazz often leaned and put his pedes up. The radio was off, the screens were dark, and Prowl's voice died in the air.

Prowl stood silent for a moment. Then closed the door with a soft click.

Red Alert, he commed immediately. Can you tell me the location of our Third in Command?

Can I assume this is not a personal matter? Red Alert responded.

Prowl shut his optics and grimaced. All right. How badly have I screwed this up?

...not as badly as you think, Red Alert said, wearingess slipping into his voice. He just asked me to make sure you didn't try to follow after him. Since I didn't want you incapacitated, I agreed.

'Incapacitated'?Why would he-?

Ask him, Red Alert said. I assume he naturally hasn't told you everything. Oh, but don't ask him right now. I've got enough to monitor with the shift change.

Prowl frowned. How much was there about Jazz that he didn't know? How much did Prowl actually know? Ratchet, of course, knew everything about everyone, but even their little bundle of paranoia seemed more informed that Prowl. Which meant something had happened in Jazz's past, something that was clearly before Prowl's time with the Autobots. Something from when Jazz was not an officer.

There was an incident? Prowl asked.

...just a moment, Red Alert said.

A long silence followed. Prowl's wing tips lifted in alarm. Red Alert only broke contact if there was an emergency. Prowl checked his own incoming messages, but nothing had been marked as urgent. About to contact Beachcomber to see if enemy were on the horizon, Prowl stopped short as Red Alert spoke again.

Jazz is in the brig, speaking with Soundwave. I suggest you do not go in trying to interrogate him like an...um. First Aid coughed. Just try to be polite.

Prowl frowned. That last part didn't sound like Red Alert. Is someone else in there with you?

Another pause. Red Alert hesitated, but his own protocols dictated that, when demanded by another officer, he had to confirm or deny the presence of anyone else simply for security's sake. Whether he wanted to or not.

Inferno is...bringing me up to date regarding...aiding my...stress levels, Red Alert said. He...it is a personal affair—matter, a personal matter only. He cannot hear my communications.

So steeped now in the sur-net stories, Prowl didn't need or want to ask. Pressing his hand against his chevron to try to soothe the growing ache, Prowl vented and cut the communication. Rude, yes, but then acting "like an aft" was the usual insult hurled his way.

He decided to skip the washracks. That could wait until the start of his next shift. He almost put off a cube of energon, but the growing ache in his helm demanded a little extra to his repair functions. Putting off any thought of talking to Jazz, he turned his pedes to the mess hall.

A klik later, Ironhide passed him at a run. Prowl reset his optics, watching him turn the corner, but Ironhide didn't answer his questioning ping and Prowl assumed that it was just one of the little discipline issues that Ironhide occasionally had to sort out.

What Prowl found when he arrived at the mess hall, however, was Ironhide standing dumbfounded at Bumblebee caught between three Aerialbots. Even Prowl took a moment to untangle the sight before him. Bumblebee stood with one pede firmly on Slingshot's neck, another braced against Powerglide's back as he held onto the golden bot's tall shoulder struts, forcing the stockier bot to swing ineffectually in the air. And Air Raid...

Prowl had never seen that fighting technique.

Bumblebee had somehow gotten Air Raid face flat on the floor, one hand firmly clenched around the Aerialbot's aft thruster. That would have left Bumblebee with a face full of thrust if he hadn't had his denta clamped hard on Air Raid's sensitive rear aerials. If the bot tried to jet forward, nevermind the dents he'd put in his face. No plane wanted their delicate gear bitten off.

"Well..." Ironhide said, crossing his arms. "Ain't gonna lie. Points for creativity, pint-size."

Bumblebee's muffled thanks drew a chuckle from the older bot, especially when Air Raid growled and then yelped as Bumblebee bit down.

"He started it!" Powerglide snapped, still trying to swing backward at Bumblebee. "He jumped Slingshot."

"Knowing Slingshot," Ironhide said, "that ain't the whole story. Who threw the first punch?"

"Powerglide," Shotglass said immediately, still cleaning cubes behind the bar. "Slingshot started harassing 'Bee and got his faceplate put down on the bar with a friendly suggestion to leave. That's when these two aft-helms come blazing in."

"He jumped us, too," Air Raid said.

Ironhide scoffed. "I guess that does make sense, 'Bee taking on all three of ya and whippin' yer afts to boot. Sure you wanna go with that story? Silverbolt ain't gonna go easy on ya for fighting, but saying a little bot like 'Bee took ya out?"

Prowl watched the Aerialbots squirm a little longer, then let Ironhide deal with it and instead sat down at the bar. He waved for a cube of energon, and as ShotGlass filled it for him, Prowl sent a ping down to Jazz.

Courtesy call—your mech Bumblebee just fought three Aerialbots to a stand-still.

There was a pause, just long enough for Jazz to tell Soundwave to hang on, and then Jazz responded.

Just a stand-still? Hm. Gonna have to brush up on his combat skills. Can't have folks saying Spec Ops ain't as dazzling as them stories let on.

He might have been holding back, Prowl conceded, watching Ironhide extricate Bumblebee from the center. He could have bitten Air Raid's aerial right off.

He bit it? Jazz whooped. I take it back. I owe that bot money. I didn't think that'd work.

Did you tell him to do it? Prowl asked incredulously.

Nah, 'course not, Jazz said. Just told him not to make us look bad. The whole aerial thing was just something me and him and Mirage were thinking up one day. Hey,'Bee ain't in no trouble, right?

Ironhide seems content with ShotGlass' explanation, so probably not. Prowl paused. I have a preliminary report on the story commentaries. Did you want it now?

A slight pause, and then Jazz's voice came back with forced laughter that made Prowl wince.

I'll check that when it's complete, if ain't nothing that looks like an emergency in there. I'm still, uh, debriefing Soundwave. Talk to you later.

The communication clicked off, just as curt as Prowl had cut off his communication with Red Alert. Prowl felt like a door had slammed shut.

He slowly drank down his cube, ignoring the squabbling Aerialbots being pulled along by Ironhide down to the brig, to await their commanding officer's scolding. Beside him, Bumblebee climbed back up to the bar, nursing the extra ration that ShotGlass offered.

"If I had known what trouble those damn stories were gonna cause," Bumblebee muttered, "I would've wrapped 'em all up and stuffed 'em onto a Decepticon server."

Prowl nodded once.

And then sat straight, doorwings flared back so suddenly that they nearly struck Bumblebee's helm.

He pinged Jazz twice before the other mech finally opened the communication channel again.

Prowl, I'm warning ya, if this ain't work related—

New battle plan, Prowl said. I'll need your cultural expertise on this. Meet me in two breem at—

Prowl, it's shift change and I ain't recharged in almost three!

Four, Prowl countered. And it's preliminary—we need to sketch out the basic plan and put several mechs on it now.

...flaming aft, Jazz muttered. Fine, fine, slaggin' taskmaster. What's the shiny new plan you got?

Prowl merely repeated what Bumblebee had said. He was halfway out of the mess hall before Jazz replied.

Primus, Jazz said. You realize Prime'll never authorize this?

Why not? Prowl asked, genuinely confused.

Optimus don't go in for torture.

About to defend his idea, Prowl tipped his helm in acknowledgment.

You have a point.

We just won't tell him.

TBC...