Part 38
Jazz's spark clenched in ways he hadn't thought possible until that moment. Ratchet had warned him that his patients were both badly injured—"stabilized doesn't mean they ain't broken"—and Jazz had seen exploded frames and twisted steel before. But to see it on the two mechs he'd come to care about brought him to a halt at the medbay door.
Anything of Prowl's that could have shattered was now in a thousand pieces. His various tanks had broken, his gaskets were blown, his seals torn—if Prowl had been able to move, his joints would have screeched without lubrication or cushioning. His faceplate had caught some of the blast, cracking and crumbling away, leaving the gleaming dark protoform beneath. Ratchet had already removed the crumpled hood, revealing the delicate sensors, soft cords and all too fragile wiring below.
That Prowl was still alive was some comfort, but seeing the lines of code on the screen above him, the bits and pieces of Prowl's soul gently taken through the boot-up process step by step, emphasized how the attack had struck at his cortex as well.
"He started to crash just as we got him online," Ratchet explained, his hands covered in Prowl's energon as he clamped another fuel cable. "So I've locked him into a basic reboot system that'll bring him up by the book.
Jazz winced, turning from Prowl, but that only took his attention to Soundwave, who was in just as pitiful a state. His cassette casing had been utterly savaged, its steel frame compressed inwards until it had cracked his spark chamber. Numerous clamps and sealants now lined the chamber, holding his spark safely in place, but that the blast had cut through so much armor made even a warbuild seem that much more fragile.
Jazz. Ironhide's voice came through his intercom. Command meeting. We're waiting on you.
Ironhide, thanks for the update. Keep me in the loop of whatev' ya'll decide, hear?
Sorry, scrapheap. This involves intelligence, too.
Can't suss out why you'd want me there, then. My brain's in three cube's of stress, feels like. Ain't no good for thinking no how.
Jazz. Ironhide's tone gained an edge. Don't argue with me. Get yer aft down here 'fore I drag you again.
Jazz sat down heavily on the third unused berth, never looking away from Prowl or Soundwave.
They're gonna be fine, Ironhide said, knowing exactly where Jazz was without asking. But ain't neither of 'em getting up for awhile and you know Ratchet'll take care of 'em.
Jazz vented heavily.
You say it absolutely needs intelligence?
You know that I wouldn't lie about something like that.
Fine, Jazz sighed, and he opened up another channel while Ironhide was listening. Mirage, you there?
-and I don't- Mirage shut down whatever conversation he's been having. Ah, yessir?
Command cadre meeting in 5. Congrats, you been promoted to acting second of spec ops.
Ironhide snorted. Jazz, you little pile of slag-
Uh, sir-
Jazz heard the hesitation in his bot's voice and decided he didn't have the energy to spend reassuring him yet one more time. Just like he didn't have the energy to convince Ironhide this wasn't just him ditching a meeting. So he'd make Mirage prove himself to Ironhide.
Mirage, pop quiz—what's the amount of C4 explosive we got in reserve?
25 tons, but I don't see how-
Actual reserve, Jazz prompted.
Mirage hesitated. Their commander was still on the line.
It's alright, Ironhide reassured him. Yer boss is proving a point. I'll forget whatever you say for the next 30 seconds.
125 tons of decepticon grade c4, Mirage said, with 10 more of last ditch suicide mission stuff.
And single use force download kits? Jazz asked.
Twelve, Mirage said. Two that need Prime's signature to unlock, the rest unofficial.
And backup energon?
At that, Ironhide choked but didn't complain.
Siphoned energon at five tons, but that last ton is of such low quality I wouldn't use it except for anyone who used the last c4 long enough for Ratchet to yell at them.
Jazz half chuckled despite himself.
That good enough, you pile of rust? he asked.
Yeah, yeah, Ironhide grumbled. I'll let Prime know, get the orders sorted. Welcome to brass, Mirage. Don't let it go to your helm.
I...thank you, sir. I...
Ironhide vented. You hear that, Jazz? S'what it should sound like when you get promoted. Gratitude.
Poor bot's just naive, Jazz said. Mirage, yer late. Get to the command office and use my usual seat.
Yessir!
As Jazz closed Mirage's channel, Ironhide cleared his intakes with a discreet cough.
I don't blame you for staying there, scraplet, but your calculators are gonna be fine. Ratchet's patched you up with worse.
I know. Jazz leaned hard on his knees, watching Ratchet begin soldering the permanent patch for Soundwave's spark chamber. And Prowl's limbs twitched now and then as his systems came online, beginning to accept the empty replacement tanks into his circuits.
Just...
Make sure you get some rest, Ironhide said, copying the comment to Ratchet. You been put through a whole different kinda rollercoaster, and your naive little aristocrat'll be so happy we all trust him that he'll promise the stars and moon to make us happy.
Jazz smiled. Nah, he's knows what we can and can't do. Just try to keep him from bowing and embarrassing himself.
No worries, Ironhide said. We'll go easy on him. But hey, while you're out, put someone on this UMU character, huh?
Already got 'Bee and Hound on it. I'll have em call ya. Jazz out.
There was a last ping, a kind of digital comfort from a sergeant to cadet, and then Ironhide signed off.
"As much as you need the rest," Ratchet said, "I need another pair of hands. Come hold this clamp and suction."
For the rest of the evening, Jazz played assistant to Ratchet, performing the alien work of putting mechs back together.
The second attack came at sunset. As the last sliver of gold hovered at the horizon, jet engines screamed over the mountains and left trails in the sky. Alarms rang through the Ark, and the few Autobot fliers scrambled to meet the Decepticons as far out in the sands as possible.
After them, the frontliners poured from the Ark, the twins already charging with guns blazing tracer rounds in the creeping darkness. The actual fighting had to go to night vision, but even that was used sparingly. Too often would bots put on a surge of power to flash their highbeams and blind anyone not expecting it.
The desert became a hotbed of bright flares in the dark, shouting and cries of pain and anger. Jets fell out of formation as the battleplan went to hell, and Fireflight had to drop down as two decepticons separated him from then rest of the aerialbots, forcing him toward the ground.
The little silver and red jet surprised them both by transforming in midair, turning to face them and firing as he fell. Thundercracker banked hard, narrowly dodging the shots that took Acidstorm in the wing. Sparking, Acidstorm dropped nearly on top of Fireflight, both of them hitting the dune and rolling down the sand out of sight.
Fireflight answered his commander's worried ping that he was all right, rising to his pedes. One heel sparked and his wing strut was bent from the rough landing, but he was in good enough condition to keep aim at Acidstorm. The decepticon groaned as he sat up, shaking sand out of his helm. One of his wings hung at a painful angle with his wiring torn and exposed, and he leaned back on the sand with a rueful smile.
"Damn if you little sparklings aren't getting dangerous," Acidstorm said, venting out.
"I'm not a sparkling," Fireflight said.
"Course not," Acidstorm said with a laugh. "You're just growling like a cyberkitten trying to be a tiger."
Fireflight tightened his grip on his gun, snarling until he realized that was exactly what Acidstorm meant. His jaw snapping shut only made Acidstorm chuckle.
"Primus, thats cute," Acidstorm said, "even on the wrong end of a rifle."
"So shut up," Fireflight snapped. "Don't you ever stop talking?"
"What can I say? Being executed makes me chatty."
"You're not getting executed," Fireflight said, wincing at the thought. "I'm not one of you murderous decepticons. I'm taking you prisoner."
"'Murderous'?" Acidstorm raised an eyeridge. "I'm downed. You're the one holding the gun."
"If you think I'm taking my sights off of you-"
"Or is this the new bot kink? Power imblance?"
Fireflight squawked as if stung.
"I-what-not like that!" Fireflight said. "I wouldn't be caught dead reading that decepticon-fic-noncon-trash!"
Acidstorm's other eyeridge shot up.
"You've read 'con fics?"
Fireflight's faceplate reddened with the sudden coolant flush to his intakes.
"I-no-I-by accident."
Acidstorm stared at him in disbelief.
"What, your cursor slipped? On...noncon, was it?"
A bomb landed uncomfortably close, rattling their denta as dirt showered over them. Fireflight shook his helm free and steadied his aim, not answering.
"If you're just on the surnet," Acidstorm mused out loud, "don't you have to manually adjust the filter to see the rough stuff-"
"I was just curious!" Fireflight snapped. "It's not like I like that kind of thing—"
Sand sprayed up as a mech landed between them. Fireflight yelped and stumbled back, landing on his postern, and looked up at Silverbolt.
"Learn to answer your comm, will you?" Silverbolt glared at Fireflight. "Get your helm out of the clouds long enough to realize I've been calling you for the past five minutes."
"But I did!" Fireflight tapped his helm audios. "As soon as I landed!"
"I didn't hear a damn thing," Silverbolt said. "Check your transponder and make sure you're on the right frequency. And start marching your prisoner to base. Thundercracker's rallying the armada for another run and I don't want you on the ground for that."
"Sir!" Fireflight snapped a quick salute even as Silverbolt returned to the skies. "I—"
Too late. Silverbolt had already vanished in the clouds. Fireflight tried his transponder again and found it tuned to the right frequency, then glared at Acidstorm.
"Whoa, don't look at me," Acidstorm said, waving one hand and flinching as his wrist sparked. "I don't have jamming capability."
"Then who—"
"Probably White Noise." Acidstorm shrugged. "Bet he holed up somewhere so he can just do a single area of affect, the lazy slag."
"Then..." Fireflight looked up at the sky. "That means I can't get a signal out."
His hands tightened on his rifle as he looked back at Acidstorm, aware of how much larger the warbuild was, how alone he was with a much more armored mech.
"Neither of us can," Acidstorm said. "We're pretty much cut off from the whole battle at this point."
"But the armada—"
"I'll let you in on a secret," Acidstorm said. "Megatron's in a rage over Starscream and Soundwave, and half of this fight is just to get out of the base before Megatron shoots us for not fragging them loyal."
Fireflight reset his optics. "It's...what?"
"Thundercracker's gonna pull some fancy stunts, keep everyone swooping around, and then we'll go home when Megatron's good and satisfied."
The roar of engines came from behind the dunes and launched upward, sending vibrations rumbling through Fireflight's frame. He startled back, tightening his grip on his rifle, but the armada passed them over, heading for the far plateau beyond the ark. Return fire followed the jets as the battlefield began to drift, with tracer rounds every fifth bullet. Someone managed a hit on a jet, who began to spiral downward, while an explosion lit up the desert near the ground. The thought that the Decepticon forces could fire on other mechs merely as a facade struck right at Fireflight's spark.
"That's horrible," Fireflight said. "Those are live rounds—mechs are getting hurt! Your own mechs are taking fire—"
Acidstorm's look soured.
"S'better than taking Megatron's fire. You ever been on the wrong end of that gun? Trust me—everyone out here would rather take the risk of getting shot through the aft and looking down the sights of a cute little 'bot."
"I'm not cute." Fireflight's reply was sullen, not sure of how to process what he was hearing.
"If you polished your chrome, you couldn't be shinier." Acidstorm started to smile again. "Why'd you think you're in so many stories on the surnet? Hells, half the 'Con forum—"
"'Cons are writing about me?" Fireflight flinched.
"It's hard to cross cables when there's a damn telepath in the ranks," Acidstorm said. "Everyone's so damn desperate for a download, I'm surprised there isn't a story about a plug force-downloading the kitchen sink. You're seriously shocked we'd write about a shiny bot who still hasn't got a notch on his gun?"
Fireflight didn't argue that he'd killed mechs. He hadn't—pulling a trigger on a mech was one thing, but actually firing the round that grayed them out? He just hadn't realized other bots were keeping track of his lack of scoring.
"They didn't—" Fireflight's engines coughed. "The other aerialbots, they didn't let me go on the surnet. They said it was worthless and gross and..."
"And you got curious," Acidstorm said. "Found out how popular you are."
"I never looked myself up," Fireflight snapped. "I just started scrolling, and at first it was just some fun adventure stories, like Turbofoxes Ripped My Finish."
Acidstorm nodded once. "Yeah, that one's a classic."
"But then the next story by them was Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence, and that sounded fun, and..."
Acidstorm chuckled, recognizing the title.
"Count yourself lucky. At least you didn't read Fireflight in the Morphobot's Tentacles," Acidstorm said. "Same author."
Fireflight grimaced. "Why tenta—no, no, do not answer that."
"It's not his best," Acidstorm said. "Not like Fireflight, Hooked to a Killer Sharkticon, or Fireflight's Soft Cables..."
Fireflight scoffed, rolling his optics.
"Acidstorm, Captive of the Autobot Fireflight."
A moment passed, along with a spray of tracer rounds in the far distance, the strange echoing of a thundercrack miles away.
"Wait..."
Slow realization dawned on Fireflight's faceplate.
"Are you...hitting on me?"
"Yeah, for the past ten minutes," Acidstorm vented, rubbing his optics. "You didn't seem like you were getting it—I swear, if you didn't catch on after that, I was gonna risk getting crude."
Fireflight stared at him silently for so long that Acidstorm looked away.
"I mean, come on," Acidstorm said, "the battle left us ages ago and you were just shooting the breeze...instead of me. Not that I mind, really—"
'I...I can't make love with a Decepticon," Fireflight squawked static, finally regaining his voice. "I don't even know you!"
Acidstorm couldn't reply for several seconds. He almost blurted out that love had nothing to do with it. Then he laughed once, despite himself. Fireflight's optics were round, impossibly wide, and glowed in the growing edge of evening, reflecting off his blushing faceplate in molten tones of gold. Acidstorm faintly remembered what it was like, being that idealistic.
"Yet," Acidstorm said. He adjusted himself on the sand, shrugging at the torn plating of his wing strut. "Never gonna know each other unless we talk."
"We're in the middle of a fight," Fireflight said.
"Fight's over there now." Acidstorm nodded at the far side of the ark, now a series of flashes in the dark. "We're all alone and I ain't going anywhere until these self-repair functions fix this rip enough to fly back to base."
"And why would I let you do that?" Fireflight asked.
"'Cause you Autobots keep saying you're the good guys, and only the meanest mech would shoot me here Hippie-Mech's updated Aerial Displays."
Fireflight stood a little straighter.
"It updated?" He winced. "I mean, um."
"Two parts," Acidstorm said. "Although I haven't been able to catch up with it since part twelve."
"That's like half the whole story!" Fireflight exclaimed. "Right before me and Acidstorm...um...I mean..."
In the brief silence that followed, Acidstorm brought up the last bits he'd saved, unable to hack into the surnet ever since. It was stored in his internal RAM, not merely kept on a datapad, and he recited it out loud.
"Fireflight veered off from his team, following the dark spot of green against the cerulean, sun-soaked sky. He had questions that only the other jet could answer now, and he would take the risk to discover his own truth, matching the other's flight through the clouds. The icy vapor coalescing on his wings did nothing to cool his intent. No matter what the others might think, his wanderlust carried him after the distant Acidstorm, and the other clearly shared the same thought, slowing until they flew side by side, banking this way, rising now, then swooping low. Here, Fireflight began to suspect, was the great unknown question answered—without words, without communication beyond the early morning breeze they shared."
Acidstorm stopped. Fireflight had lowered his rifle just enough that he was no longer aiming at him, now simply holding it slung toward the ground. If the other bot thought he was crazy or delusional, Acidstorm couldn't guess. Only their own personal lights let them see each other in the night, and it was impossible to see Fireflight's faceplate.
"I haven't been able to hack into the Ark's surnet since," Acidstorm said. "And DY only gets slow reposts..."
The quiet stir of a breeze between them brushed the sand from their pedes.
"...I have the rest," Fireflight admitted.
"You do?" Acidstorm said, sitting straight despite the jolt to his wing. "Would you—?"
"I'm not crossing cables with a 'Con," Fireflight said in a low voice. "It's just a story. It's not real."
Acidstorm vented once, letting his helm fall a little. He didn't argue. Nothing was said for several seconds, save for Fireflight pinging the Ark and receiving nothing but white noise. Still alone with a downed prisoner, Fireflight heaved a long vent.
"Why'd you even save it?" Fireflight demanded.
"...wishful thinking," Acidstorm confessed.
Fireflight waited for more, but nothing came. He shifted awkwardly, listening to the wind slowly leveling the dunes.
"Of...?" he prompted.
Acidstorm looked out over the desert, the galaxy that had grown into a bright backdrop for the fading battle. The stars had come out sometime during the sunset battle and they hadn't noticed until now.
"You're the first 'bots born in ages," Acidstorm said. "You didn't grow up with the fall of Kaon, the massacre at Praxus. You didn't see the Functionists' smelters."
"I know about them," Fireflight said. "I've seen vids."
"But you didn't live them," Acidstorm said. "You're...I don't know. You feel different. All you young ones are different, but you...you never shot one of us through the spark. I guess...well. Maybe I don't know why I read it."
"It's just a story," Fireflight said again.
"It's one of your side's stories," Acidstorm said. "Figured whoever Hippie-Mec is, he'd probably know you better."
"He doesn't know you. You're not that Acidstorm. I'm not that Fireflight."
Fireflight's voice was an accusation. Acidstorm tilted his helm in acknowledgment.
"True. Still. I do want to see where it ends."
Fireflight didn't answer, but the response in his optics was clear.
So did he.
In another hour, after the last mechs drove back from the battle to patch up their wounds, Fireflight returned to the ark. He walked in without his prisoner and swallowed Silverbolt's lecture about letting prisoners escape out of sheer clumsiness and that he was lucky he hadn't been taken instead. After a quick inspection from Red Alert's mandatory protocols, ensuring that his cables were uncrossed, his cortex was clean of any viruses and his seals were all intact, Fireflight went down the dozen flights of stairs to the supply depot and requisitioned a new data pad. He'd lost the old one, he said, during the battle.
Prowl swam in a haze of consciousness and code. He'd suffered crashes before, but never one so drawn out that he'd woken up while crashed. Soundwave's tinkering to keep them alive had also done something to Prowl, rousing his spark when his frame was all but shut down. Now Prowl felt as if he was standing inside of himself, watching parts of his protoform reactivate and mend.
It was a slow process—Ratchet soldered a circuit here, Jazz gathered his wiring here. Prowl shuddered in his soul to have Jazz holding him so intimately, wrist-deep beneath his armor, gently turning his components at Ratchet's instructions. Jazz was careful, hesitant even, revealing delicate servos and supple cords that never lay exposed to the air, and yet Prowl felt no fear that he'd be harmed any further.
He was healing, and he studied his repair functions being helped along by Jazz's dark fingers. Easy to replace his tanks, his vents. Harder to mold those bits that were more personal—his ruptured optic, his shattered faceplate. That took welding, careful shaping, and he watched curiously as his face began to form in Ratchet's hand.
No blue this time, he thought.
No blue, got it.
Prowl startled.
What? Who said that?
Ah, sorry 'bout that—it's us, Jazz and me. I set up your audios and optics, but you faded back into a light recharge and I didn't want to drag you out of much needed rest and defragging.
I am not speaking, Prowl said. How are you—?
You're talking, all right. We're watching your code up on the screen. You talking to us is just part of that.
So, tired of blue?
Prowl didn't know how he could tell that this was Jazz speaking now—he didn't think he was processing audio clearly—but he knew it was Jazz. And he hesitated. But only for a moment. He was nothing if not decisive.
I have been told that blue clashes with my red and black detailing. I was not aware of this before.
And Prowl, for all that he didn't care about difficult bot standards of shininess, at least wanted to look as appealing as he could. Soundwave was glitched, but he was also unfairly shiny. It wouldn't do to yield any ground in their last battlefield.
Last battlefield? Jazz asked. What's that?
Soundwave said many things while his cortex grew more and more delusional, Prowl said. He thought we were fighting.
Were you? Jazz asked.
Prowl didn't answer for several seconds. Something inside of him shifted, and his frame cooled considerably as he began to draw in deep, satisfying vents again.
There we go, Ratchet said. Just a little bit more, and I can get the faceplate drilled into the place, let it start to take hold. Any changes you want, Prowl?
My previous faceplate style will suffice, Prowl said.
How long before it takes hold? Jazz asked.
'Bout half a day to make sure his protoform accepts it, and another day for me to make sure it's solid. Don't want it popping off when he tries to smile. It'd be years before we realized it didn't take.
Prowl would have grumbled, but Jazz's response cleared away his ill humor.
Just make sure his mouth is malleable, Jazz said. I owe him 'bout a dozen ways from Friday, and I intend to welcome him back to the land of the living the right way.
With new parts grafted into his wounded systems, numerous medical fluids running through his cords to keep the pain at bay, Prowl felt something in his release.
And on the other berth, in his own haze and hearing only half the conversation, Soundwave felt something grow a little colder in his cassette deck, just above a wounded spark.
The Ark was quiet again. The fight had long since passed, but Optimus found himself more restless than he had been all during the long skirmish. Ironhide complained loudly every time the Prime stepped out into danger, exposing himself to Decepticon armaments, but Optimus couldn't find it in his spark to abandon his bots to the fight while he remained safely inside his fortress.
A prime's place was with his bots, no matter what the circumstances. He was not some senate autobot, content to lord over his followers. He had to fight beside them—even on the strangest battlefield yet.
Ironhide, as his bodyguard, kept a berth in the front room of Prime's quarters. Now in deep recharge, Ironhide lay still, as relaxed as he ever let himself be. Two guards stood at attention outside the main room, with two more in the hall beyond that, and two more at the elevator beyond that. Aside from their occasional shuffling, all was still. This was as private as Optimus would ever find himself.
Optimus withdrew into his own berth and opened the surnet. Long columns of stories with summaries followed, along with esoteric jargon like master/slave peripheral bonding, tactile cross-cabling, healing spike and spec ops identity porn.
He scrolled. He examined the filters. He checked ships and cross-faction. With a deep vent, double-checking his own morality programming, he expanded every filter and threw himself headlong into the abyss.
Guard My Frame, Ironhide – by Honey-Bot - Bots...bots never change. And in this millenia of fighting, one thing remains intact—Prime's seals. No matter how fierce the fight, how deceptive the Decepticon, Ironhide will keep those secure...no matter his own desires. (written after Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence—quit saying I plagiarized I got permissoin to do my own version!1!)
Petro-Bunny Orgy – by Perceptive Perspicacity - Beachcomber and Firstaid take a break from the fighting, retreating to a nature sanctum full of Wheeljack's latest mechanical creations. But while the petro-bunnies may appear cute and harmless at first, this sanctum is suddenly filled with the musk of their quivering synth-cotton tails—an alien scent that drives mechs to lust!
Femme Fatale: No Bot Could Tame Her - by Merbot - The war continues among the mermaid aliens as Alana of Tlalakan fights a one-femme guerilla war, destroying Megatron's forces. Many try to capture her, but her spark is already captured by another.
Optimus was not the most technically savvy bot on the base, nor was he built with the biggest cortex or strongest processors. But the matrix of leadership had chosen him for many reasons, one of which was the quality he had in spades above any mech in both armies.
Thousands of fics flew by.
And B-Ball Bot began to work.
High Performance Engines Revving for Love — by Pacifist Punch. He was the toughest Enforcer in the service. *He* was the the brashest member of the underground cultural resistance. Together, they'll blow the lid off the Praxian corruption going all the way up to the senate itself, and if they're not careful...they'll end blowing the lid off their own passions. They are—High Performance Engines Revving for Love. (first fic, please be gentle)
Reviews:
B-Ball-Bot – I'm impressed that this is your first story. The summary drew me in as effectively as an earth movie trailer, and the adventure was quite thrilling, especially the chase scene through the ruins of Bombay. I could feel the wind flying by on those tight turns, and the missiles exploding just behind them rattled in my very spark. As Skywarp flew hot on their heels for a bombing run, I never expected the sudden twist that would lead Smokescreen and Tracks into the long-hidden Cybertronian base. A real surprise, and even foreshadowed now that I think about it. I just about came out of my seat when I reached the last chapter—I hope they escape the ancient traps of the crashed ship safely.
One down.
Thousands to go.
TBC...