Part 40

Optimus' office lay at the long end of the hall. Jazz dragged his pedes the whole way, barely hearing Red Alert's notice that he had clearance into the highest command quarters. Optimus was hard at work typing on his datapad, looking so focused that Jazz felt even worse for wasting his time, but then Optimus waved him in and the door slid shut.

"Have a seat," Optimus said, waving him to the chair by his work station. "Ratchet's really worried about you."

"Mech didn't worry none when missiles take pieces off," Jazz grumbled. "He sure picks weird times to suddenly worry."

"Ratchet can fix an arm." Optimus paused and fixed Jazz with a look. "But he can't fix a wounded spark."

Jazz sunk a little lower in his seat.

"Ain't no wound there, boss bot. Just got wrapped up on the whole situation is all."

"'Wrapped up' as in past tense?" Optimus asked. "Or are you just tense in general?"

Now Jazz bent forward, sinking his helm in his hands, groaning at himself.

"What else can I be? Prowl? What was I thinking—mech thinks he's helping me loosen up and then he goes and triggers my stabby-stabby programs and I nearly cut him half over a damn kiss. And Soundwave—Primus, Prime, he kidnaps me, almost forces me into overload, and yet here I am, wishing he'd wake up."

Optimus sat quietly as Jazz vented.

"This is not the way I was expecting things to go—Jazz, in charge of Spec Ops, Third in charge of the whole base, in charge everywhere but the damn berth—and I wanted to slice both of them in half for—for everything, but then they go and get themselves blown up and suddenly they're fraggin' dying and I'm treated to a damn countdown to them graying out—"

By now Jazz was close to keening, rocking slightly in his seat. Optimus wondered if Jazz had even noticed that he was running a double coolant cycle.

"—and Prowl's had the blue taken off his frame and, I mean, he was a fine looking bot before—not the shiniest mech, true, but now the blue's off, he's looking sleek as hell—when the slag did he start caring about his paint? And Soundwave—creepiest voice in both factions, but those optics just drip gold and he's shinier'n the sun—and the kinks on that mech! How'n the hell can anyone be that up front with what makes 'em overload and still face everyone without dying of embarrassment? He's practically wrote a list of what revs his engine on the surnet!"

"Over 300 of them in the Spec Ops series alone," Optimus nodded.

"It's hard mode, Prime, I'm playing on slagging hard mode!"

Jazz sunk back on the chair, his pedes sticking straight out, arm thrown over his optics.

As he gathered his thoughts, Optimus wrote two more comments to fics and sent them along—almost six hundred done. When he had sent off another, to FlightFright's fic Grounded, (where Whisper comforts a wounded Silverbolt), Optimus put aside his datapad and focused solely on Jazz.

"Yes, you are 'playing on the hardest mode'," he said finally. "Prowl is perhaps the most logical bot on the base, and he does not always understand that logic and formulas aren't everything. A challenging mech to romance, even at the best of times."

Jazz made a noncommittal noise.

"And Soundwave has been our enemy for millennia—that you've found common ground is amazing. That you found yourself falling for him and vice versa is nothing short of a miracle."

"Some miracle," Jazz muttered. "He collected Cybertron music and read Lewis Carrol. I was doomed from the start."

"Why?" Prime asked. "What's so striking about that?"

The question had barely left his mouth when Jazz began to recount what, in hindsight, was the most awkward courtship in history—Soundwave's attack, Soundwave bound on a leash, the long conversations in the brig, the sharing of musical tracks and even discussing Earth cartoons and culture. And the longer Jazz spoke, the more relaxed he looked, the more his faceplate softened into an exasperated smile.

"And what about Prowl?" Optimus asked. "I never thought he was your type."

Jazz paused. Tapped his fingertips. Stared at the wall. The ease with which he spoke of Soundwave vanished as he began talking about Prowl. His faceplate turned tight. At first Optimus thought that was a sign of Jazz's difficulty, but—

"It started out as friends," Jazz siad. "It...it was easier to talk to him. He didn't judge or push. He was...safe. And then he offered, and for a whole buncha reasons, I said yes. Worst damn case of sparking nerves you ever seen—I almost cut him up in the berth. But he didn't go, and I got so angry with him 'cause I trusted him, I was trusting him more'n I ever trusted no one, and he goes and—"

Jazz vented out. Cycled in. Calmed himself.

"I got so mad 'cause I'd trusted him, and he...he stole a kiss." He laughed once, without humor. "Clearly a smelting offense."

"You've been forced before," Optimus said. "By much more violent characters."

"And killed 'em for it," Jazz said, emotionless. "Almost killed Prowl 'fore I realized it. And it took a bomb blast to show me how ridiculous I was."

Optimus said nothing, allowing the silence to drag on until the emptiness drew more out of Jazz.

"They were dying," he said softly. "I almost lost 'em both. And now I got 'em both back and I..."

"Would it have been easier if one of them had died?" Optimus asked.

The question startled Jazz a little, not because it was his Prime who asked it. Soldiers who only saw Optimus as their leader were accustomed to his camaraderie, his willingness to fight beside them and sacrifice his own safety for his lowest ranks. It was his officers who saw his practicality, the way he could mourn someone's death at the same time as he considered the impact to his army.

But the question itself, that a choice existed...

Jazz's engines hiccoughed and the keen rose up in his throat. Only with a serious effort did he fight the cry back down.

"They can't die," Jazz whispered. "Neither of 'em. They just can't."

Optimus gave a soft vent. Here was the real trouble.

Jazz had been presented with a terrible choice. And the bot who excelled at split-second battlefield decisions...could not decide.

The message from Counterpunch was a relief.

It pinged both of them almost at once as Jazz received the missive directly while Optimus took it from Red Alert. Although mission briefs rarely included an emotional carrier code, Counterpunch's message held all the terse fear of a mech using as few characters as possible.

discovered

running

1353 miles out

twenty 'cons on my aft

Jazz looked up at his Prime, who vented and nodded once. That far away, Counterpunch was deep in Canadian territory and driving on rough roads. Rescue might take hours or days.

"Take a team with you," Optimus said. "I'll have forces on your heels."

Jazz was already heading to the door and transforming to his alt-mode, speeding down the halls while blaring his sound system to clear mechs out of his way. Halfway to the door, he picked up Bumblebee on his right side, and as they roared out into the desert, Smokescreen finished sliding down the side of the Ark and joined up on Jazz's left.

Prime's voice came through his comm.

We don't have many forces in that direction, Optimus said. The aerialbots are too far out on their coastal patrol and Blaster's cassettes are on reconnaissance with Gunrunner. It'll still be over a day and a half before they can reach any sort of triangulated position.

Gotcha, bossbot. Jazz brought his sonic array up into the ready position, settling in for the long road ahead and the sudden fight that would be upon them all too fast. We're just running escort on this—we'll blast whoever's following my bot, roll alongside back home. Maybe be back in time for tomorrow's energon.

Optimus hesitated infinitesimally—Jazz's voice was full of that artificial lightness that masked his anxiety—but he nodded and signaled Red Alert to put the medics on high alert. Jazz usually cleaned up his messes before they grew too dangerous, but sometimes a special operation grew out of his control, and at least Optimus could have the medical staff up and ready to patch his mechs back up.

Come back alive, he said.

Jazz pinged back a happy positive, then went radio silent.

Optimus felt his spark clench every time his spies stopped transmitting. Spies didn't always return. With a long vent, he sat down at his work station and began writing another review. This, at least, soothed away some of the worry. But, for now, he avoided anything with warning tags—he didn't think he could handle tragedy right now.

Three days later, Jazz and his mechs had not yet returned.

There had been no desperate calls for help, but also no reassuring call that they were still alive. Hot fighting and subterfuge, then, and there was nothing more to be done about it. Jazz and his special operatives had gone quiet before, and it was just as infuriating then as it was now. High command would just have to wait.

The Autobots had plenty to absorb their time. A third battle came—a fourth—a fifth—soon Armada attacks were coming twice a day, sometimes more, with a dozen jets scattering as soon as the Ark responded in kind. The sky briefly lit with tracer rounds across the clouds trailing behind jet thrusters, followed swiftly by Autobots hot on their raised heels. Defenses swung into position, snipers grazed 'Cons, and the assaults lasted just long enough for the enemy to be chased off.

Red Alert grew increasingly paranoid until he had every bot on constant shift rotation, working them into exhaustion until he was ordered to draw back down to a normal level of vigilance. His worry became contagious. Every bot knew he could be high strung, but now a constant tension seemed to fill the halls. Bots jumped at the smallest alarm, ready to scramble in an instant, strangely disappointed if Decepticons didn't come and flying eagerly when one came.

It was during the twelfth or thirteenth fight—Red Alert had lost count as an assortment of mechs raced out, without any of their usual formation, already harrying the Decepticons before anyone could catch up. There were few attempts at updating their positions in the mainframe and almost no attempts to join their squads. And Red Alert, shouldering an overload of the base's functions due to Prowl's downtime, could barely spare the front end memory to open Ironhide's commlink and just shriek for help.

Which is why Ironhide heard Red Alert freeze, lock up, and begin immediate self-repair as his cortex sparked with short-circuits.

Blaring orders at the troops to raise the base's warning status to its highest level—to regroup and return if outside the far perimeter, to stand and provide covering fire if providing defense—Ironhide rolled at top speed to the most forward position, taking two mechs he found along the way. Flanked by Powerglide and Cliffjumper, he drove up to the twins were standing looking very confused.

"We took defensive positions," Sideswipe said. "They came in so low and fast that was all we could—"

"That ain't it!" Sunstreak waved his hand at the horizon. "They didn't stop or slow down or nothing! They just kept flying or rolling, and everyone went with 'em like they all knew where they were going."

Ironhide winced at that thought.

"I hope that ain't true," he said. "Otherwise that would be one hell of a intelligence clusterfuck."

"It's already a clusterbomb of fucked," Sunstreak growled. "And no one's answering me!"

Ironhide would have agreed, but a ping from Inferno came up on his HUD. Normally Ironhide would have shunted the message to his secondary priority channel, to be dealt with after the emergency, but Inferno was such a constant at Red Alert's side that he was a defacto peripheral device to the security office with the highest level clearance.

Ironhide checked the ping. And felt his spark skip a pulse.

They were photographs. Satellite photographs.

Cosmos, he called immediately. What are these?

High in orbit around the earth, Cosmos floated in his altmode as a ufo, scanning the surrounding desert for miles in all directions. The illicit activities lay before him as he took photos and sent them on, dutiful despite his own embarrassment.

Orbital surveillance, Cosmos answered after a moment. Those photos are about three minutes old, given the time delay of transmitting the information. I have updated images, but...um...

Spit it out, Ironhide demanded, wincing in the depth of his spark at the reply he knew was coming.

I feel like a voyeur! Cosmos cried. Some of them're outright crossing cables! And I'm not even sure what's going on with Nightflight and Skydive.

Ironhide knew. But he didn't say so. Doing so would have meant admitting the background he'd developed as a young mech who'd read Polyhex Manuals in his spare time. Because the photos were the manuals come to life.

Acidstorm on his back as Fireflight knelt on top of him.

Spasma sitting in Groove's lap, lapping at his throat cables.

Whisper tending to Silverbolt's wounded wing.

Nightflight on all fours, his aft fins roughly grabbed and bitten by Skydive.

And more. So many more that Ironhide at first couldn't count. He vented once, twice. Decepticons and Autobots openly fraternizing on the field—part of him felt a little satisfaction that the Autobots seemed to be mostly on top—

Yet another ping came on top of everything else, and Ironhide inwardly cursed.

Most of the Decepticons might have mostly scattered, but White Noise must have been nearby. Or else Cosmos had transmitted on a signal that had been hacked. Or, Ironhide winced, Cosmos might have been so startled that he simply blasted his information down to high command on an unsecure channel.

In any case, a new ping came from Red Alert's channel that there had been a security lapse. All of the photos had been uploaded on the sur-net.

The Autobots had seen. Every mech not on the battlefield knew what their comrades...who their comrades...were doing.

"What the hell...?" Cliffjumper snarled.

Mirage's voice came to Ironhide, briefly blocking out Cliffjumper. Ironhide, fights are breaking out—Optimus has the base on lockdown—sealing off sectors with blast doors—I think Red Alert's crashed—I'm only getting Inferno's comm—

"Do what you gotta," Ironhide said, cutting off the feed. He was already drawing his gun and smacking Cliffjumper across the helm to cut off what had become a steady stream of threats.

"Shut—the—hell—up," he snarled at them. "I got enough slagging problems without you two ball bearings jacking this smelting clusterfuck even worse."

"But they're overloading with 'cons!" Cliffjumper yelled, one hand holding his helm, the other pointing an accusatory finger out at the desert.

"You think you know something I don't?" Ironhide said, glaring down at his mech. "You think you're bringing me new information from fuckin' Primus himself? Go on, Private Primus, tell me your message down from on high!"

Cliffjumper didn't answer openly, glaring up at his commanding officer, but his mutter was audible.

"Say it again, you yellow-afted mech," Ironhide growled.

"...you're one of 'em, aren't you?" Cliffjumper said. "'Con sympathizing—"

"If I was a sympathizer, you'd be one dead pile of slag right now," Ironhide said, "an' a hundred times 'fore this. Now are you going to help me split this love fest up or do I gotta send you to the brig?"

A few seconds passed before his words pierced through Cliffjumper's growing rage. The small red mech reset his optics several times in confusion.

"...what?"

"I want us fucking up the 'Cons, but not like this!" Ironhide waved at the plateau and the tiny plumes of dust rising in the still air. "The question is, can I count on you to act like you got two damn positrons of a cortex and roust 'em out without putting a round through our own damn guys?"

Cliffjumper's look promised violence, but at least that promise had been harnessed for the time being.

"...sir, yessir."

Ironhide would cross the next bridge of the bot's violent tendencies when he came to it—he simply glared sidelong at Cliffjumper.

"Do it fast," Ironhide warned him. "Don't linger. Don't posture. Two 'bots and surprise'll chase off one 'con. If you try anything, it could turn on ya real fast."

"Right." Cliffjumper's response came through grit denta, but he still rolled out, headed for the closest set of coordinates on the photos.

Ironhide vented, then noticed Powerglide staring with wide optics at what had just happened in front of him. Ironhide vented deep in his spark. This was not the way he'd wanted to spend the day.

"Well, go on, take the other side and get the rest of 'em," Ironhide grumbled.

To his relief, Powerglide just snapped a quick salute and took off, soaring upward.

With that taken care of, Ironhide pinged Optimus and waited for his response.

I know, Ironhide, I know. Optimus had simply opened an audio channel, and behind his voice, Ironhide heard the sound of yelling and metal clanging as punches were thrown. I'm dealing with it right now. How are things on your end?

I got Cliffjumper and Powerglide running around, startling the lovebirds out of their nests.

Those two? Are you sure that was wise?

You want 'em inside the base right now, unsupervised?

...no. You're right—good call. Wait—let me—

Ironhide shifted on his pedes, rotating his shoulder as he felt the oil begin to sizzle under the desert sun. The dusty wind blew across his armor. Increasingly small on the horizon, he watched Powerglide swoop down, heard the crump of small ordinance exploding with a billow of sand, and then Fireflight and Acidstorm scrambled in two directions.

Fireflight pinged on Ironhide's comm. He shut his optics and sent along his own wordless messages.

Hangar.

Wait.

Idiot.

There was a low ping of apology, and then Fireflight was flying back to base. If a bot's wings could droop, his were absolutely bent down in the expectation of a fierce whipping. Worse, Ironhide knew, was that the whipping wouldn't come from him or anyone else in command. Fireflight and the other cross-factioners would face a gantlet of their comrades turning on them.

—there, Optimus said. Command call—I think we're all here.

Just missing Prowl and Jazz, Ratchet said.

And, um, Red Alert, Inferno murmured. I'm working on him, I swear—

I'mI'mI'm fine, Red Alert snapped. M-m-marginally—

I'm sending Firstaid up there right now, Ratchet said.

I'll go as well, Perceptor said. I can take some of the base functions and ease the stress on him. And I'll take Brainstorm, as well.

Just glad Jazz ain't here to see all'a this, Ironhide said. He'd be insufferable with his 'I told you so' right about now.

The q-q-question is, whaaaat do we3-e-3 do about it right n0w? Red Alert cried. We c4n't h4v3 0ne half of the army a̶t̶t̴a̸c̷k̵i̸n̶g̷ ̷ the other, and w3 can't put half of th3m iiiin the brig! We ¢an't even put the guilty pa®ties on lo¢kdown—that would g®ound half the for¢e.

Ironhide winced. Even just hearing the edge of a short-circuit sounded painful, and they could all hear Inferno murmuring to Red Alert, patched in and defragging sectors of his memory to ease the strain.

...just a sixth of the army, Mirage chimed in. We finished counting.

And is that just this fight? Ironhide asked. I know more bots'n this have been way too eager to fight lately. Maybe this is just the 'Cons that could get away for a hookup this hour.

...we're working on that, Mirage said. We don't have the actual estimates, but, just going off of our own instincts on this, I think the Prime is right. It's a little less than half the army.

A heavy silence settled. There were some clangs and squawks as Optimus waded into his own mechs with Sideswipe and Sunstreak on his flanks, separating fights. Ironhide winced. He didn't like the thought of frontliners like the twins in and among the regular bots, but ultimately the regulars were soldiers turning on each other. They deserved what they got.

Sorry, Optimus, Ironhide vented. I didn't think the rot had settled in this bad.

No apologies, Optimus said. Because I'm not sure that this is a rot. Not yet.

Ironhide reset his optics. Everyone did.

What?

I remember a very long time ago, Optimus said, far too cheerfully. When I was a young commander who didn't know anything about fighting. And the only thing I did right back then was listen to my oldest veteran, who gave me some very good advice.

I'm still yer oldest veteran, Ironhide chuckled.

And it's still good advice. There's no such thing as fighting for peace.

Yeah, might as well be...

Ironhide froze.

...fucking for virginity, he realized.

What if? Optimus asked. What if...forgive my language, but what if we can get these two armies fucking for peace?

Ironhide would have felt the same confidence that his commander did if he hadn't heard the backdrop of fighting and squabbling in the base. What were the odds that the Matrix of Leadership had seen the uniqueness of Optimus' soul and called it leadership, when really their Prime was just as mad as all the rest of the previous Autobot leaders?

I...am really glad Jazz ain't here, he sighed.

Tbc...