To Mirage...it's been great. Remember not to make promises you can't keep.
Three days of pushing through the burning sands, scorching his tires raw—Jazz still hadn't managed to dodge the pack of Decepticons on their tail. The first surprise attack had been easy, taking out a handful of 'cons with a rockfall. When the second wave came, they'd played cat and mouse through the abandoned mines in the mountains. But then the third wave came, and the fourth, and when Bumblebee found a datapad on a grayed out 'con, they found the reason why.
RE: DNI
CANCEL COUNTERPUNCH DECEPTICON STATUS.
DESTROY TRAITOR COUNTERPUNCH.
DO NOT INTERACT.
(¯`·.⋆ ⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆ ⋆.·´¯)
As the autobots came out of the relative cover of a canyon into a long straightaway, the decepticons, too focused on their prey, shot past them and had to bank upwards into the clouds. From the ground, it looked like the jets were making a slow arc that would all too soon scream back toward them.
It's the same big name fan, Bumblebee called out, dodging a deep pothole and nearly spinning out. At this speed, even the smallest miscalculation could mean a crash.
Who in the whole flaming pit is this UMU mech! Jazz raged in frustration. Why in the slag is he using this damn name thing to give orders?! Why ain't they normal—
He took a huge gulping vent as the reason came clear in his mind.
Hide the orders in the surnet, he realized. Then, once everyone knows to obey that designation, use it as a cover.
But why? Smokescreen said. It makes no sense to use that kind of open channel when they got their own spies and comm lines.
No, they don't, Jazz said. Soundwave. They lost their communications officer. Everything they had was compromised. Hell, we were picking off their energon depots and bases left and right.
But that was so recent, Bumblebee said. They would've had to be on the surnet since—whoa—
Bumblebee spun out this time and had to transform into alt-mode as his whole frame flipped up and over. He didn't even see the crack in the road that caught his tire, but he managed to completely somersault and land on his wheels again, slamming too hard on his suspension and rattling his joints. He managed to catch up to Smokescreen's rear axle, but his wheels were beginning to shimmy.
Cut the chatter, Jazz said, we're goin' too fast to talk.
The jets were coming straight towards them, anti-aircraft fire exploding down the line of the highway. They were less than a mile away—he had a second to decide—Jazz pushed up off the road before the conscious thought had time to form. Transforming into alt-mode, he arced backward and landed in a handstand on Smokescreen's roof.
Hang on, boss!
The sudden weight change meant they slowed, then slammed back to full speed. The rapid changes left Jazz crouched on top, one hand holding Smokescreen's spoiler, the other drawing his rifle to aim. He had just enough time to get one round off, hitting a jet in the wing in a lucky shot. At the same time, his sound amplifiers lifted from his shoulders and aimed directly at the incoming jets.
Acid rain inside my spark
crossing cables into me
flying
flying
I need escape velocity
Infrasound mixed with highpitched ultrasonic waves, canceled each other out, then wavered unsteadily and crashed together into a concussive sound and light show that hit the jets like a punch in the nose cone. Sparks erupted throughout their systems, and without time to stop, they took the full brunt of the attack as they flew by. The autobots couldn't stop to turn around, but Jazz heard at least one explosion as a jet crashed, and for a few blessed minutes, they only heard their own engines.
That was a Cybertron song, Counterpunch said, drawing even. Wasn't it?
Steel Lunaire, Jazz said. Courtesy of one Soundwave. Doubt they'll recognize it's from him, but hell, thought I'd remind 'em he gave his resignation.
He still alive? Counterpunch said. Last we heard, he and Prowl were in an explosion.
We'll debrief at the Ark, Jazz said. A lot's happened since you were last at base.
If you don't mind, Counterpunch said, maybe I should give my report on the road. If they keep this up, I don't know if we'll make it back.
Jazz winced, coming off of Smokescreen and driving beside them.
Not a bad idea, he admitted. Let me finish up my part of the last message burst. If we gotta send it off, I wanna take a little more time to make it good.
No one argued. They had a couple of minutes at least before the next flight of jets came—a moment of silence and boredom was precious.
Mirage...we both kept this team together through a lot of slag. Don't let 'em break up Spec Ops. Build your own team, remember that I chose you for my second for a reason. And while you're remembering that, do me a solid and tell Prowl that my last thoughts were of him. Jazz hesitated, decided 'to hell with it' and added then go tell the same thing to Soundwave. Don't let either of 'em know or I'll come haunt you, see if I don't.
I'm sending you the last logs I have, plus anything Counterpunch gave me. Make sure they don't go to waste. And your first order of business is to find out who the hell UMU is.
The brig lay in darkness, barely lit by a dim glow at the far end of the cellblock. One prisoner sat inside on the floor, listening to the soft sounds barely audible above the silence—the faint hum of the work consoles, the distant steps of mechs on the other side of the door. Only the medical berth gave any noise, hibernating on a low standby so that it occasionally thrummed or rattled. The rest of the brig was empty—he would have heard another mech's vents or the occasional shifting of steel.
So he was the only one stupid enough to be captured. He rubbed the steel casing over his spark chamber. Whoever that little red bot had been, he'd hit Whisper hard enough to leave a deep dent.
The Decepticon Whisper wondered when the Autobots would execute him. Or force-download him. Or take him apart for scrap—he'd heard that Starscream had lived up to his name when Ratchet the Hatchet got hold of him, howling until his vocalizer finally gave out. No one had seen him since, probably cannibalized and spread through the Autobot forces.
He wondered if the rest of his Air Strike Patrol would try to break him out. Were any of them alive, or had they also stupidly tried to fight back while on the ground with an autobot?
And he wondered what they were doing to Silverbolt. If the Prime was anything like Megatron, Silverbolt would take the brunt of the punishment, a lesson to the rest of his subjects. Whisper closed his optics, wincing to think of it. Silverbolt was a jet and a good soldier, true, but he was so young and his voice trembled ever so slightly in the air—
Light spilled into the brig. Whisper recognized the shadowed silhouette and sat straight, coming to his pedes. His hands curled around the bars as he pressed close.
Silverbolt closed the door quietly and rushed up, putting an arm through the bars and around Whisper.
"Are you all right?" Silverbolt vented. "I came as soon as I could—"
"I should be asking you that," Whisper said. "Your wing, your wing—that little bastard put a round through it—"
"No, he just grazed it," Silverbolt assured him. "I got patched up all right, see?"
Whisper glanced at the wound, but it was covered with kevlar wrap and polished brighter than the rest of Silverbolt's frame. The shot was near the joint where the autobot's frame was already wearing down with stress, and Whisper's anger rose up again.
"I'll find him," he hissed. "When I get that little aft in my sights—"
"You'll do nothing," Silverbolt said sternly. "I deserved it—I tried to stop him, and I...we were..."
Silverbolt flushed dark with heat and steamed with the coolant rush to his faceplate.
"He hurt you," Whisper insisted. "His own comrade."
"Promise me," Silverbolt said. "Promise me you won't."
Whisper stared at him for a moment, then gave a thin, humorless smile.
"Why not?" he said. "Not like I'll get out of here to shoot him anyway."
Silverbolt reached up, but he hesitated as the sudden movement made Whisper startle back. When the Decepticon saw that it was simply his hand and that Silverbolt meant no harm, Whisper relaxed and allowed the soft caress to his faceplate.
"Promise me," Silverbolt said again.
Whisper gave a long vent, resting his helm against the bars and feeling Silverbolt lean against him.
"Only because you want it." Whisper luxuriated in the presence of the other mech, holding him through the bars, careful of the wing. "Only because you're so scared of the consequences."
Silverbolt grumbled, a low, pleasant hum in Whisper's hands.
"I'm only scared of flying," Silverbolt said. "Nothing else."
"Not even terrible 'cons?" Whisper said, his smile growing fond.
"Especially not 'cons with overinflated egos." Silverbolt closed his optics as Whisper ran his knuckles lightly under his optics. "I'll never know how you found out—only Optimus knows."
Whisper vented in harshly, suddenly standing straight. He froze as Silverbolt's weapons came online and targeted on his spark—but then Silverbolt calmed and disengaged each firearm.
"Your Prime—does he know yet? Are you safe? Can you get out of here, go somewhere, lay low for awhile?"
Silverbolt shook his helm once with a rueful smile. "He's not like that. I told you."
Whisper clenched his denta, lowering his glare to the floor. "Everyone thinks that the anger won't come down on them, and then it's too late and you're a pile of crushed metal for the smelting heap."
"Optimus is good," Silverbolt said, putting his hands on Whisper's faceplate to force him to meet his look. "A reprimand, a security scan, some really vicious teasing from Ironhide...I'm more afraid of facing the rest of my team now."
Whisper narrowed his optics. "You've already faced him?"
Silverbolt nodded. "He seemed a lot less upset than I thought he would, even for him."
None of that made sense. Whisper studied Silverbolt again. There was the torn and patched wing strut, the worn joints, some scuffing along his pedes and sides from the sand...but nothing like the crushing dents and rends that should have been there. Megatron would have crippled any bot for such an offense. The Prime would do no less.
Silverbolt was fine. Smiling, even.
Which meant...
Whisper stiffened.
It could only be one thing.
This was a trap. He had fallen into a perfectly planned honey trap.
"I am a fool."
Whisper backed away, leaving Silverbolt's arm, moving against the far wall.
"What?" Silverbolt wondered.
"I am a fool," Whisper said.
"Wait—what—?"
"The coy act, following after us into the desert, even...even all the stories." Whisper put his hand over his faceplate, pressing hard in sudden realization. "You were all playing the long game. And we fell for it. I fell for it..."
Whisper reached back to the wall for support, reeling as gravity seemed to fail. His pedes shook, and he let himself slide down to the floor.
"I fell for it...all."
"Wait, no—"
Silverbolt followed him down to the floor, pressing so hard against the bars that they groaned under his weight.
"This wasn't a game," Silverbolt said. "This wasn't a trap."
"Why else would you pretend interest in a damned 'con?"
Whisper rested his arms over his knees, cradling his helm. He couldn't even process sadness and loss yet. The sheer immensity of the conspiracy overwhelmed him. Cold sank into him as frame ran too many coolant cycles.
Seconds dragged by. Silverbolt watched him close in on himself, wings angling protectively closer. He considered what Whisper must be feeling, the terrible certainty of a painful force-download and death all alone in the enemy base. The humiliation of thinking Silverbolt had lied.
"You paranoid aft," Silverbolt murmured. "You're so sure we're just like you that you'll believe the absolute worst of me."
Whisper didn't move.
Silverbolt heaved a vent, then arranged his pedes so that he was sitting down more comfortably.
"If it was a trap, then...I came down here for what?" Silverbolt laughed despite himself. "Crazy 'con."
Whisper lifted his helm just enough to glare.
Silverbolt goaded him. "You figured out I'm terrified of heights but then you go and act like this?"
No response. Whisper wouldn't answer. Silverbolt had seen his own aerialbots act sullen sometimes, refusing to talk, so he tried something else.
"How did you figure out my thing with heights?" Silverbolt asked. "What gave me away?"
So here it was, Whisper thought. Part of the interrogation—what tipped him off to their weaknesses? Whisper almost snapped, but the memory replaying in his cortex was too distracting. The roaring dogfight between his patrol and the aerialbots, the way he cornered Silverbolt and isolated him from his forces, the wind drowning out their engines as they plunged through the sky. The sunlight gleaming off of Silverbolt's surface, the way the autobot clung to the clouds.
"You flew so straight," Whisper said softly. "Your turns were too sharp. Too precise. You don't weave and twist naturally. And your voice..."
Silverbolt didn't speak, waiting patiently.
"'Stay together'," Whisper said. "You told your team to take care of each other, you could handle yourself. But your voice was shaking. And then you turned and transformed, and you..."
Whisper's glare grew hotter, stung by how neatly the trap had been laid.
"Your wings were bent too tight. Frightened little scrap of tin."
Silverbolt waited.
The silence grated on Whisper's nerves.
"At least that was real," Whisper hissed. "At least I know you're a coward in the sky."
Silverbolt waited.
"I won't give you the satisfaction," Whisper. "I'll tear my own spark out. You won't get anything out of me."
Silverbolt waited.
"Why'd you even pick me?" Whisper lowered his helm again. "Was I such an easy target?"
Silverbolt half-shrugged.
"You stood out," he admitted. "You were in control of yourself, in control of your team. I was...impressed."
Whisper scoffed.
"Okay, and you're on the shiny side." Silverbolt smiled. "Paranoid, vain aft."
Another long moment dragged out. Whisper didn't move. Silverbolt winced as his communications line audibly opened and Powerglide let loose with a barrage of questions demanding answers—Silverbolt muted the line. He could at least put his team off for a little longer.
Whisper had fallen silent again. Silverbolt vented and gave him a look.
"At least tell me why you think this is a trap?"
"You really think I'd believe you'd do all this?" Whisper asked. "Turn your patrol against you, disobey your Prime, risk your command and rank...for nothing?"
Silverbolt met his gaze steadily. "Not for nothing. For you."
Whisper laughed, a harsh wrench of metal grinding on steel.
"A 'con," he said. "A warbuild. A flying frag. Piece of smelt."
Silverbolt didn't flinch. He'd uttered those slurs a dozen times every day for ages.
"A 'con," he nodded. "You."
Whisper snarled. "Liar."
Silverbolt winced at the heat in the word.
"You really think that I don't feel anything for you?" Silverbolt said. "That everything I did with you meant nothing?"
Whisper didn't answer. But he looked at Silverbolt, and his optics were clear. Whisper believed it meant nothing, and that hurt more than what he believed was his impending death.
"Because my Prime didn't half-kill me," Silverbolt said. "What the hell is Megatron like to his own troops?"
Whisper didn't answer.
There was no other way of doing this, and Silverbolt was not given to hesitating over decisions. He gave a long vent, glared at Whisper, and then turned on his comm line.
"Optimus...Silverbolt."
Whisper's optics widened.
"Could..." Silverbolt groaned at himself. "Primus, this is awful. Optimus...could you please meet me in the brig?"
"I'm right here, Silverbolt."
The rest of the lights came on. Optimus stood behind the medical bay, his large frame obscured by the berth and operating center over it. Ironhide stood a little behind him, rifle unslung.
Silverbolt shot to his pedes in a semblance of attention. "Prime! I...we...I didn't..."
Then he frowned. "How did you get in here without me noticing?"
Optimus chuckled. "I may not be Jazz, but I can be quiet when I want to."
"How long?" Silverbolt asked, his shoulders drooping.
Ironhide grinned. "Red saw ya hightailing it down here, and we were in the neighborhood. Whisper there didn't even notice us."
"So." Optimus turned his attention to Whisper, who pushed himself to his pedes but stayed back against the wall. They regarded each other, and Whisper had to crane his neck to look up at Optimus, now all too aware that the Prime was just as big as Megatron.
"You think I'm not harsh enough with my discipline?" Optimus asked.
"No..." Whisper put his hand out, hesitating. "No, I didn't...that's not what I..."
"Because that's what you expect," Optimus said. He clasped Silverbolt's shoulder as if not noticing how the younger mech looked up in confusion. "Just like Megatron, right?"
"No—no." Whisper came close, grabbing the bars. "I didn't mean that. I thought..."
"The aerialbots haven't seen the consequences of Megatron's anger," Optimus said. "Silverbolt's young. Younger than you. He has no idea what you're talking about, not really."
"I know about Megatron," Silverbolt protested. "Ironhide told me."
"Being told," Ironhide said, "and actually seeing it done are two different things, sparkling."
"But..." Silverbolt fell silent and followed Ironhide's hand, looking back at Whisper.
The Decepticon clenched the bars so tight that metal bits shaved off the edges of his fingers. His optics had gone wide, but it was the brightness inside, the tiny liquid crystal igniting under the lenses, that showed the white rims of his internal servos. He'd stopped venting, and the condensation hissed along his engines and armor, turning his vocalizer scratchy as moisture sparked inside of his throat.
Silverbolt froze. Whisper, proud commander of Decepticon forces, was afraid. Of Optimus. Of Optimus' hand on Silverbolt's shoulder.
Silverbolt looked up at Prime. "I don't...?"
"Imagine if I closed my hand around your wing," Optimus said softly. "With all my strength."
Silverbolt flinched. A wing strut was so delicate—it would have been crushed like aluminum.
"He doesn't have to imagine it," Optimus said. "He's seen Megatron do it."
"...oh."
Silverbolt found himself standing in the center of a conversation going on above his helm. He understood what Optimus meant, and he understood what Ironhide meant. He could even understand that Whisper was afraid and why. But...
"This is why you keep calling me sparkling," he realized.
"Some things," Ironhide said, "you gotta live through to understand. S'just the way it is."
"But..." Silverbolt looked at Whisper. "He won't! You know he won't, I told you he's not like Megatron."
"Aren't I?" Optimus asked, still holding Silverbolt. "I have an army. I have a cause. And when someone violates that cause—"
The threat had barely been uttered when Whisper gave a small shriek despite himself.
"No, no, no, don't—" Whisper said quickly, his voice as low as his name. "Please—he never told me anything. He didn't—he never crossed cables, he never—"
"He told you this was a trap," Ironhide said. "Didn't he?"
"No, Primus, he didn't—" Whisper saw Optimus' hand tighten just a little, just enough to give Silverbolt what seemed like a light jostling. It was enough to make Whisper's voice die as his whole frame trembled.
Silverbolt couldn't stand it. He slipped from Optimus' hold and went to Whisper, holding him between the bars, stunned to feel him painfully overheated.
"Please," Whisper said into Silverbolt's throat cables. "Please. I'll tell you anything. Just don't..."
"He wouldn't," Silverbolt tried to tell him. "Prime's good. He—"
"Please!" Whisper looked over Silverbolt, holding him tight and all too aware of how he could slip away. "Please...anything."
"Anything?" Optimus asked.
"Yes! Whatever you want—patrol schedules, energon depots, our bases, codes..."
Optimus smiled behind his mask.
"Then I only have one demand. To believe him." Optimus nodded at Silverbolt. "Because I don't hurt my soldiers."
Disbelief clouded Whisper's optics.
"Look at him," Optimus said. "Do you think he's ever seen from me what you've seen from Megatron?"
Whisper met Optimus' gaze for a long moment, then leaned back and studied Silverbolt. He read on his faceplate concern, confusion, a little of a youngster's defensiveness of being young. But no terror. No despair. Silverbolt had never seen a mech ripped limb from limb—shoulder joint torn from its socket, wires snapping, sparking, oil and energon splashing the ground, the high pitched glitching scream and pathetic flailing as the mech helplessly jerked. The awful crash of tons of steel into a weaker frame. The faceplate, irrevocably crumpled while the spark slowly faded.
Whisper held Silverbolt close again, as close as he could through the bars. Looked at Optimus. Looked where the Matrix of Leadership lay in the center of his armor and felt its presence. This was a Prime...but not a Prime that he understood.
"What are you?" he vented.
Optimus sent a ping to Ratchet to send Firstaid along, and pinged Skyfire to escort Starscream from the hangar to the brig. Then he nodded to Ironhide, who grabbed two chairs and dragged them closer.
"That answer takes some time," Optimus said, having a seat. "When Firstaid arrives for the medical scan, we'll be able to talk."
Whisper considered that. Then closed his optics and held Silverbolt close again.
After a long interrogation / discussion / exhibition / Silverbolt didn't know what else, it was finally done. Whisper held his hand through the whole thing, talking with the Prime, listening, sometimes snapping, sometimes silent. The only time Whisper lost his composure again was when Starscream was escorted in, treating Silverbolt and all the autobots in attendance to a shrieking fit between the two as they accused each other alternatingly of being spies, being dangerous, and then of being so soft and weak that the enemy had to take pity on them.
How... Silverbolt sent a quiet ping to Skyfire. How on earth did you fall for that howling pile of crazy?
Skyfire's amusement was obvious in his response even as he escorted Starscream back out of the brig.
How'd you fall for that scheming pile of paranoia?
Silverbolt frowned, but Whisper was falling into recharge, leaning against the bars as his pedes stretched out in front of him. Silverbolt squeezed his hand, then tucked it on Whisper's lap and started to slip away.
To his surprise, Whisper held him tight. Wide awake, Whisper visibly hesitated. Glanced at Ironhide and Optimus, who returned his look.
"Silver." Whisper twitched, acutely aware of being stared at. "I..."
Silverbolt waited, refusing to fidget even with their audience.
"I'm..."
Whisper choked. Apologies were a sign of weakness. Apologies were for civilian pieces of tin who bent over backward to anyone stronger. Apologies did nothing useful or practical. Only subordinates apologized to their betters.
"I'm...glad," he said finally. "That..that this wasn't a trap."
Silverbolt smiled.
"So am I."
Silverbolt waited until Whisper was in recharge, then left with Optimus and Ironhide, locking up the brig and heading into the main elevator that, until then, Silverbot had thought was the only way in or out. He had the feeling that he was leaving a bird locked up in a cage, and he mentioned as much to his commanders.
"A bird that can bite yer fingers off," Ironhide said. "Don't forget he's dangerous, sparkplug."
"I know," Silverbolt vented, rubbing a growing dull pain in his helm. "What am I going to tell my flight? That I fell for a mech that's shot us up any number of times?"
"An' threatened to blow up a buncha earth youngsters," Ironhide added.
Silverbolt glanced at him. "I...I know."
Ironhide raised an optic ridge.
"I'm not stupid," Silverbolt said. "I looked at the files we had on him after—"
"—after the first time he revved your thrusters?" Ironhide asked.
"No!" Silverbolt narrowed his optics. "When he cornered me and then let me go. He...he had a targeting solution on me, sir. A sure kill. It was just bad luck...but he let me go. So I looked up what we had on him, and..."
"It does kind of color the whole self-sacrificial 'I'll do anything' routine, huh?" Ironhide said. "I ain't saying he's evil through and through, kid, but he's been through a lot more war than you have. Don't go into this thinking he's some poor, innocent Praxian."
Silverbolt thought about that, and thought about Skyfire and Starscream, and Soundwave. And about the pictures he'd seen of all the other autobots engaging in tactile play with decepticons.
"Sir...if I can ask this," he started slowly, not sure if this was even a question he wanted to ask.
"Go ahead," Optimus said. "Worst I can do is say it's classified."
"Why are you allowing this?" Silverbolt counted off the Decepticons on his fingers. "Starscream, Soundwave, Whisper...and those are the ones I know about. Why are you permitting these relationships?"
Optimus and Ironhide shared a look.
Silverbolt felt something settle in his spark. Yes, there was a plan going on in the background.
"Wars are disgusting, terrible things," Optimus said. "They shouldn't go on forever. I would simply ask that, if you continue exploring your relationship with Whisper, keep an open mind to who he is, both good and bad. And remember to extend that courtesy to other 'bots in the same situation."
"Thank you, sir, but I don't think I'll have to worry about giving other bots the benefit of the doubt." He vented. "Not many other cross-factionists to commiserate with."
"More than you might think," Optimus said far too cheerfully to be talking about fraternizing with the enemy. "And if anyone gives you grief, tell them it's a classified operation on a need to know basis only."
"What is?" Silverbolt asked.
"Exactly," Ironhide said, giving Optimus a look that Silverbolt couldn't decipher.
"Uh...yessir?" The elevator came to the second hangar. Silverbolt stepped out, turning and offering a salute. "I'm not sure I—"
"Anyway," Ironhide said. "Tell me, sparkplug. He might be Whisper, but is he actually a screamer?"
Ironhide returned the salute as a dark red flush heated Silverbolt's faceplate down his throat all the way to his spark case. The door closed as Optimus gave Ironhide a firm bop on the helm and a very stern look.
Coughing, not sure that had actually happened, Silverbolt decided to skip talking to his squad and instead went straight to his personal recharge bay. Maybe he could spend the rest of the war in deep recharge and this nightmare would pass before he had to face anyone ever again.
The sun finally dipped under the sky, the last bits of light fading from purple to darkness, and they turned on nightvision—but when Jazz and his autobots kept sweeping the sky with highbeams, the few decepticons that hadn't been blinded found it better to simply fire toward the lights.
A bombing run destroyed the highway in front of them. Before they even reached the ruined crevasse, Jazz had his bots turn sharp to one side, going offroad into the sand. Smokescreen added to the billowing waves and covered their escape—carpetbombs fell behind and around them, but the plumes of dust made it impossible to see the shapes of the cars inside.
Left! Smokescreen yelled, and they made a hard turn straight into what was little more than an open shaft in the ground. They had to trust his ability to see through the haze—the pounding of bombs chased them right up to the entrance. Single-file, they pushed ahead, not so much hoping to find a way out as much as simply finding cover.
What is this place? Bumblebee asked, pulling a heavy steel cart out of the rocks half-burying it.
Old iron mine, Smokescreen said. Seen it with Hound. It's got a couple bends we can use for a running fight.
Don't suppose it's got a way out, Counterpunch asked.
No such luck, Smokescreen said.
Better'n catching bombs outside, Jazz said, placing a handful of small charges at the base of the mine supports. Worse comes to worse, we bring down the timbers holding this place up, bury some jets behind us.
The heavy thud of jets landing at the entrance made them freeze.
Think they'll just blast the entrance? Bumblebee wondered. Bury us alive?
No good, Jazz said. We would dig our way out. They were told to make sure.
The steps began to come in, coupled with the deep rumble of jet engines. The smaller autobots crouched behind the scant cover they could find. Each of them took aim into the darkness, waiting for the lumbering shapes of Decepticons to press in.
Pick your targets, Jazz said softly. Usual spread.
At this range? Counterpunch boggled. In the dark?
They won't be using nightvision either, Jazz said, bringing up his favored targeting heads-up display. He lowered his helm to view through the scope and waited.
The steps came closer.
The vents around him caught and held in anticipation.
Just a little closer, Jazz thought. Come on, step closer, you clumsy aft—
The jet in front ignited a broad beam of light that briefly flashed through the mine and gleamed on the edges of the Autobots' armor. Lit from beneath, Apeface broke into a grin as he started forward eagerly.
There was a shot—Apeface jerked, optics going wide. He started to turn, and a second shot hit his helm. Then a third sent him crashing down, face-first, into the dirt.
Jazz paused. He hadn't fired. None of his bots had fired. The forward Decepticons began to turn around, expecting an hidden autobot.
I know there ain't much dirt here, Jazz said, but hit it anyway!
All four autobots pressed as tight as they could into their cover—the reason why came immediately as tracer rounds lit the mine around them. Bumblebee winced as a shot grazed his shoulder, and another shot stung across Smokescreen's helm.
The fight was over as quick as it started. Silence.
His back against the rock wall, his mechs on either side of him, Jazz stood.
Half a dozen decepticons stood in front of him, and several grayed out 'cons lay between them.
No one moved.
"S-s-so...um..."
Jazz risked bring up his headlights, set low. The Decepticon Spasma, a small black jet with bent fins and two smoking wounds in his wings, met Jazz's look. Glanced at his comrades. Then back at Jazz.
With a wary vent, Spasma slow, slowly, painfully slowly, lowered the end of his gun.
"C-c-can we come with you?"
Jazz looked from Spasma to the rest of the standing Decepticons—all six of them—then at the dead Decepticons on the ground. He scanned them quickly just to be sure. This was no illusion and no trick. Those sparks had been extinguished, all of them shot by the jets holding lowered firearms.
"Wanna run that by me again?" Jazz said. "'Cause I think I misheard ya. You want to come back to base? The Autobot base?"
"I know it s-sounds d-dumb," Spasma said, scratching the back of his helm. He looked over his shoulder, but the rest of the Decepticons shook their helms and even motioned for him to keep going.
A tiny muffled chuckle came from Bumblebee, and Jazz barked a sharp internal command to shut up. Jazz couldn't afford to start laughing with him, no matter how ridiculous the 'Cons looked. Spasma had all the presence of a reluctant schoolmech forced to speak for a group presentation.
"It's like, Lord M-megatron is raging at anyone he ev-ven suspects is a cross-factionist. Thundercracker has us f-flying lots of missions to keep us s-safe, but we're r-running out of energon, and...and we saw you, and you let S-Soundwave live...we thought..."
Spasma tapped his fingertips together.
"We figured...I mean, Groove said your prime was better..."
Jazz kicked one of the greyed out Decepticons, just to make sure it didn't flinch and reveal that this was one big trick. That would have made so much more sense than a handful of defectors drilling their former comrades in the back.
"I'ma guess," he said, "that these weren't no friends of yours."
"Purists," Spasma muttered, as if the word was filthy. "Anti-cross-factionists."
Spasma didn't explain any further, as if those terms were all the answer Jazz needed. Jazz considered the situation—six 'cons, four 'bots, one mineshaft, and a long road yet to go. Bringing them home would give poor Red Alert a terrible shock, but on the other hand, Jazz would have some fantastic air support for the ride home. Prowl's hopes for seeding this mutiny could only work if Jazz gave it room to grow.
So Megatron had turned his rage on his own troops and chased the more reluctant ones out. Jazz nodded once to himself.
Never interrupt the enemy when he's making a mistake...or doing you a favor.
"Of course you can come with," Jazz said, lowering his gun but not taking it back into subspace. "Damn glad to I don't have to kill y'all."
"R-r-right," Spasma said, chuckling as if they were sharing a joke. "Four 'bots ag-g-gainst six j-jets?"
"Ya never know," Jazz said. "You might'a had reinforcements and made it a fair fight."
Spasma gave a shaky vent and watched as the autobots stood, and he frowned as he identified each of them. His shoulders drooped in disappointment.
"Groove isn't w-with you," he realized. "I thought...w-wasn't he with you b-b-before? He isn't..."
"Groove wasn't with us," Jazz assured him. "But if you were all hoping for conjugal visits in a cell, I might be able to make that happen."
He briefly mentioned how they'd have to be scanned and arrested and put in the brig, but none of it seemed to faze them. By unspoken agreement, the jets went out first, save for Spasma, who kept at Jazz's side as a sort of hostage and show of good faith.
A thought struck Jazz, and he leaned down to whisper at the smaller decepticon.
"Groove, and, uh...?" He motioned at the other five jets.
Spasma frowned, his optic ridge furrowing...and then his optics went wide and he shook his helm emphatically.
"No no! No, no. Um..." He saw the other jets looking back at him in concern, and he waved his hands. "It's nothing, it's nothing. Just a little m-m-misunderstanding."
He leaned over to Jazz. "Just me. J-just m-me. I met Groove...well, he shot me down and he was going in for the kill, and then he just...didn't."
"Sounds like him," Jazz vented. "He's as bad as 'Comber."
"He really is," Spasma chuckled. "Beachcomber shot me down once, too. And th-then he gave me a l-long talk about pacifism and n-n-not fighting and he gave me...well, s-some of it was energon, but I don't know what it was s-spiked with."
Jazz took a long vent, ran what last drips of coolant he had left—he could feel the condensation sizzling on his overheated armor.
'Comber...for fuck's sake, he thought.
Look at the bright side, Smokescreen said helpfully behind him. Now you know how Prowl feels when you tell him what we did during a mission.