Surnet::Polyhex-in-Spirit:: sur/crossing_wires_in_reality
Description: the civilized place for discussing real news and base happenings on the surnet
Rules: no real designations, no flames, no hate. VIOLATORS WILL BE KICKED.
Mods: HotStuff, Pacifist-Punch
Even-Odds: sorry, bots!
Even-Odds: the fight is done, no winners
Even-Odds: didn't even get to see how Jazz won
Even-Odds: Prowl and Soundwave didn't walk out
Lube'nSlide: u just didnt wanna honor the 60-40 odds
Goldbug: No, it's true!
Goldbug: that room has a backdoor access so they left without anyone seeing
Goldbug: but there was energon and oil on the floor when I went to check
Goldbug: the drones hadn't finished cleaning yet
cusswords: o.o is Prowl okay? did soundwave hurt him? what about Jazz? wouldn't he stop soundwave from doing anything? it was just supposed to be practice fighting, right?
Oasis: the Third in Command would not beat up Prowl.
Oasis: I think
cusswords: but what about soundwave? that could've happened, right? Jazz can stop any con!
Lube'nslide: ppfftt, i wood've agreed but then we got a basement fullo defecticons
willowisp: I heard there's a whole bunch under there now
Ain't-Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: So what do we do with the cons?
Over-the-Edge: WE SHOOT CONS
Ain't-Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: I mean the ones in the brig
Over-the-Edge: DID I STUTTER?
Over-the-Edge: WE SHOOT CONS
Oasis: but they surrendered
Hippie-mech: defected
Lube'nslide: dun make em any bettir
dazzle-bot: Okay, Shoot 'Em Painlessly
willowisp: that don't feel right
pchoochoo: well yeah you'd say that
HotStuff: [Mod Post] pchoochoo, no references to real user designations, even tangentially.
Pchoochoo: right, right, sorry
Mech892352: I hEaRd ThEy'rE cRoSsInG cAbLeS dOwN tHeRe
Argent-Wing: ...
Goldbug: RedAlert would never allow that
Mech892352: wHaT'S tO sToP eM?
Over-the-Edge: THEY'RE TOTALLY CROSS-CABLIN DOWN THERE
pchoochoo: in pairs, or one big orgy?
Zapwing!: This
Zapwing!: this ayyyyyy this just aint right
Argent-Wing: ...
Argent-Wing: ...we aren't
dazzle-bot:
Zapwing!:
willowisp: what?
Over-the-Edge:
HotStuff:
Pacifist-Punch:
Mech892352:
Argent-Wing: ...we aren't cross-cabling
Ain't-Nothing-But-A-Houndmech:
Even-Odds:
Goldbug:
Oasis: YOU AREN'T? O_O
Over-the-Edge: YOU AREN'T?
On_Ice: ...then...what are you doing down there?
On_Ice: I mean, I didn't think you were doing anything! #o_o#
On_Ice: it'd be like a love-in with all of them matched up _
Argent-Wing: we just kind of...
Argent-Wing: talk
Lube'nslide: whut
Over-the-Edge: WHADDAYA MEAN MATCHED UP?
cusswords: how many decepticons are down there? And are you calling them defecticons so that it's easy to tell which is which? I mean we know about Dead End and Snare and Spasma and Seawing and Submarauder and oh but Afterburner died but those ones got a special note about how they turned on the Decepticons, does that mean that they have bondmates? Autobot bondmates?!
Argent-Wing: no!
Argent-Wing: No, there's no bonding!
Argent-Wing: it's a war for frag's sake
Argent-Wing: if we bonded, taking out one would take out the other!
Lube'nslide: you'd bond wit a defective-con?
Over-the-Edge: WHICH ONE
Argent-Wing: It's…
Over-the-Edge: WHICH ONE
Argent-Wing: it's classified
Lube n'slide: it's wrong
Hippie-Mech: it's wonderful
Hippie-Mech: the power of love bringing enemies together
Hippie-Mech: ending the war in their own sparks
vibin-with-the-universe: 'Cons offa the battlefield without a shot fired
Hippie-Mech: words ending conflict of millennia
vibin-with-the-universe: of millennia!
Hippie-Mech: in just a spark beat
vibin-with-the-universe: a spark beat pulsing in time with each other
Goldbug: oh frag oh fra-
Lube'nslide: oh fer primus sake they're doing it again
Goldbug: Even-Odds, get up here
Even-Odds: wat? I mean what? Dammit, Lube'nslide, would it kill you to download a spellcheck?
Goldbug: Even-Odds turn your comm back on and get up here! it's Ratchet, he—
Goldbug has been kicked for one shift, Even-Odds has been kicked for one shift
Pacifist-Punch: [Mod Post] do not let your base duties blur into the sur-group.
Zapwing!: woooo, how you always land the banhammer so fast?
Pacifist-Punch: it's my function to get there fast, and that's all I can say
Pacifist-Punch: and
Pacifist-Punch: oh
Pacifist-Punch: oh geez
Pacifist-Punch: guys I gotta
Pacifist-Punch logged out
oasis: huh
oasis: did I miss something?
willowisp: uh argent-wing?
Argent-Wing: yes?
willowisp: private message plz sir?
Mech892352: dO yOu KnOw EaChOtHeR's DeSiGnAtIoN?
Argent-Wing logged out
willowisp logged out
Mech892352: sLaGgInG CrOsS-cAbLeRs...
Mech892352: sLaG iT...
Mech892352: eVeRyThInG's JuSt sO sLaGged
Hippie-Mech: I dig it, mech, I dig it
Hippie-Mech: everything's so slagged
Hippie-Mech: but maybe the universe is putting it back to rights
Hippie-Mech: and we just ain't galactic enough to see it happening
vibin-with-the-universe: stars and sparks on a cosmic level
Over-the-Edge: AW FER CRYIN OUT LOUD YOU TWO
Jazz was still in Optimus' office, considering what he had just been told, when the alert came directly into his cortex. From the way Optimus stood straight, the Prime had received the same message, or one roughly similar. Only one mech could make both of them stand at attention.
Jazz. Medbay. Now.
There was no concern in Ratchet's order, only severely restrained anger. Perhaps Optimus was receiving other information—the Prime nodded once in understanding, then gave Jazz a light nudge to the door.
"Best not keep that mech waiting," Optimus said.
Jazz heaved a long vent, half-turning. Ironhide was still just outside, his rifle now slung over his shoulder, leaning against the wall with half-lidded optics. No longer worried about Jazz's anger, Ironhide joined Optimus in silently letting Ratchet make his demands.
"Y'know, bossmech," Jazz said, "I remember when we all thought I might've been hacked by Soundwave, and you said you wouldn't leave me to face that alone."
"Very true," Optimus said. "But that was just you dealing with love and war. This is Ratchet."
"Go on," Ironhide said gruffly. "It's your own execution—ain't need to go dragging anyone else down with you."
"Y'all just the soul of mercy," Jazz said.
He paused—the Prime's hand was still on his shoulder, and Jazz briefly put his hand on top, appreciating the comfort. Then he left, taking the lift back up to the main levels and taking the long walk to the medbay.
He had the strangest feeling that mechs in the hall were watching him from the corner of their optics, that conversations were falling into low murmurs and silence as he passed. Strange. He usually felt paranoid about being under surveillance, but right now it didn't feel like paranoia. News traveled fast on base, but gossip this quick was something else.
Hey, 'bee, did I miss some—?
As he came around the corner, he found Smokescreen and Bumblebee standing at attention on either side of the medbay doors. His shoulders tightened.
Ratchet had commandeered his own bots—to keep some mechs out and to keep other mechs in. Never a good sign.
Sorry, boss, Bumblebee said with a salute. Doctor's orders.
He hasn't said anything to us, Smokescreen said. Just pinged us to come here and said no one but you goes in.
Yeah, sounds about right. Jazz gave a little salute back as he went through. If you hear any screaming, go get Prime.
To stop Ratchet? Smokescreen asked.
Jazz paused in the doorway. At the far end of the medbay, Prowl lay on one of the berths with half-closed optics. Soundwave sat behind him, propping him up and holding Prowl's cracked arm out for Ratchet as the medbot slowly wrapped it with tight kevlar bandages.
Ratchet didn't look up, but he obviously knew Jazz was there.
No, Jazz said as the doors shut behind him. To bury my frame with last rites.
Jazz waited for a long moment. Then a minute. Then two. He knew what this was. He hadn't experienced it in a long time—a superior officer leaving the lower rank to cool his pedes until permitted to enter. He didn't dare walk into the medbay, not until he was acknowledged. In the office, he spotted FirstAid tending to the data input as quietly as possible, barely tapping each key. No one spoke. The only sound was the spark monitor pulsing softly in the background.
"Sit."
Ratchet said it through clamped denta. Jazz was almost silent in crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the berth right across.
Another moment passed. Jazz exchanged a look with Prowl and Soundwave, and though they had come to blows before, they were momentarily united in their wordless obedience, hoping the brewing storm called Ratchet would pass them by with relatively few lightning strikes.
Finally Ratchet finished the bandage wrap, and he sat straight, wiping oil from his hands.
"Cracked armor," Ratchet started. "Exposed circuitry. Small crushed circuits. Damaged servos. Concussive force trauma. Multiple stress fractures at the joints. Fine particulates in the optics. Overheating. Overlocked timers. Energon loss. Bent wing struts."
Ratchet gave Jazz a look that could have frozen steel.
"The second in command. Our battle computer. The one thing managing all of our systems so that RedAlert doesn't crash."
Jazz grimaced.
Ratchet turned his look back on Prowl, who had already been scolded and braced himself in resignation for a second coming.
"Your boombox has self-repair functions that already fixed what negligible damage was there," Ratchet said, motioning at Soundwave. "He is a warbuild. You are a calculator with pedes and delusions of physical prowess."
Prowl tensed, relying on Soundwave to hold him steady and salvage what little dignity he had left. He hadn't been scolded like this in vorn, not since his first days in academy after the paint incident. Now Ratchet was laying into him like a raw recruit, and so freshly after Ironhide had done the same. His faceplate would have heated up and steamed if he'd had enough energon and coolant left.
Ratchet continued.
"Orchestrating a fight between a civilian noncombatant and a specialist combat operative. Reprogramming someone against their will. Reprogramming the third in command. The third in slagging command—who's already paranoid about forced programming, and for good reason."
Prowl shut his optics and didn't argue. Soundwave didn't wince, too inured by Starscream's ranting to fear such restrained anger. Ratchet could have wrenched one of the berths from its moorings and started beating him, and Soundwave wouldn't have been surprised. But he didn't argue, either.
Ratchet took a very brief moment to turn to Jazz and apply a plasticene balm to his warped armor plates.
"I have every right," Ratchet said softly, "to have Jazz in the brig for a vorn. And Prowl...your cortex doesn't have to be attached to your frame to work."
Jazz didn't argue that he'd be out of the brig in a breem. Prowl didn't dare say anything—he was so rarely scolded that he didn't know what to do.
"You three," Ratchet continued, "will resolve this. Now. No one's in or out until it's done. You have one orn."
Jazz sat straight. "Uh—"
Ratchet shot him down with a glare more lethal than anything the jets fired. He raised a warning hand, restraining his urge to smack Jazz with his datapad. But he didn't trust himself not to break the datapad, and he snapped it back to subspace.
With that, Ratchet wiped the rest of the grease and grit off his hands and went into his office, closing the door and sealing himself inside to do inventory filing beside a petrified FirstAid.
Silence. The monitor beeped. They became aware of a faint hum in the background, the sound of power and fluids moving through Ratchet's medical bay systems. Prowl became increasingly aware of Jazz's presence—his engines, his vents, the warmth off his armor. The righteous indignation smoldering beneath the surface.
"...I—" Prowl started.
Jazz didn't move. "Can it."
Prowl's denta clicked shut.
A breem passed.
"...Jazz—"
"Shut up," Jazz said in clipped consonants.
Another breem passed. Prowl shared a look with Soundwave, who gave a tiny shrug and didn't speak.
"You're a Primus-damned calculator," Jazz muttered, "with slagging weeks to figure it out, and you still couldn't think of nothing. I think little ol' me can get a half an orn to think of what to say."
Jazz took one more breem to think, as perfectly still as a statue.
Soundwave shifted behind him, and Prowl found himself rearranged so that he lay more comfortably in the crook of Soundwave's arm. There was a strength there that he accepted, resting his helm on Soundwave's armor. He was tired. So tired. His whole frame felt like tons of lead. Everything Prowl tried had failed utterly. Better to let Soundwave hold him and wait.
So Prowl took a deep vent and began to study Jazz.
Regardless of their current circumstances, studying Jazz was a pleasant task in itself. Many mechs had pointed out how shiny Jazz was—he gleamed beneath the light, and his visor managed to be crystalline blue and reflective at the same time. The curves of his hood and armor shone like razor silhouettes, accented by the striking earthling markings of a high end luxury car. Even distressed, his engine purred.
But where Jazz should have been smooth, polished perfection, there were scuffs. Warped edges. He sat on the edge of the berth, pedes spread to brace himself, and he leaned heavily on his knee joints. His shoulders dragged down. He looked so weary, helm down, his frame rising with each vent.
Prowl had never seen him this tired. Not even after running for days and returning fire on jets.
Jazz wouldn't look at them. He picked at the edge of the berth, and his right pede began to twitch. Movement, speed, anything—every instinct said drive, drive, drive, and he had to sit unnaturally still. No wonder they'd said he was good at running.
"Do three's happen all'a time with 'Cons?" he asked.
"Affirmative. Armada jets form trines. Other mechs follow suit. Trines…" Soundwave tilted his helm. "Trines provide stability. Jets, notoriously highstrung."
Jazz gave a small, bitter laugh. "Ratchet'd probably say the same of us."
There was a small huff from the office, nothing more. Some things were too important to interrupt with a response, no matter how much one was warranted.
Half breen passed. Jazz looked up finally, his features schooled to show nothing.
"Prowler…" He paused, glancing aside. When he got his voice back under control, he kept looking away. "Why?"
Prowl waited, but when there was nothing more for several seconds, he began fidget. Which hurt—the cracks in his armor shifted under their bandages, and his weight of his wrenched doorwing dragged at his shoulder.
"It...why? I don't...?"
Why was everything he said garbled? It sounded terrible. Like Prowl was stalling or deflecting or pretending nothing bad had happened. Jazz made a noise that was more growl than vent, tensing as if he would stand up. Walk out. Leave.
Prowl squeezed his optics shut. He couldn't watch that happen, he wouldn't look—
"No, please, let me try—"
"Prowler, I swear—"
"I'm trying—" Prowl cried, "I'm tryng—I can't —50 percent, questioning our fight. 45 percent, questioning the possibility of a trine. 65 percent, questioning my loyalty. 23, questioning Jazz's sense of worth. 82, unable to form a question beyond one word. I can't process this, I can't process—"
Soundwave moved, putting his arms more firmly around him. Prowl had the feeling that he was being enveloped, enfolded in a protective case. He coughed, shut off and reset his calculations.
"Please...input more data."
Jazz's mouth pressed a flat line. What that meant was impossible to guess. Prowl began crunching the odds and crushed them before he could generate results. Jazz was still looking at him. He didn't know how he knew. Prowl longed for the quiet solitude of his office, of endless ciphers in neat, predictable, orderly rows.
He had one advantage over other mechs, and it had been effectively undermined.
Jazz's vent was more of a shudder. If he seemed more in control, it was only because he had experience holding himself together in hostile situations. And that just made it so much worse.
"Why'd you even think of this?" Jazz demanded. "You ain't a 'con. He put this in your cortex?"
Prowl shook his helm once. "Three was logical. You wanted us both. I thought you wanted us both. I thought...my calculations are in error...unable to process. My outputs are no longer trustworthy."
Jazz shifted his look to Soundwave, who met his gaze evenly. The silent regard reminded Jazz of earth insects, the kind with folded arms, waiting for Jazz to continue. Soundwave approached this just as Jazz did, as a miniature battlefield, and the best strategy was often to simply be patient.
"...and the fight?" Jazz asked.
Soundwave answered readily. He had gone over the reasons and the fight itself and its aftermath over and over again, crafting his response and tweaking the phrasing each time.
"Jazz, superior at evasion. Required bait and full assault. Did not anticipate the fight to grow heated. Did not anticipate prior knowledge and condemnation of this method of attack. Did not anticipate Jazz's anger. Fight, badly managed. Outcome, undesired."
A regretful vent. "Soundwave, grossly inferior at courting."
Jazz scoffed. "Understatement ain't got nothing on you, mech."
Soundwave readjusted his hold on Prowl, touching his cassette case with one hand. "Jazz...does not desire Prowl? Soundwave?"
Jazz's faceplate tightened. Clenched the berth so hard that it dented. His engines revved and spun with nervous energy. Another breem passed. They were close to the end of their orn.
Soundwave gave a small, impatient vent. "Soundwave, desires Prowl. Desires Jazz. Jazz, must provide answer or else progress impossible."
Jazz put his face in his hands.
"You say like it's so damn..." he whispered. "How does this even work? I ain't never...and then you two…? Is this what it's like? Is this what it's always like? I thought—ain't mechs in love s'posed to know what the other's thinking? Ain't mechs s'posed to just...I don't know. Click? I don't know how this works. Wouldn't this just be easier if I disappeared and you two didn't need me—"
Prowl stifled his keen, but not fast enough. There was comfort in being held close in Soundwave's hands, but not enough to stop the hurt that such a question brought.
"Negative," Soundwave said for him. "Infinitely harder. Jazz, desired."
"Enough for kidnapping," Jazz laughed once, helplessly. "Reprogramming."
"Jazz, very fast," Soundwave said. "Communication impossible without some method of enforcing your presence."
Soundwave glanced meaningfully at the door, then back at Jazz.
Jazz closed his optics.
Prowl tried to flush his system with coolant and found that his tanks were still locked in a self-repair cycle. Ratchet's painkillers were slow-acting. The pain was dull and nauseating, and he couldn't tell anymore where the pain was coming from.
"Why would you even want me?" Jazz said. "I'd sooner stab ya than...than… Why're you even fighting so hard?"
"I have an alphabetical list" Prowl murmured. "I can compile the list chronologically if you want."
Jazz gave him a look.
"Query," Soundwave said. "Why is Jazz fighting so hard?"
Soundwave had to fight himself not to reveal any expression. The damn social protocols fought to make his emotions clearer to everyone around him, but it wouldn't help anything if he showed how much he wanted to hold Jazz close like an errant cassette.
"I don't know," Jazz muttered. "I don't know. I…"
Soundwave nodded once. He'd suspected it, but now was his opening to finally say it.
"Jazz, afraid."
Stiffening as if struck, Jazz glared at Soundwave as if he might flip a knife into his hand in that moment. Soundwave didn't look away, confident in his own calculations, and he'd been stabbed by Jazz before anyway. If it had to happen, at least he was already in medbay.
But he didn't think he'd need Ratchet's services. Jazz was, as he would have put it, on the ropes. He'd never faced Soundwave looking this tired, this close to defeat. Soundwave imagined that his optics were shut and exhausted behind the visor.
"S'funny, know?" Jazz said. "I couldn't choose between you before. And now you're offering 'zactly that. And I just...can't…I can't..."
Prowl tensed, about to speak—Soundwave tightened his hold. The grip wasn't painful, just enough to warn Prowl away from interrupting.
"I ain't programmed this way?" Jazz offered. "I ain't...never been able to…"
He could be programmed that way. But he quailed at having his cortex touched. Decepticon tortures, forced downloads, viruses and worms and being chained up and overloaded and reprogrammed…He'd been chaste for his whole life, crossing cables with no one but enemy combatants against his will.
Except with Prowl. Except with a mech who wanted Jazz's touch, even at great risk to himself. Who demanded it now, again at great risk to himself. And so did Soundwave, who'd defied his own programming to bring himself into Jazz's reach. They'd altered themselves again and again for Jazz.
In the grand scheme of things, what was one more transformation?
"I have to be the one," Jazz said suddenly. "If it happens. Programming. I have to be the one. To change it. To. Three. To."
He stumbled, lost track of what he was trying to say, wasn't even sure of what he was saying. But it didn't matter. Soundwave seemed to understand, nodding once, and Prowl was looking at him with wide optics, afraid he had misheard or made an error.
"Slow," Soundwave said. "Without pressure. Without...haste."
Jazz stared at him. Nodded once, slowly.
"So...a cube?" he said. "Like...just talking? Just—just laying groundwork, right? Just friends? Ain't no thing?"
"A small thing," Prowl corrected. "Very small. One percent."
Jazz considered that.
"One percent…" He tilted his helm. "And...we'll see."
He released his grip on the berth, leaving behind dents the size of his fingers, puncture marks from his claws. His engine stopped groaning, which he hadn't even noticed before, and he started to lean back.
"'Course...don't know when...I mean, I fell into recharge on a pile of slag I still gotta finish..."
The office opened. FirstAid all but fled, giving them all a quick nod as he entered a medical override on the door and vanished. Following more slowly, entering information on a data pad, Ratchet stepped out and leaned against the wall, muttering loud enough to hear.
"'Bout Primus damned time… Prowl, you're on medical leave for five shifts. Soundwave, you are under house arrest for five shifts unless summoned by another officer. And Jazz...while our Second in Command, faction tactician and the only thing between us and absolute chaos, is broken...you are to provide his security. Understood?"
Security meant standing at Prowl's door. Or staying in his own berth just down the hall. It was effectively house arrest while not being under house arrest. Worse—there was responsibility attached. He couldn't just hightail and find a battle to hide in. Whoever had come up with this punishment had tailored it just for him. Jazz opened his mouth to start protesting—there were field reports, weapons requisitions, the information coming from the defecticons—
Ratchet turned his datapad around and showed Jazz the record of his temporary new assignment. With the signatures and addendums.
Signed and Confirmed: Optimus Prime (You need rest, Jazz. And no pressure.)
Signed and Confirmed: Ironhide (you break it, you bought it)
Jazz let his hand drop, all the wind taken out of his doorwings. Just one more reason to vow vengeance on Ironhide.
"Mirage'll handle all your slag," Ratchet said. "While you three get the hell out of my bay."
"Sir, yessir," Jazz said quickly. "We'll just be on our way then."
"Reassure me you aren't going to do anything else stupid," Ratchet demanded. "Where?"
"Uh…" Jazz glanced at Soundwave, who shrugged, more used to Starscream's yelling than answering his demands. "First, uh, down to the officer's mess...grab a cube. Just a cube...then we'll put Prowl down, go back to our berths, and think real long about what we done."
Ratchet huffed but didn't contradict him.
Across from him, Soundwave stood more slowly, helping bring Prowl to his pedes. The painkillers had finally begun to kick in, and Prowl leaned heavily on Soundwave's hand. Maneuvering him toward the door was an awkward, clumsy thing with one mech almost a third taller than the other, with Prowl swaying in and out of a medically induced haze.
With a long-suffering vent, Jazz came on the other side and put Prowl's arm over his shoulders.
'Bee, Smokescreen, clear the hall, Jazz said. I want no one from here all the way to the main lift, got it?
Bumblebee pinged back positively. Already done. Ratchet's orders.
Jazz gave a small laugh and didn't look back. Ratchet was still watching, and throwing any kind of grateful comment would just rile him up worse. So Jazz settled for sending an affectionate ping of thanks and accepting the exasperated command to get out.
Optimus leaned back in his seat. It had been nerve-wracking, riding a fine line between holding vigil on his two friends versus allowing them some semblance of privacy. Bots had the right to keep their love lives under wraps and out of the eye of their colleagues, but—as Ironhide had pointed out—these bots were too high ranking and too utterly ridiculous to allow that much leeway.
"Admit it," Ironhide said, folding his arms as he watched the security camera feed. "They're as bad as slaggin' sparklings."
"Or one of Boom-Boom's melodramas," Optimus said. "Still...I'm happy for them. They've got a good chance."
"If they survive each other," Ironhide said. "And the war. 'Take it slow' my aft, not when one of 'em could take a 'Con bullet to the spark any day."
Optimus couldn't argue with his friend's practical cynicism, but he did let out a long, tired vent. He'd had to stop from watching over his loyal followers to look over orbital scans and approve future battleplans. It was part of the job he hated. He could move amongst mechs and provide the comfort and relief they wanted to hear. It was harder to put them in harm's way instead. He—
Rough, scratchy audio patched into his main feed, using RedAlert's highest priority tags.
Optimus, red hot data packet, Mirage called. Fireflight and Silverbolt coming your way.
Optimus frowned. Mirage's signal was patched through both RedAlert and Ironhide and he still sounded distant.
What's wrong? he said. Why's your signal so rough?
I'm with Hound and 'Comber on forward recon, Mirage answered. We're at the edge of signal strength, even with Cosmos and Blaster boosting. We're recalling everyone we can reach.
Optimus didn't bother asking on who's authority. His officers had his complete trust. If they said to prepare—
What's coming? he started, but by then he heard the sound of running pedes in the hall.
Ironhide had his rifle ready as a precaution, although there was no hesitation in letting the two aerialbots come sprinting in, overheating and venting heavily. From the look of their armor, Fireflight had been out in the sun and sand, and Silverbolt had provided the escort in for a faster delivery.
"Sir," Fireflight said, giving a quick, sloppy salute. "'Cons...'Cons scrambling. They're massing...huge attack. Coming from...sunrise. Harder to see 'em. They...they..."
"Take a deep vent," Optimus said. "How did you know? Red Alert says there's nothing for miles."
"...Acidstorm," Fireflight admitted, unable to meet Optimus' look. "He sent a warning through...oh Primus. I gave him a datapad, sir. And he...he just sent me a message."
"And you trust him?" Optimus said, turning his attention to Silverbolt. "You?"
"I ran it by Whisper," Silverbolt said, flinching at Ironhide's exasperated groan. "All of them heard. All the Defecticons. They all swear it's real, sir—all of them."
Optimus pinged his security officer. RedAlert? Your opinion? Do we take their word for it?
It's an advanced warning, RedAlert said. Either it's a fake-out, in which case we call it a drill, or else it's real. But I'm receiving a visual confirmation as well, Prime. If the footage is edited, I can't catch how.
Optimus nodded to himself as if he'd expected this.
"So Megatron's massing an attack," Optimus said. "Finally. I'd wondered how long it would take. The only question is how many mechs he thinks he can still trust to bring with him."
"How many?" Ironhide demanded, looking at the fliers.
Fireflight was already pulling the datapad from subspace, putting it down on the workstation. The transmission playing on the screen was obviously coded, but it was actively being deciphered and converted on the fly as both Blaster and Red Alert worked on it.
The datapad doing the broadcasting was clearly resting inside a jet's cockpit. Acidstorm's, if the paint job was any indication. And he flew in the middle of a formation of jets that spread in all directions as far as they could see from the small screen, soaring over endless miles of ocean.
"All of them, sir," Silverbolt said. "Thundercracker's commanding the Armada, but...it's all of them."
Ironhide gave a low whistle.
"Looks like we're gonna test out your theory," he said.
"All the Decepticons on earth," Optimus said softly.
Optimus closed his optics. He had suspected. But now that meant he had to be right one more time, gambling with the lives of his followers as he threw the dice yet again.
"RedAlert," he said. "Scramble everyone. All hands on deck. Prepare to receive the enemy."
He gave a few words of reassurance to his aerialbots, shoring up their confidence, and sent them on their way. There was no question of loyalties or how the other Autobots would react to them or any other cross-factionists. Under a real attack, not the posturing of Thundercraker's flights to escape Megatron's wrath but a real attack, there could be nothing but true defense, return fire, and casualties.
At least, Optimus hoped so.
Movement at his workstation caught his glance. In the main hall, Prowl and Soundwave had paused, still holding each other, but Jazz was gently extricating himself out of Prowl's hold. The three of them stood for a moment, saying something that Optimus couldn't hear. And then Jazz had changed form, speeding down the hall, leaving the remaining two looking lopsided and unbalanced without him.
Without a word, Soundwave then turned Prowl away, toward the tactical hub of the entire base. Medicated or not, wounded or not, Prowl had to work, and at least he had Soundwave to take the bulk of the background processing off of his back.
I'm so sorry, Optimus thought. That this had to happen right now…
He wondered if Jazz was happy for the reprieve. And wondered if Jazz was once again torn in two.
Not a good state for the Special Operatives commander to be in before a fight.
There was still plenty of time before the battle. The respective bases lay thousands of miles from each other. At least two, three hours would pass before they arrived. Enough time for his army to prepare. Enough time for them to think. To imagine. To overthink and worry and second guess themselves. Enough time to need some optimism.
He stood and drew his ion baster, holding it in a relaxed grip like Ironhide, who scowled at the sight.
"I ain't happy with you wanting to fight," Ironhide said.
"I go where the fight is," Optimus said simply. "That's where I'm needed most. With my mechs."
Ironhide huffed and walked out with him, perpetually alert even so deep in the Ark, guarding the Prime's way. They were alone, if for a brief moment, and in the command elevator, he gave voice to the quiet worries he would never mention around the rest of the Autobots.
"You really think we got any hope of winning?" Ironhide said. "They're warbuilds. Jets. All at once...they'll know they were in a fight, but…"
"O ye of little faith," Optimus smiled. "We know about this because of a Decepticon. Megatron's running angry and running scared. We have Soundwave, and Starscream's been taken off the field. So have almost a dozen of his mechs."
"He's got a ton more," Ironhide said.
They came out into the main hall, walking amonst the bots topping up their energon and coolant. He gave them reassuring nods, a few words. Mostly he stood tall and looked like he had every confidence in the world.
"He has numbers," Optimus admitted. "But...loyalty. That can't be commanded. That can't be bought. And now he has no other choice but a fight he doesn't want."
"'Doesn't want'?" Ironhide said. "He's sure bringing a lot of mechs for a party he doesn't want to attend."
"Remember, he's all pressure and fear tactics," Optimus said. "'Do not interact'. But he's lost so much control that he has to bring the whole army so they all keep each other obedient. And now his army is going to interact with mine. I finally have a chance to speak directly to them."
"They'd sooner shoot you than listen," Ironhide said. "They been 'Cons for years. You said it yourself, they're warbuilds."
"True." Optimus nodded once. "True."
He had no choice. He had arranged his pieces across the board to make this his play. It was unorthodox, not a true battleplan but a wing and a prayer.
"Freedom is the right of all sentient beings," Optimus said, more to himself than Ironhide. "I just have to hope that they'll give me an opening to give them a choice."
A thought struck him. On a whim, he sent a ping to Ironhide, asking him to use a moment to have one of his mechs draw something on the ground outside the Ark.
Ironhide frowned and had to study the image a few times before he realized what it was.
"Oh. Oh!" Ironhide looked up at him and once again wondered if he followed a madmech. "Are you serious?"
Optimus nodded stoically, but a small laugh escaped out from behind his mask.
"Slaggin' hell." Ironhide sent along the command to Cliffjumper, Brawn, and Powerglide, glad at least to give them something to occupy their impulsive natures, but this… "You know Megatron's gonna see this."
Optimus nodded again. With bright optics.
Ironhide shook his helm once.
"We better fuckin' win."