Author's note: Hello again. I want to thank those of you who reviewed: you motivated me to post a second chapter. :)
Anodythe: I'm glad you like it. :) The mystery doesn't last long, and I hope you like the reveal...though I won't say too much as the story's not even close to finished. Hope you enjoy this next part!
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, and so far there are no OCs. The plot is mine, though, and mine alone...bwahahaha...
Chapter One
Sometime during his confrontation with the Command Trine, the explosions had stopped. The sky was black and empty; a barren wasteland of stars, but he could no longer see it. First Aid lay on his back, staring up into the eerie stillness of the medbay ceiling, and felt only one thing: relief. Aching, soothing, pulsing relief flooded through his systems with the energon Ratchet was pouring through his lips; he reveled in the way his newly repaired internals accepted the fuel.
"…utter idiocy of attacking a seeker with a close range weapon?! I thought you had more sense!" Ratchet's tirade paused as he twisted a bolt cruelly into place. First Aid barely felt it. "Well, I thought you had some sense, at least." The CMO corrected.
First Aid chuckled, allowing the sound to hold all his cheer, conveying to the CMO that nothing could sour his mood now. "You should have known better than that, Ratchet." He giggled. Ratchet gave his helm a hard tap with his knuckle.
"Don't chortle. I need you still." He muttered, ire somewhat placated by the fact that his patient wasn't a shivering wreck. "What did those seeker's do, tape your wounds in place?" He snarled, switching his scalpel for a welder.
First Aid shrugged. Unbidden, hazy images rose in his mind's eye: scarlet eyes and purple fingers; a pale smile that revealed neat denta and sharp fangs. "They did their best." He murmured soberly. Ratchet's servos stilled for an astro-second before continuing in their work.
"Yes, well…" He growled, but his movements became softer. "I'm pleased you both made it." He added gruffly. "I'm going to initiate stasis, now."
First Aid smiled. He continued to smile as Ratchet started he cycle. His smile remained as the darkness came, sudden and silent; peaceful. Recharge came, and First Aid's lips still spread and ticked up at the corners in an expression of happiness that nothing could mar or stain.
Ratchet watched him for a few moments, optics tired and faceplates drooping. Unbidden, his gaze flicked to the high-powered rifle that leaned against the wall of the medley. It's sleek black surface was stained with thick streams of energon; globules of the substance clogged the mechanisms. The gun was familiar. First Aid had been clutching it tightly when Ironhide brought him in, but it had never belonged to the medic.
Ratchet turned away with a heavy sigh, and left the medbay.
Many Vorns Later
Little pedes pounded over even, sleek floor. Grey plating flashed as a small, thin form darted past a shaft of sunlight, sending rays ricocheting into shadows that seeped into the hallway, seeming to smother whatever light sought entry. A single kick against the steel floor sent the tiny figure soaring, arms and legs gracefully extended, into open darkness. An opening loomed, and the figure flew through it with ease, tucking its small body and rolling through the air. Once through, its limbs spread once more, and the figure fell down in an open-armed descent down the inside of the elevator shaft. Delicate digits tapped against wires, keeping the figure a safe distance from cables that could shred through light armor at these speeds. Air whistled past, licking over a sleek, unadorned chassis and simply shaped box-helm, tickling the horn-like protrusions that served as sensors. With a chirp, the form curled tightly, angling its feet and spinning forward until it almost brushed the wall. With a snapping motion that cracked in the rushing air, it unfolded. Tiny servos flared, spreading digits wide, and then-
Slam! The digits caught. The little bot came to a jerking halt, smacking against the wall and bouncing away, held midair by a convenient ladder-rung. It was the top ladder rung, and placed immediately above it was a square indent sliced thinly along its length in several places. It was a grate, and the nimble bot knew it. Ecstatic, evil clicks and warbles bubbled soft from a rasping vocalizer, and the figure heaved itself up onto the top rung, releasing its digits from the bar carefully, one by one. As soon as all were freed, the delicate mandibles attacked the grate, silently slipping into crevices and pulling free already suspiciously loose bolts. There were old scuff marks where the digits clenched, as though it was a frequently used escape hatch rather than a vent.
One harsh tug later, light spilled into the elevator shaft, flooding the pipes and cables with golden streams, glinting off of rusty, neglected metalwork. The chirp that echoed through the long, vertical shaft was decidedly smug.
Carefully, one silver leg poked out into the empty hallway beyond the vent. It tentatively felt for purchase; large, flat base patting the wall and wiggling further, seeking some sort of higher ground than the floor, and finding none. There was a confused bleep, and the leg fell limp. Its owner ruminated on this unexpected development, in no doubt, apparently, that there should be a higher surface there. It was a very simple situation. There should be a manner of exit that did not involve a loud collision with the floor. There was not. A solution must be found, as the elevator shaft could not be returned to with dignity intact. Niether, however, could an expedition to the hallway end in anything but absurdity. In both cases, precious self-esteem was lost.
The solution to the conundrum came in the form of five large digits wrapping around the little bot's limp, exposed limb. A harsh tug brought the wiry ball of silver indignation out into the lit hall, squealing, thrashing, and bleeping furiously.
A blue visor glowed cheerfully into the smooth silver face of the smaller bot, and a huge, charming grin spread across the attacker's features.
"Well hey there, little guy." Jazz cooed worriedly. "I though that pede poking outta there looked a bit suspicious." His smile was more akin to the cat who at the canary than a responsible adult finding a less responsible child in a dangerous situation, however, and the little bot wasn't buying his charade.
Static laden beeps blared, and the little face gave in to the smile that had been threatening to break free with an exaggerated show of exasperation.
"What? I won? Primus, were you playin' a game?" Jazz asked, seemingly incredulous. "Oh, Bee, y'can't go 'round playing dangerous sports now, can ya?"
Obediently, the sparkling shook his little helm vigorously.
"No sir-ee, not 'til you're Special Ops!" The saboteur asserted firmly, grinning smugly and spinning on his heel. Strong black and white legs swished back and forth beneath the suspended sparkling, large pedes landing with surprisingly soft clicks against the metal floors. The white digits clasping Bumblebee's grey plating wriggled slightly, the pinky deftly freeing itself and poking into sensitive seams.
Bumblebee chortled, outright guffawing as the pinky delved into his hip seam.
"I still got it." Jazz chuckled quietly to himself.
"Jazz, I need you to-" Prowl stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of his fellow officer. He blinked. Several times. The image did not fade or alter in the slightest. Bumblebee perched atop the saboteur's helm like some sort of bizarre ornament, chin and chassis thrust out, haughty blue eyes eyeing Prowl with a scorn no sparkling should be able to achieve. Between the sparkling's silver knee-plates, Jazz's face assumed a slack and innocent appearance. His walk was casual, as though there were nothing atop his head but air, and how foolish Prowl would be to think there was a sparkling there. Tcha! For shame. Jazz was innocently reporting for duty, not serving as a taxi for midgets smaller than he.
With a sigh, Prowl shuttered his optics and continued. "I need you to report to Optimus. You're already seven breems late."
"Gotcha Prowler!" Came the jovial reply. The two bots - large and small - practically skipped out of his office, and the door slid shut behind them.
If a chuckle came from behind his desk as the two frolicked away, no one was there to hear.
Optimus Prime's office had changed since the years of war. Instead of datapad reports and strategic holograms, there were statistics on Praxian agricultural crystals and diagrams representing the shapes they could be formed into using seeker turbines. Notifications and suggestions for Iacon's growing trade district were piled in a heap by the Prime's desk on the floor; more of them were spread in what no mech dared call a carpet of datapads across most of Optimus' floorspace. His desk was filled with communication servers, courtesy of Blaster's media companies (yes, there were plural), and a few knick-knacks that carried enough sentimental value that they each had a few square human feet of desk-space. His chair was even less comfortable that the one he had (he now considered) indulged in during the war, being nothing more than a large flat square with pillar-like poles for legs. It was already bubbling down beneath his weight in the center, which was another discomfort.
He was seated in this hellish contraption when the scanner by his door detected a visitor. The shrill beeping startled the Prime, and his seating paid the price.
"Come in." He growled into the comm., examining the new aft-shaped hole in his chair with a glower.
Jazz slipped like oil into the office through the sliding doors, a spring in his step, servos held respectfully behind his back. "Heya, boss bot!" The Spec Ops mech greeted, snagging the visitor's chair with his pede and smoothly sliding it beneath his descending aft. His arms, Optimus noted, remained behind him, looped over the back of the chair. It looked uncomfortable, and Jazz was usually allergic to discomfort during debriefs. Optimus frowned behind his battle mask, more than a little suspicious and already resigned to whatever joke the mech had planned.
"Hello, Jazz." He replied politely, but the diplomatic control he had over his voice during the war had lessened during the many cycles he had recently spent as impromptu governor of the entirety of Cybertron, and his words had a peculiar air to them. It resembled the tone Ratchet used when Wheeljack asked for potentially explosive supplies from the medbay: warier than Ironhide during one of Chromia's "moods".
Jazz grinned. "Want my report?" He asked, innocent as a cycle was long. Optimus didn't buy it.
"Please." He asked anyway, willing to wait as long as Jazz saw fit to hide his secret.
"Security patrol - that is, me and Prowler - would like to announce that, as of yesterday, nobot has slugged nor slagged off another. Not in optic range o' us, that is, and you know we love those unpredictable spots from which we may watch and film blackmail unbeknownst to nobot." Jazz's tone became ridiculously dramatic at the end of his report, and his visor wiggled. Prime couldn't help but chuckle, his mood improving with every cheery joke the mech rolled out.
"Alright, alright." He rumbled. "Now, what about Decepticon integration?"
"Slag-heads still chuggin' away at maintainin' the peace. Thundercracker's been promoted as Prowl's Official Second in Command."
"I thought that was your post."
"Naw, Prowler wanted me in a lower position to keep an eye on the grunts of our operation. He deals with the officers, I deal with the hired help."
Optimus nodded, understanding the implication: Jazz was Prowl's second no matter what the forms said; Thundercracker, as an integrated Decepticon, posed as proof of fairness in the security force, to show that Autobots did not favor their own above others. "And the Neutrals?"
"Still happy as all-get-out, but ticked off that they gotta help with clean-up of a war they didn't ask for or support."
"I see." The Prime hummed.
"I got good news too, y'know." Jazz's smile was glistening white, his armor furling out in a display of fluffy cuddliness no Autobot believed anymore. His arms, glistening black and white, uncurled carefully from behind his back, clawed white digits clutching-
The little grey sparkling examined the being fifteen times his size with an air of affectionate disregard, as though the Prime were the sparkling and he the indulgent adult. Silver nubs on a silver helm twitched, scanning Prime's massive frame, and the half-lidded expression of indifference immediately vanished as Bumblebee recognized exactly which adult he was being presented to.
With a high-pitched squeal, the figure leapt from Jazz's loose hold, flying spread-eagled through the air and landing with a ringing clatter on Prime's chest; plastered there like some flattened decoration. His digits immediately slipped into crevices in Optimus' armor, eliciting a deep, heartfelt chuckle.
From the moment he'd seen the spark, frail and clutched between the Air Commander of the Decepticon's sky blue digits, Optimus had loved it. As a Prime, the sparkling was his subject; his to protect and nurture. As Optimus, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for what the young spark had been through; the mechs that had died to protect and destroy it both. Optimus had loved the spark as much as the Matrix in his chest had, and by the time Bumblebee was a few vorn old, the Prime had all but claimed him as his own, along with 80 percent of his officers. Red Alert vowed to ensure the sparkling's safety, but he wasn't really the fatherly type…or the motherly type; there had been a few of those despite the majority of Optimus' officer cadre being male. Jazz was a perfect example.
"Found 'im in the Spec Ops stair well, or so its been dubbed. Lil' guy's gettin' better at...well, everythin' 'cept caution." Jazz drawled proudly. The sparkling smiled up at Optimus, face-plates squeaking with the strain the expression exerted on the thin metal. Optimus curled his enormous arms and body around the little bot, bestowing upon him one of the heavy, warm hugs the sparkling coveted. When he looked up, he could almost swear he saw a little jealousy in Jazz's pout as the mech eyed the comfortable-looking embrace.
"Oh sure, now that I brought the vermin, I'm chop liver." The mech muttered, slipping easily from his seat and slinking to the door. Optimus ignored the comment. The sparkling in his arms was wriggling and singling under the smooth edges of his armor, and the sight was far too adorable to ignore.
Outside in the hall, Jazz grinned to himself, shaking his black-helmed head. Deep cooing and high giggles came from behind the sliding door, and the sounds were so contagious, Jazz had to beat a hasty retreat. Wouldn't want some mech walking up to find him leaning against the wall outside Prime's office, beaming sappily and giggling like a fool.
He was reminded of how grateful he was the sparkling had survived. The intricate details of that dark night rose as well, and Jazz's smile transformed into a cold sneer as he walked along the vibrantly orange walls of the Autobot embassy; the Ark. Black anger weaved its way into the saboteur's movements, lightening his step and smoothening the swing of his arms. His left servo twitched, the gleaming digits trembling before clenching into a fist. If only he'd been there when First Aid was betrayed…but there was nothing to do about it now. The mech was dead, and both medic and sparkling had been saved by seekers rather than their fellow Autobots.
Still, Jazz silently and bitterly cursed Cliffjumper's name, an old ache throbbing in his spark.
Author's note: So...you know who shot First Aid now, at least...even if you don't know, you know, why. I do apologize for the time skip; there is a reason behind it, I promise. Please keep reviewing! I'd like to know what you guys think. BTW, this is the second time I post this chapter. I read through it again, and realized that spellcheck is almost as unhelpful as it is helpful when dealing with invented words.