Warnings: Swearing, ideological topics.
Disclaimer: Copyrights, thy name is jerkface.
Rating: M
Summary: As an unconscious Prowl is rushed into the medbay his comrades begin to discuss the events that occurred, and more importantly, why.
Author's Note: Sorry about the excessive length. Hopefully it's worth it.
My thanks to Richard'sQueen aka LGFS, Shizuka Taiyou, Fianna9, and Jacqueline Walker. Reviews are sincerely appreciated, so the more, the merrier!
Chapter Three: Two Sides to the Conflict
"All my years to this moment.
All my roads to this wall.
All my words to this silence.
All my pride to this fall."
‒ Catherine Fisher, Incarceron (Songs of Sapphique)
Optimus Prime strode down the lengthy corridor, Wheeljack bounding at his side. Gray soot marred the red and green paint along the inventor's chassis, blending the colors against the overall silver layout of his frame. It had been at the scientist's invitation that the commander had visited Wheeljack's lab to witness the unveiling of his newest project. (When Optimus had notified Ironhide of his intentions several hours ago, the weapons specialist had merely rolled his optics and harrumphed: "Should I go ahead and get a repair booth reserved for him now, or later?")
Despite Wheeljack's well-meaning intentions, there was no denying the truth in Ironhide's words, all things considered. The thick layer of ash coating the inventor's armor was a testimony to how often his devices literally and figuratively backfired. In spite of his growing list of failed projects, Wheeljack had endeared himself to the Autobots through his eccentric charms and fondness of "mixing highly potent chemicals together just to see what happens," as Hoist had called it after one rather nasty explosion.
In fact, Wheeljack's status for blowing things up was so legendary that those familiar with his antics had developed a sixth sense of knowing when to duck.
Hence why Optimus didn't share his grimy appearance. It seemed that quick battle reflexes had more purposes than dodging missiles.
If only the explosion this evening had been the worst of Optimus' troubles.
Following the post-Apocalyptic firestorm that buried part of the lab in a pile of rubble, Silverbolt had picked his way through the demolition zone, his underling Air Raid in tow. The normally brash and outgoing Aerialbot had been subdued, Silverbolt even more so. Commander and soldier alike had stiffly relayed the events that had transpired in five quick words, enough to deliver the severity of the situation. Not waiting for further explanation, Optimus had maneuvered around them and dashed out of Wheeljack's bay with said inventor in tow.
"Prowl tried to kill himself."
Even in his head, the words stung with all the sharpness of a rusty dagger.
An approaching commotion heading their way abruptly jolted Optimus out of his thoughts.
At the head of the procession was Ratchet, trademark scowl fixed firmly. A new, frenzied panic darkened the medic's optics as he ushered along a portable medbay stretcher. The device was the result of one of Wheeljack's experiments that didn't self-destruct. A berth of sorts that lacked wheels, it could rove freely about its environment relying on electromagnetic pulsations constantly produced by a battery pack and copper wires that supplied an endless feedback loop. The rest of the explanation involved mathematical equations, quantum mechanics, radiant energy, and too much slagging free time required to comprehend the previously-mentioned components. Lacking both the time and the patience to humor Wheeljack's lecture, Optimus had taken the appropriate course of action and substituted himself for the closest 'bot at hand—Blaster—to be left to Wheeljack's tender mercies.
Those reminisces were shattered as the stretcher neared. The frame rested atop the silvery metallic-blue surface was Prowl's, and only was the tactician distinguishable by his doorwings and red chevron. Every surface area of his spasmodically twitching body was transfigured by Energon. Spatters of the azure fluid rendered his normally black-and-white paintjob beyond recognizable. Armor plating along the Praxian's left arm was removed, and it was impossible to believe that the sparking tangle of wires along his exoskeleton had once been a functioning limb. Arcs of electricity jumped between the severed wires and cables.
Shocked stupid by the sight, Optimus stopped. Next to him the inventor had backed against the hallway's wall, mouthplates gaping yet intelligible sounds refusing to leave his vocalizer.
By way of greeting him, Ratchet snapped, "Either move your aft, or I'll move it for you!"
Deciding that he liked Option One better, Optimus shifted, giving the grizzled medic room to pass. Only then did it come to the Prime's attention that several other Autobots loped behind him.
Jazz was the closest to Ratchet, nearly stepping on the medic's heel with each footfall. While his optics were guarded by the crystalline visor spanning his face, the saboteur's chaotic EM field was evidence enough to how he felt.
Supported between the twins was Ironhide. Globules of fresh Energon dribbled down the weapons specialist's chin as he used Sideswipe and Sunstreaker as a crutch. Neither warrior complained at having to support the trigger-happy mech between them. Although Sunstreaker's twitching upper lip gave away his immense dislike of having his pristine paint being bled upon.
Behind the threesome trailed Bluestreak, farthest from Prowl and with a miserable expression rooted to his faceplates. Seeing the sharpshooter so forlorn disturbed Optimus. Concern for the talkative mech welled up in his spark, but more pressing matters were taking precedence. Already the red-and-blue Cybertronian was falling in step alongside Ratchet, matching the medic gait for gait. Without even registering it Wheeljack had synchronized with the assorted mechs. He trailed at the back, an arm slung over Bluestreak's shoulders, his chirps too soft to decipher as he pressed his face close to the sniper's.
Almost out of morbid fascination Optimus regarded Prowl's supine form. The relentless surge of Energon from his wrist and various smaller cuts was staining the stretcher and rapidly dripping down its sides.
"Condition?" demanded Optimus, not trusting his vocals to utter more than one word at a time.
"Bad," Ratchet growled. Never once did his piercing blue optics stray from the tactician as he steered the levitating stretcher down the corridor.
"Elaborate, please."
"I've only run preliminary scans on him and I can tell you right now, the damage is severe," Ratchet answered darkly. "Torn wires, broken Energon lines, entire subroutines corrupted externally and internally—that's not even the worst of it. Couldn't even perform rudimentary repairs on him because the fragger had his sensor grid turned up so high that one touch nearly short-circuited his neural net. If Prowl lives through this, he'll be a medical miracle for not bleeding to death."
"If—?" squeaked Bluestreak somewhere from behind, kliks later hushed.
While the report was professional in nature, deeper, sparkfelt anxiety twined the medic's too-tense voice. The approaching visual of medbay saved Optimus from having to reply to that, and not just because he didn't know how. It felt as if a sandblaster had been administered to his audio circuitry, rendering the vocalizer useless.
Waiting outside the sliding doors was Hoist. The dark green mech furrowed his optic ridge and frowned, but made no comment other than, "Aid's got the ICU prepped and sterilized."
Nodding his thanks, Ratchet angled the gore-covered stretcher toward the open-paneled doors before addressing Optimus: "Please remain outside the medbay until Prowl is stabilized." Turning to Ironhide, the dusky-yellow medic informed him curtly, "Since your injuries are not life-threatening, I will deal with them once I have finished here first."
Coldly the black mech regarded him. On either flank the twins tensed, expecting some form of quarrel. After a klik Ironhide conceded: "Got it."
Vorns of having personally known the massive warrior gave rise to suspicion, something that Optimus could not ignore. Discreetly he lowered his battle mask—having neglected to remove it since his visit to Wheeljack's lab—and scrutinized his friend through narrowed optics. Whatever was corroding at Ironhide's spark, it certainly wasn't forced to take a backseat. When Ironhide was mad, he made certain that the entire base knew about it—normally by way of cursing and shooting things with his cannons.
Reality shook Optimus out of his observation in the form of Jazz pleading with Hoist. While Ratchet had already entered the medbay with his burden, Hoist had lingered long enough to deter Jazz from charging after.
"C'mon, Hoist, my main mech"—the black-and-white spy was desperately trying to peer behind the medic's broad chassis—"please, ya gotta let me make sure that he's gonna make it! Ya just can't leave me waitin' out here, not knowin' if—"
"I'm sorry, Jazz." Traces of the medic's benign personality briefly lit his faceplates. Seconds later that furrowed, heavyhearted look returned. The myrtle-colored Autobot rested a servo on the saboteur's chestplates and gently pushed him away. "Not this time."
Medbay doors slid firmly shut, blocking the group's view of its interior. Smooth, well-oiled locks clicked into place, following by a hum of machinery from the panels that indicated an encrypted security code being set into place.
With a desperate howl Jazz flung himself at the solid barrier, hammering on the panels with clenched fists. "No! You can't do this t' me, Hoist! You can't leave me out here when Prowl could be dyin'!"
At the last two syllables, a constricted whimper welled up Bluestreak.
Both Optimus' CPU and common sense wisely predicted that the saboteur was creating an unnecessary scene. Cautiously the Prime approached Jazz, careful to not hurt him as he tenderly tugged at his black shoulders and pulled Jazz away.
Complying wasn't so much a conscious choice as it was Jazz's struggles giving way to exhaustion. Fatigue weighed down the saboteur, rendering him limp in Optimus' arms. Enfolded in the Prime's embrace, the visored mech could do little more than protest with disjointed garbles. Gradually those protests faded to static, a silence that was only interrupted by Bluestreak's whimpering and Ironhide's ill-tempered growls.
"Jazz," Optimus rumbled as he ducked his helm closer to the saboteur's. "If I release you, will you not attempt to break down the door?"
Shivers lapsed through the tense black-and-white frame. "Yeah," rasped Jazz, vocalizer clicking nearly to the point of resetting. "I…I promise. Jus'…jus'…"
Unable to finish his thought, the saboteur shuddered deeply and bent his helm in defeat. Reluctantly the Prime unwrapped his broad arms from around Jazz's hunched shoulders. At the loss of contact, abruptly the black-and-white Autobot slumped to the floor with a defeated sound at the back of his throat. Helpless to ease the saboteur's pain, Optimus knelt beside him, facing the medbay doors, and rested a servo on Jazz's shoulder. "He'll live, Jazz," the Prime assured him gently.
Not even bothering to turn toward his commanding officer, he whispered hoarsely, "That's not what I'm afraid of."
"Slag it," came a curse from behind. "Watch where you step, you idiot!"
Oh, Optimus knew better that to turn and look, but curiosity and his duty as CO couldn't stop the Prime from rotating. Perched atop Sunstreaker's shoulders was none other than his twin, limbs shaking as he tried to balance. While the golden warrior had his faceplates turned toward the hallway, Sideswipe busied himself with fiddling at a security camera embedded into the wall. Wires stretched between the device and the wall it was connected it to, hastily played with by the red warrior's clever fingers.
Ironhide watched but gave no inclination to interfere. Either oblivious or unconcerned, Wheeljack had seated himself on a nearby bench usually reserved for mechs waiting to enter Ratchet's domain. Bluestreak was cuddled against the inventor's frame. The reassuring pressure of Wheeljack's hand petting the sniper's helm resulted in a light cloud of ash floating around them.
Apparently none of the "responsible adults" present didn't bother to ask about the twins'…peculiar antics. Venting an exasperated sigh, Optimus rose, however reluctantly so. Jazz required comfort, and the Prime was hesitant to abandon him in order to chastise Sunstreaker and Sideswipe for such unnecessary behavior.
Upon loudly clearing his vents the ruby and golden Autobots stiffened like glitch mice. Painfully so, Sideswipe's wobbling frame adjusted slightly to regard a none-too-pleased Prime, whose frowning faceplates spoke volumes of his dwindling patience. Sheepishness flitted over the contours of Sideswipe's face. Calm indifference shadowed the yellow berserker's faceplates.
"These last three decacycles have been extremely harrowing for all involved. I would have thought," Optimus intoned quietly, "given the gravity of the situation"—here both brothers flinched—"that the pair of you could have found enough self-restraint to refrain long enough—"
"It's not what you think!" Sideswipe interrupted. Somehow it was extremely difficult to take the red frontliner seriously, considering how he was still atop his twin's shoulders with a bundle of wires clutched in either servo. Beneath him Sunstreaker merely grunted, a noncommittal noise that could have either been discomfort or agreement. Shifting to better distribute his weight, Sideswipe insisted, "I was…er…practicing."
"Oh?" Narrowing his blue optics ever so slightly, the Prime inquired, "And what, pray tell, were you 'practicing'?"
"Hacking security feeds for live visuals," grunted Sunstreaker. It was reassuring to know that when confronted with reprimanding, at least one of the siblings had the common sense to fess up.
"You little whelps weren't satisfied with raiding Mirage's quarters and looting from him?" Ironhide exclaimed indignantly. Finally the black mech had drawn himself out of his self-absorbed thoughts.
An optic-roll from Sideswipe dismissed the accusation. "That was business. Besides, the aft had it coming," the red mech explained without a trace of guilt. Optimus revved in aggravation but made no inquiry as to what possessions were stolen from the spy. That was an issue to be resolved later. "What we were doing"—shaking precariously, Sideswipe attempted to focus on the monitor's wiring again—"was…well…intercepting the ICU's livestream footage."
"We wanted to watch the surgery," the golden Autobot elaborated, and there was no mistaking the flash of worry in Sunstreaker's optics.
Shoulders stiffening, the towering Prime rumbled, "Return the camera to its original spot and climb down. Your actions will only upset Red Aler—"
Optimus Prime, sir!
Speak of the mech.
Normally the Autobot commander wasn't one to be called superstitious, but the Security Director's uncanny timing almost brought the word "jinx" to mind. Sighing, Optimus locked onto the incoming airwave and responded with every last scrap of patience he had. Sadly, it wasn't enough. What seems to be the problem, Red Alert?
Exasperation raged across the communiqué, so heartfelt that it was almost palpable. Sideswipe is disabling one of my security cameras! I've said it before, but no, no one would listen to poor old Red Alert when he desperately tried to get his commanders to see the truth!
Another heavy vent escaped his mouthplates. Red Alert—
But there's no denying it this time, the red-and-white mech austerely continued as if Optimus hadn't spoken. Not when that filthy turncoat and his brother are happily fraying the circuitry in the only failsafe defense protocol this base has! Said defectors, at the moment, were disentangling themselves and returning the camera back to its proper location, and none too quietly at that. Their colorful exchange of insults went uncommented on by the other four mechs present. Ironhide was brooding, his sunken and scarred features fixated on the entrance to medical. Wheeljack continued to hug Bluestreak to his flank, while the listless saboteur had yet to rise from his crouch before the locked doors.
Another stab was made at intercepting Red Alert's outburst: I have just ordered them to cease and desist—
At the last officers' meeting you out-rightly denied the possibility of Decepticon infiltration, and now, when I have proof to back my claims, you're letting it slip between your fingers, the Security Director cut across. Amazing, really, how Red Alert could seemingly talk forever.
Grinding his denta together, Optimus slammed a servo into a nearby wall, knowing that with the camera reinstalled Red Alert could see the action from his monitor. At the abrupt movement Jazz sprung to his feet in a startled hop, his helm swinging wildly from side to side. "Now is not the time for your unfounded accusations!" Optimus chastised. Realizing he'd ground out the words aloud, the red-and-blue CO hastened back to his private comm. line. I have a crisis to currently deal with, and my patience is wearing thin. You would do well to save your allegations for later. Return to your post; I will reprimand the twins as I see fit. Understood?
For half a klik Optimus waited, testing Red Alert's ability to shove aside his paranoia and submit to authority. At last a crackling, unhappy burst of static reached his audios. Very well. I will see to it that the rest of the night passes…without event.
Good, the red-and-blue Cybertronian rumbled. At that the Prime terminated the link and swung his crystalline-blue optics toward the now-slouched postures of the twins. Both brothers were suddenly fascinated by their pedes and staring at them fixedly. The corners of Optimus' mouth twitched briefly upward, a ghost of a smile. It always amused him how such battle-hardened soldiers could be reduced to a pair of guilty sparklings under the threat of a direct scolding. Normally discipline fell on Prowl's shoulders. To have Optimus take over that mantle reminded the red and yellow frontliners that there was a higher power, and it had a name that wasn't "cold-sparked fragger."
Coolly he regarded Sunstreaker and Sideswipe with the full knowledge that sometimes a glare was more effective than a lecture. Neither twin stirred for several breems until the taller Autobot sighed. "Tomorrow you will return whatever it is you stole from Mirage to his quarters, along with an apology. Next, I would strongly advise from tapping into live video feed. It is unbecoming of a soldier, and it creates a tedious amount of paperwork. Believe me when I tell you that I would lose no recharge over assigning you both to deskwork to deal with any infiltration reports that Red Alert is tempted to fill out."
Simultaneously the twins flinched. When Red Alert panicked, there was never a shortage of security breaches, lockdowns, and "safety violation forms." The surplus of work that the Security Director generated when he overreacted was often heard complained about at length by commanding officers; aka, those who had to painstakingly go over every report individually before it could be cleared as a false alarm.
Seeing their expressions fall assured Optimus that the message had sunk in, and would be obeyed (for the time being, anyway). Softly, he tacked on, "You know, there are other ways to oversee the surgery besides intercepting the security mainframe."
Piqued by the odd remark, Sideswipe canted his helm and blinked owlishly at the Prime. "How? By crawling through the vents? No, thanks. The last time we tried that Sunny here had a fit 'cause he got dirt and scratches on his darlin' paintjob."
Servos at the golden warrior's side clenched into fists. "Mute it," Sunstreaker snarled. "And don't call me 'Sunny.'"
Sideswipe spared his sibling a warning lookk. Much as their love-hate relationship entailed the occasional fistfight, evidently neither wanted to pass up whatever Optimus was about to say.
When Optimus slowly resumed speaking out of the corner of his peripheral vision he saw Jazz and Bluestreak tense. With a heavy intake the red-and-blue mech murmured, "If you truly wish to watch, then follow me." Much as he knew Ratchet would throw a tantrum at his invitation, Optimus figured it would be worse to see his comrades writhe under the suspense. "I have clearance to oversee the ICU from the surveillance deck."
Suppressive silence greeted his offer. For several kliks none of the present Autobots knew how to respond. Jazz's visor darkened to a flinty, sapphire sheen that was too shadowed to interpret. Bluestreak gaped, jaws parted, while the panels of Wheeljack's helm fins couldn't decide between yellow and red. Black splashed between the two spectrums, staining the other emotions with his anxiety. Neither twin stirred, too stunned to know whether their leader was yanking their chain or not.
From his corner Ironhide remained unmoving, minus the deepening of his growls.
When none of the assembled mechs moved, Optimus' voice took on a more urgent inflection. "If we're going, then I suggest we depart at once." Turning on his heel, the massive Cybertronian strode down the hallway. Seconds after he began moving the ring of multiple pedes echoed his. The spark resonances on his scanner showed Jazz almost directly against his backside. Hot, shaky gusts fluttered over his spinal plates from his and the saboteur's close proximity. Evidently he sought reassurance and comfort, thus clinging desperately to Optimus' personal magnetic fields.
Side-by-side several feet behind were the twins, marching in apprehensive quiet. What was remarkable about them, like all twins, was their spark resonance. At creation their sparks had halved into essentially two different frames with a piece of the same puzzle. Their signatures, when together, only registered as a single being. It was the erratic synchronization of their spark that betrayed their presence.
Wheeljack's spark was a brightly pulsing energy signature that maintained a fairly stable wavelength. It was calm and curious, expanding its parameter to register and track any ambient data it strayed across. Such was the inventor's nature that Wheeljack probably didn't pay attention to the idiosyncrasy, only sifted through the figures as his sensors and spark relayed it to his CPU.
On the edge of his magnetic fields Bluestreak's signature appeared as a vortex—frenzied, chaotic, wild. Every electromagnetic pulse sent a ripple of energy spanning outward from its epicenter. Beside the sniper's spark signature, his presence was given away by his raspy ventilations and the rattle of his gray armor. Bluestreak was panicking, and for once, his talking couldn't offer him the protective barriers he normally hid behind.
Ironhide, Optimus registered immediately, wasn't present. No doubt the scarred weapons specialist was lurking outside of medical where they had left him. Nagging worry pinched at his circuitry, an internal warning that was more instinct-driven than a response registered by his processor. Nonetheless Optimus shunted aside his forebodings. Sooner or later the mech would learn what thoughts were taking precedence over Ironhide's mind; better to let the veteran meditate on whatever was bothering him before confronting his friend.
None of them, Prime reflected grimly, knew what to do. The Pit, none of them had expected such drastic behaviors, and from Prowl of all mechs. Death was a given: this was war they were engaged in, and every orn was a struggle to not slip into the ether, be it on the battlefield, in the medbay, or in the sprawling stronghold of Iacon.
But…
Optimus hesitated in his line of thought as he palmed a door panel. The lit sensor flashed briefly, a thin line scanning over contours and nodes before confirming his identification. With a steamy hiss the thick walls retracted, sliding apart to reveal an authorized elevator shaft. Not a word was passed amongst the ragtag group as they shuffled into the barely spacious box. Creaks resounded from the doors as they scrolled shut. With his spinal struts to the back wall, Optimus was granted a momentary visual of his comrades.
All too soon the elevator shaft jarred to a halt, doors retracting into the wall to reveal a fairly spacious deck. Three of the walls were sturdy titanium, reinforced with a silver polish to brighten the enclosed space. Across the room from where Optimus had emerged was an extended glass window. No sooner had the red-blue Autobot stepped aside that Jazz darted forward, the twins pursuing him. Waiting for Wheeljack to shepherd Bluestreak along, Optimus spared the two mechs a half-smile. Too quick to be completely reassuring, and too faint to offer any real solace.
Like a single entity the trio pressed up behind the frontliners and saboteur to peer beyond the transparent window.
Twenty feet below was an almost blisteringly-white ICU subsection. Lights overhead had been adjusted to regulate both temperature and brightness, giving the bleached room a foreboding feel. At the heart of the operation was a single berth, with Ratchet pressed over it to the point of obscuring their view. Not five feet away Hoist was consulting a large monitor. Data, vitals, and statistics rolled across the various screens. Due to the soundproof make of the window, Optimus knew they wouldn't be able to hear anything said. Not that the present Autobots were dependent on noise for information; the surgery spread out before their optics sufficed in the most menacing of ways.
Red and white armor bounded to Ratchet's side. First Aid's mouthplates moved with the speed of gunfire as the Protectobot passed several devices into Ratchet's arms: laser scalpels, drills, spare gears and wires, solder, a welding torch, wire cutters, a defibrillator… The list went on and on. Jerking his helm in acknowledgement, the yellow medic deposited the medical equipment on a small cart to his right before pulling back. During his rummaging Prowl's form was momentarily exposed.
The black-and-white tactician had a majority of his dermal plating removed sans his pelvic region, legs, and pedes. A sturdy brace locked his helm in place. Offline, the Praxian's optics were lightless, blank lenses that gazed skyward without any trace of recognition. Now that Optimus had the chance to overlook his SIC more thoroughly, the red-and-blue mech felt a thrill of revulsion churn through his tanks. Along Prowl's chevron was a splintered crack. Where black metal had layered his left arm was the tactician's bare protoform. Well, no, not really bare—dozens of slash marks scarred the once-even surface. The worst of the lacerations were deep gouges, opened wide enough to reveal a layer of shredded wires and leaking Energon lines. Twice he'd seen the tactician's handiwork, but the detailed look-over now seemed to worsen the damage.
Before Optimus could force himself to take in more of the mangled sight, Ratchet quickly moved forward to hover over Prowl. His apprentice worked directly across the medical berth, a whirring drill held in his servos as the Protectobot directed it over the chevron. Where drill bit and chevron met sparks erupted.
For the next hour Optimus remained locked in place. He wanted to help. Yet he wanted to hide. Actually, he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore. Prime or not, the sliver of defenselessness he felt weighed heavily in the CO's processor. Self-pity was a paltry emotion for an officer to have, yet inwardly Optimus cringed and tried to bury the sentiment. No point lingering in the realm of what ifs when his duty now was to set an example.
Alongside him his companions remained more or less stock-still, save for when Jazz would begin to pace or Sideswipe would grasp Bluestreak's hand and squeeze it.
Only once Hoist had whirled around, a dark green blur, and abandoned the monitors to answer Ratchet's obviously panicked yelp. Hoist had fled from the operation, leaving the Chief Medical Officer and his apprentice to begin trying to staunch a renewed gush of Energon from Prowl's arm. Hoist had returned not seconds later, dragging with him a fluid pump to be roughly hooked into the tactician's elbow joint. From there the three medics had proceeded to stabilize the flow with an alternative fluid source. Ten painful minutes later the crisis had passed, allowing Hoist to continue observing the monitor while Ratchet and First Aid diligently rewired circuits. At one point the yellow medic had operated at Prowl's helm, prying open several latches to delve into the tactician's processor. It was at that point that Bluestreak had backed away from glass window and refused to watch.
Gradually the three medbots' scurrying ebbed into a practiced, less frenetic routine. It was while Ratchet mopped away at some of the gore around Prowl's arm that he sharply swung his gaze upward. Crystalline blue optics narrowed to slits as they locked on to Optimus'. Knowing all too well that he didn't appreciate the audience, the Prime beat Ratchet to the chase and opened a private communiqué. All at once that snarky voice ricocheted in his ear finials far louder than was considered comfortable.
I'm feeling rather generous this orn, Ratchet muttered as he continued tidying up. You get to choose your punishment. Would you prefer having me rebuild you as something useful, like a motherboard? Or should I rip out your circuits and string them up around Iacon?
If Ratchet was in the mood to terrorize his comrades, then it meant the imminent wave of danger had passed. Optimus allowed himself a dry chuckle that was too short-lived to fool the medic. I could have you thrown in the brig for threatening your commanding officer.
Let's see how long that lasts, huffed Ratchet. Not bothering to maintain optic contact, the yellow Cybertronian scooped up several pliers. He unceremoniously dumped the Energon-stained equipment into a decontamination solvent that First Aid deposited on the cart to his right. Send the others down to medbay; I'll meet you there.
Nodding briskly, Optimus relayed the message to the other Autobots. One by one they dispersed, reentering the elevator shaft to return to ground level. Depression clamped fiercely to the twins', saboteur's, and sharpshooter's frames, tainting the space around them. Wheeljack looked too confused to know how to feel; the black on his helm films had receded to a dull white. A blank slate.
Upon shifting away from the window Optimus was bombarded by a second communication relay, this one far less tolerant:
In the future don't haul along spectators. When I say "wait," I slagging mean it. I'd rather have time to find a presentable answer instead of some impatient 'bots hawking me from the upper deck and coming to their own conclusions.
You know what caused this?
A pause. Then: Yes and no. Like I told you before, it's bad, Optimus. Meet me downstairs. You're not going to like what I have to say…
Just as Optimus had predicted, they found Ironhide were they had left him. In the time it had taken to return, he'd had his jaw realigned, dents buffed out, and cuts healed, evident by the fresh welds his armor sported. The melee warrior had acquired a small container of wax and was sliding a cloth over his cannons. Each stroke added a layer of sheen to the black, whirring firearms. Such behavior wasn't unusual—the weapons specialist was all but bonded to his cannons, and balked at the mere thought of them falling into a state of ruin and decay. That the black mech had chosen to upkeep his weapons systems now, however, was more than a bit peculiar.
The motions were an unmistakable threat.
When Optimus neared Ironhide threw a dark, calculating look his way. A grunt rose from the back of his throat as he gestured with the rag toward the medbay entrance. "Through there. Ratch' says to keep your mouthplates shut or he'll shut 'em for ya."
Sideswipe's shoulders slumped, a feeble grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's that gentle bedside tone of his that's made dear old Hatchet so popular," sighed the red warrior, striding past to be emitted by the sliding doors.
"Why do you think we always hang out in here? Just can't get enough of being insulted and brained by projectile wrenches," Sunstreaker chipped in.
Rather than comment on their disrespect for their superior—it was a waste of breath—Optimus politely inclined his helm to Ironhide before slipping into the medbay.
The medical ward, as always, was kept in an eternal state of cleanliness. Silver-blue metal underfoot glinted like ice, freshly washed and dried by the cleaning drones. Courtesy of Ratchet's regimented conduct, no supplies, equipment, or medications were left lying idly about the various tabletops and counters. Toward the back of the massive room was an assortment of berths. Only one of them was inhabited by the peaceful form of Trailbreaker sprawled atop its surface. Pale black armor on his chassis rose and fell in sync with his intakes. Apart from the quiet whir of circuitry and recharge-induced grunts, the defensive strategist was soundly asleep.
Currently Hoist was leaning against a nearby wall, scrubbing his faceplates. First Aid was located toward the far end of medical, away from Trailbreaker as he oversaw some obscured task. Not four feet away Ratchet was reviewing data that flitted over a translucent screen. Face illuminated by the pale glow, the dusky yellow medic's expression had a spectral vibe to it. His intelligent features creased contemplatively, fingers culling through the data stream by habit. Optimus refrained from making the group's presence know, fully aware that Ratchet knew they were here. It was a matter of when the medic decided to speak to them.
Kliks painstakingly trickled by before Ratchet leaned toward his prodigy and spared First Aid his opinion on some matter. Never turning his optics away from his point of focus (an enigma, given Optimus couldn't see past his shoulders), the Protectobot nodded and shooed him off. Pedes rang unnaturally loud across the floor as Ratchet approached.
A deadpan gaze greeted the six Cybertronians as Ratchet stopped before them. "You, you, you, you, and you." With each you the Chief Medical Officer gestured in turn to all but the Prime. "Unless your name is Optimus or you are leaking some sort of bodily fluid, then get out of my medbay."
"You can't just kick us out," Sideswipe spluttered.
"Perhaps I wasn't clear." Advancing a step closer, Ratchet drew his faceplates almost within tactile distance of the red mech's. The movement was all the more intimidating when one took into consideration the Energon still drying on his hands. "Since your designation can't be changed, I could always proceed with the latter exception. It would give me an adequate opportunity to introduce First Aid to the neural structure of twins. We could run so many experiments…"
Call it bravery or blind stupidity, Sideswipe refused to be cowed. He hissed back, "You can't use the 'pulling rank' slag on me. I'm not leaving."
"Where's Prowl?" Sunstreaker growled. Wraithlike, he materialized next to his brother's side.
Already Optimus' jaws had parted open, ready to order the medic and twins apart, when a shy, soft voice ceased their quarrel: "Ratchet, sir?"
Slowly, uncertainly, white fingers curled across the yellow medic's broad shoulders. Ratchet's growl died down as the red-and-white Protectobot inched closer, torn between obedience and insubordination. Breathing out a long exvent, he reminded his mentor, "We're healers, sir. Our job is to do all in our ability to repair the sick and wounded. But sometimes…" First Aid lowered his aquamarine optics to avoid the the twins' and Jazz's stares. "…sometimes not all of the injuries are external. But we are still obligated to try and fix them."
None of the present company stirred as Ratchet locked up under his apprentice's gentle touch. When it looked as if First Aid was about to ask again, the yellow medic's shoulders relaxed. Murmuring an unintelligible curse under his breath, Ratchet relented and eased out of First Aid's tender grip.
"Fine, fine," the medic rumbled. He must have seen the point in fighting a losing battle, Optimus mused. Impatiently Ratchet jerked his chin toward the spot First Aid had been standing over—a cryogenic regeneration chamber casting an eerie silver glow through the glass. "I have him placed back there—hey!"
Halfway through the CMO's speech Jazz had bolted, his black-and-white frame all but a silhouette as the saboteur moved with predatory grace. Hard on his heel were the twins, less fluid in their movements but equally as swift. Skidding to a halt, the TIC palmed the cool glass and keened softly.
Scuffing his pedes against the floor, Bluestreak squeaked, "T-That's okay. I think I'll head back to my quarters." The gray Praxian made to leave, only to falter when Optimus stilled his retreat with a touch to the arm.
"You did a good job saving Prowl's life," the red-and-blue warrior praised.
To the Prime's shock, Bluestreak averted his optics and darted out of touching distance. Before the crestfallen sniper fled from medbay, he shook his helm, "I doubt Prowl will see it that way." Still shivering, he departed.
Never once did Bluestreak look back.
Creaks resounded from Hoists's joints as the green medic pushed off against the wall. Frowning, the heavyset mech strolled up to Ratchet and gave him a light nudge. "You want me to go after him? The kid looked rattled."
Light flashed over the CMO's optics. Lenses whirred, focusing and refocusing on the entrance that Bluestreak had exited through. After a thoughtful pause Ratchet nodded curtly. "Do not spook him; if Bluestreak asks for peace and quiet, then leave him be and return here." The medic's gaze slid slantways toward the cryogenic chamber. "I may need assistance within the orn…"
Out of respect Hoist dipped his visored helm in a bow. "Yes, sir." Halfway through his leave the myrtle-colored medic leveled Optimus a nervous look. "Optimus? What should I tell others? You know, about…"
For an astrosecond Optimus considered. What was he supposed to do? Lie? There was a minute portion of his processor that couldn't help but resent the Matrix tucked away in his chassis. Couldn't the original Thirteen have bothered to impart some insight on matters such as this? Suddenly being the Prime made him feel a tad helpless. Powerless. Not even the wisdom of the ancients could tell him what to do, and desperately Optimus wanted to soothe the aches his comrades were suffering. Casting a fleeting glance at the three Autobots huddled around the silvery casket, Optimus made up his mind.
"Tell them that we do not know the incentive behind Prowl's suicide attempt, only that we are trying our best to find an answer. Dismissed."
Hoist nodded and charged out of the medbay.
Mentally Optimus braced himself before nodding to the two medics and inventor. On an unsaid accord the Prime ventured toward his comrades with slow, meticulous steps. When the red-and-white Protectobot strode ahead of the procession, Wheeljack leaned in toward Ratchet and teased, "You're going soft. First Aid has got you wrapped around his finger."
Sending a mulish stare in Wheeljack's direction, the medic muttered, "Give me one good reason, and I'll show you just how 'soft' I can be."
Wheeljack grinned. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's rather kinky."
Ratchet didn't even try to dignify that with an answer. Instead the yellow Cybertronian elbowed the soot-stained paintjob at the chest, scowling at his friend. Scrupulously the CMO padded in front of the monitor hooked up to Prowl's cryogenic chamber. Columns of data vibrated; readings flashed; notifications popped up on the screen to relay pressure and chemical gas changes in the capsule. For a moment the medic inhaled deeply, recycled the air, and turned to regard the 'bots present.
"As of this moment"—Ratchet brushed hand over the cold glass—"Prowl has been placed in a frozen state to speed the process of his system's natural repairs. All weapons have been offlined, and his battle computer has been subdued." With an extended palm he gestured to an uplink bridging the gap between the cryogenic chamber and monitor.
"How long do you intend to keep him in enforced stasis lock?" Optimus asked, his spark clenching tightly.
"Three days," First Aid answered. The red-and-white Protectobot stifled an embarrassed grate in his vocalizer, a polite cough, before he added, "Of course, that's a rough estimate. Even after we repaired his injuries, the damages were still extensive."
"Damn him," Ratchet growled. "He's been starving himself. His frame is only three-fourths of its minimal weight. Some of his armor and protoform have been lost in his body's attempt to wring any energy it could. I'm stunned that his self-repair systems hadn't engaged in an automatic shutdown."
Energon pumped through Optimus' lines faster when Ratchet continued: "I…" Here the Chief Medical Officer faltered midspeech, as if stealing himself for he was about to say next: "I ran several diagnostics on his processor to see if there was a directly medical cause. Perhaps a chemical imbalance in his pH levels, exposure to extreme radiation, excess salinity... There was the off-chance he could have interfaced with another 'bot and downloaded a virus."
"And?" For once, Sunstreaker didn't wear his normal, gruff expression.
"Nothing," Ratchet croaked. As if scattering water droplets from his armor, the yellow Cybertronian shook his helm in frustration. "We couldn't find anything wrong, save for the obvious." In a fit of frustration the medic uttered a disjointed snarl from his vocalizer. "I wish his systems had offlined! It would have given us a chance to repair the damage before it became worse." Livid blue optics roved about the saboteur, inventor, and frontliners. "How could we have missed this?"
"Prowl's general behavior has hardly altered," Optimus rumbled, flinching guiltily at the truth in Ratchet's words.
But Sideswipe was shaking his helm from side to side. "No, that's not true. Prowl…" Uncertainly the red warrior trailed off. He revved his engine before resuming: "He hasn't been acting right for the past few decacycles, now that I think about it. He practically bit my helm clean off my shoulders when Sunny and I were drinking high-grade on our break. Prowl told us off for 'wasting our time when there was work to be done,' and sent us on our merry way to do warehouse inventory. And he knew we'd just pulled double shifts. Then, about a decacycle ago, Blaster told me that Beachcomber had to literally drag him from his office to get him to refuel. He's been really pissy for some time. Well, more than usual, anyway."
"Figures." Ratchet leaned into the monitor, faceplates darkening. "Short temper is a sign of depression. So is maintenance negligence. Sounds like he was trying to be reclusive, too, and bring less attention to himself. Since he was already a bit antisocial, we hardly noticed the difference. Slag his advanced logic computer; I'll bet Prowl put two and two together and came up with the same answer."
A wretched, quiet sob rasped out off Jazz's throat. Never taking his optics off of the ghostly appearance of his friend, Jazz hoarsely lamented, "I'm so sorry, Prowler. Ya didn't deserve this."
From behind a gruff voice sneered, "Ya sure about that, Jazz? 'Cause if ya ask me, Prowl had it coming."
Optimus wasn't the only one to whirl around. Jazz gave an unsteady lurch from the cryogenic chamber, denta bared with feral savagery as he shoved his way toward Ironhide. Unbeknownst to the medbay's current occupants, the weapons specialist had slipped inside. The black Cybertronian folded his arms across his chassis, unphased by Jazz's movements even when the two officers were separated by a wire's breadth.
Blue light flashed across Jazz's visor. "What did'ja say, half-bit?"
"Ya heard me the first time." Coldly Ironhide sized up his opponent, his gaze meeting the other Autobots' for a nanoklik to gauge their reactions. Minus Jazz's indignant outburst, no one else moved, too stunned by the veteran's declaration to do more than listen. "If he was so willing to end his own life, we should have let him go about his business and be done with it."
"You—You—" Incoherent with rage, Jazz could only emit strangled hisses that bordered white noise.
Ironhide's optic ridge inched upward, posture unflinching as he sized up the TIC. "Don't deny it, Jazz. What good is an advisor to his own faction if he doesn't give a damn about the lives of his subordinates?"
"What?" Wheeljack squawked.
A snort of disgust left the hulking black warrior as he flashed Wheeljack a cool look. "What sort of commander tries to off himself? The way I see it"—Jazz seethed as Ironhide gestured outwardly with a hand—"it's disgrace to the memories of those who have thus far perished. All of the Autobots who've died in this Pit-slagging war didn't get a say in the matter; what Prowl did was an insult to every spark I've watched dwindle into nothin'. What he did was the ultimate slap in the faceplates to his own comrades! Ya want better proof?" Ironhide growled. "Why don't we ask some of the 'bots who went on that mission to Kaon? Oh, wait, I forgot; they couldn't be here today!"
Claws raked the air a mere inch from Ironhide's curled lips. Grunts left Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as they each clung tightly to Jazz's arms, restraining the saboteur. Menace as sincere as a Decepticon's glinted in Jazz's visor; snarling, the black-and-white let his visor click back, revealing blazing optics. Despite the two melee warrior clinging to his limbs he was doing a fairly decent job at trying to dismantle the other officer.
"Stop!" Optimus shouted.
It took the combined efforts of the twins and Wheeljack (who had thrown his arms around Jazz's midsection) to stop him from ripping Ironhide apart. While the brothers were doing their best to keep Jazz from mauling the scarred 'bot, their expressions spoke volumes of their desire to release Jazz and let the TIC have his merry way with Ironhide.
The weapons specialist's glare plummeted several degrees toward arctic capacity.
Moments later he stopped flailing. Ragged pants left Jazz's vocalizer as he hissed, "As your Third-in-Command, I'm orderin' ya t' leave medbay. You can escort yourself out. Go."
For an astrosecond Ironhide lingered, clearly wanting to say more yet weighing the odds against a murderous Jazz. Although he didn't possess Prowl's sophisticated logic center, Ironhide knew the odds weren't in his favor. Rather than argue with his superiors, Ironhide spat at the floor in Prowl's direction. Ratchet only leveled his friend a cool stare as the veteran spun around and stomped toward the exit. No comment was made about his crude behavior or how one of the medbots would be cleaning it up. Just before Ironhide passed through the doors, without looking back he called out, "Jus' ask yourself this: Prowl was your friend. What sort of friend does that to another? If Prowl really gave a frag 'bout ya—'bout any of ya—then why'd he try to kill himself knowing he'd hurt ya, too?"
Just as Bluestreak and Hoist had done, Ironhide prowled into the corridor. The paneled doors slid shut behind him.
A wheezy exhale left Jazz as he slumped into his bondage. Tentatively the ruby and golden warriors let go, as did Wheeljack, leaving the black-and-white to gaze forlornly at the entrance to medbay. By nature the inventor's outward appearance had softened into its inquisitive, albeit worried, features. Frowning, Wheeljack turned toward Optimus. "Sir," he ventured cautiously, "why didn't you reprimand him for what he said?"
"Yeah," muttered Sunstreaker darkly. "He had no right…"
The Prime's broad shoulders slumped in defeat. "I can tell my soldiers how to fight, but I cannot tell them how to feel." Once more the red-and-blue mech moved toward his Third, gently clapping a palm on Jazz's shoulder armor. "You are not to blame for what happened tonight," Optimus murmured. "You can't hold yourself responsible for something beyond your control."
"I thought…I jus' thought he was unhappy," Jazz sighed. As Optimus removed his servo, the saboteur cast the other mechs an aggrieved look. "I was so fraggin' oblivious. Didn't even consider that he wanted t' die…"
"Anyone got a good idea as to what was going on in his processor?" Sideswipe questioned. Panic burned across the frontliner's face like a signal flare. "You—You don't think…that we drove him to it, do you, Sunny?"
Uncharacteristic consideration dwelled in the yellow warrior's spark, heavy and leaden. "Not sure," Sunstreaker rumbled, massaging his temple. Guiltily he muttered, "You don't think our pranks finally caused him to snap?"
Ratchet snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Maybe…" First Aid's sudden contribution had six pairs of optics zoning in on him. "Are we certain that Prowl was trying to commit suicide?" The word caused the twins and Jazz to simultaneously flinch. "It could very well have been a cry for help."
"Negative," Wheeljack corrected the younger mech. "Blue said that the keypad to his office was heavily firewalled. Prowl wanted to be left alone. If the kid hadn't found him when he did…"
Nervously the inventor shied away from that line of thought, too disturbed by the implications behind it.
Cycling air through his vents, Optimus approached the cryogenic chamber. Its iridescent blue-white coloration illuminated his faceplates, throwing shadowy recesses across chinks in his armor. Energon churned through his pumps at a slightly faster pace as the Prime memorized Prowl's vacant features. To him, the Autobots under his command weren't just cannon fodder; they were his friends, colleagues, and family. Optimus more than understood the twins' and Jazz's fears; they were his own, a gnarled, constricted knot wrapped tightly around his spark. Above all, Optimus shared the burden of guilt. However illogical it was—the word caused him to cringe—there was still a part of the Prime that faulted himself for his oversight. To see the black-and-white Praxian in a comatose state made Optimus feel suddenly vulnerable, mortal, and above all, powerless.
It wasn't a feeling that he liked.
As Prime, it wasn't a feeling he should possess.
And yet Optimus did.
During his interlude he caught wind of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker whispering into each other's audials. Something about "cleaning up their mess."
From behind a cheery—if somewhat forced—voice welled up: "Don't worry, Jazz. It'll be okay. You—we—can do whatever's necessary to make it up to Prowl. We'll help him through this, 'kay? We'll help him."
Wheeljack's stab at comforting the saboteur did little more than cause Jazz to stop rattling out quiet sobs. Ratchet still hovered near the monitors, humming in concentration; when the Matrix-bearer stole a glance at his CMO, his optics were distracted, every few kliks straying toward the twins, Wheeljack, and Jazz. Despite his legendary temperament, the pale yellow medic wasn't sparkless, yet he appeared too awkward to effectively comfort the others.
Refraining from turning to address them, Optimus surveyed Prowl's hollow form. The massive Cybertronian wanted to offer guidance, but was afraid to face the others directly for fear they would see the fear in his face.
"Well said, Wheeljack. Unfortunately, we won't be able to do anything until Prowl is awake and in a more secure state of mind." Even quieter, Optimus admitted, "However, we cannot help Prowl if he is unwilling to help himself."
Author's Note: Don't stay mad at Ironhide for too long. His reasons are mean, but completely justified. I tried to give as many different angles to suicide attempts as possible. The aforementioned reactions that Ratchet, First Aid, Wheeljack, Optimus, the twins, Jazz, Bluestreak, and Ironhide gave are all possible ways for people to feel after watching a friend or loved one try to kill themselves. Besides, ol' 'Hide isn't going to stay condenscending for too long—a certain femme changes his mind…
Reviews are appreciated, as is constructive feedback! It gives me a direction to go in.