Warnings: Swearing, ideological topics, violence, briefly mentioned further attempts at suicide.
Disclaimer: Me no own. Ever.
Rating: M
Summary: The time comes to formally address the issue, and even the commanders fine themselves conflicted over the right course of action. Some more than others.
Author's Note: What's this? An update? I bet no one saw this coming. Especially with my college finals EATING UP MY LIFE. I was hit with a sudden burst of inspiration and had to get these ideas down before they escaped. So, now you guys have yet another chapter. But dear God, I'm tired. I need to go sleep. Like, forever.
A thank you goes to Starfire201, Fianna9, Richard'sQueen aka LGFS, Sideslip, renegadewriter8, Shizuka Taiyou, steelcrash, Fliara48, Birdiebot, DemonSurfer, Guest, Deathcomes4u, and FractaUmbra for reviewing the last chapter and giving such heartfelt feedback. I can't stress how great you all are for the support and sincerity, especially in relating to similar events in your own lives. It really makes me feel like I've established that connection with others and done my job in reaching out to the world. And OH GOD I'm getting all mushy on you people. D: You certainly don't need me to pile on to the angst when this fic is already one tragedy short of a Shakespearean play.
I couldn't help but notice that quite a few of you were wondering who it was that broke into Prowl's room. I won't give you any hints, but I will say this: the 'bot who did it will surprise you. I'll be actually shocked if someone guesses right.
Chapter Six: Friction
"Standing in the middle of the road is very dangerous; you get knocked down by the traffic from both sides."
— Margaret Thatcher
Another screech came from beyond the force field, followed by the char of ozone.
In an almost bored fashion Kup glanced up at the brig cell and set aside the datapad on his knee. "You may as well give it up. You aren't getting out of there anytime soon."
With an irritated snarl Ravage whirled around and resumed pacing the length of his cell, now limping on the paw that had been shocked by the high voltage of the force field. Gradually his pace slowed, yet it was still possible to hear the ultrasonic growl rumbling from deep within the cat's throat. Only when he finally settled in the corner did Kup sink back into his chair with a sigh.
Brig detail was, by far, the least desirable job on the roster. In theory it was simple―guard the prisoner and make sure that they remain in their cell unless specified otherwise. In practice it was mundane, especially when the only occupant in the room was the jailor doing his rounds, or the prisoners did little more than sit on their bunk and glare at their warden. At other times the task, in the case of high-security prisoners, was dangerous. Many a 'con and rogue Neutral had occupied those holding cells, some in the past having managed to escape by finding gaps in the firewall or attacking the 'bot on guard duty when it was time to give the prisoners their Energon. While the incidents were far and few in between, the rumor mill made sure that all 'bots gave the job the precursory fifty yard safety distance it deserved for fear of being roped in.
Today the job was simply boring.
Now with his desire to read having dissipated, Kup ignored the datapad that he had brought along in favor of watching the captive.
Brilliant amber optics were fixed on his claws as Ravage flexed them, seemingly unbothered by the Autobot's sudden interest. Tail flicking to and fro, he curled more snugly into a crescent shape and parted his jaws in an idle yawn.
Kup wasn't fooled.
Beneath the façade was a trained assassin, a killing machine whose focus never wavered, as evident on the day of his capture. Not even an orn after the infiltration team had departed for Kaon they found the black cassette gigabytes-deep into Teletraan. Klaxons had gone off around the base as the frantic hunt for the panther began. To add on to the pandemonium, Ravage had infiltrated the electrical system, bypassing the firewalls for the generators and plunging nearly half of Iacon into darkness. His escape was finally put to end when the minibots ambushed him during the blackout through the ever-reliable "dogpile him until he can't move" method.
Not exactly what you'd call the most practical maneuver, but it had worked.
Inferno had been unbearably smug about the whole ordeal as well, given that the symbiote had been the reason why he had spent several days in the ICU, left in Rachet's gentle care. It went without saying that baiting Ravage hadn't been a bright idea, as he had finally reached his limit with the taunts and made a second attempt to fight. Chaos ensued.
Eleven orns and five interrogation sessions later and here they were, one agitated symbiote and one grizzled mech both waiting for the monotony to break.
It certainly didn't help that the Autobots had absolutely no idea what information Ravage had been after, or what he had managed to download from the mainframe before he'd been discovered. Any attempts to pry open the panther's CPU had been rendered fruitless by his upgraded anti-malware programs. With there literally being nothing to extract from him he was just another mouth to feed, another drain on their already-low resources.
It made Kup resent the symbiote all the more.
As if Ravage could tell what he was thinking he swung his helm in Kup's direction. Almost condescendingly he stretched out and drew his paw along the interface panel on his chest.
Fragging cassette.
"I'd get that look off your face," Kup growled. "You and I both know that information is as good as useless to you until your master gets you back."
Ravage returned the throaty growl, lips curled as his glare focused on him with laser point intensity. Even the cassette knew when to concede to being wrong, no matter how much it must have pained him to admit to his failure―something that Kup relished in his enemy. The bitter taste of defeat.
If there was one thing the Autobots got out of their prisoner, it was a bargaining chip.
Rare was the orn that the stealthiest of Soundwave's minions got captured, a fact that didn't escape the Communication Master's attention. Within joors of Ravage's detainment a transmission from Soundwave was intercepted, an appeal to trade the symbiote in exchange for something that the Autobots would want. Right now negotiations were underway, and with each barter made the tension between the two factions escalated. The longer they waited to reach an agreement, the riskier the situation became. Who knew how long their mutual cooperation would last before Soundwave threw formalities to the wind and staked out the entire Decepticon army on their front lawn?
Of course, the chances were slim that Megatron would ever consent to such a thing. Yet Kup couldn't shake off his suspicions, long fostered by his experience with the unpredictable nature of war. Cybertronians with symbiotic frame-builds like Soundwave's grew restless the longer they were separated from their cassettes, and Ravage had been imprisoned for over a decacycle and a half now.
In his opinion that was one day too many.
His political reflections were abruptly derailed by his comm. line crackling to life: Red Alert to Kup, do you copy?
While certainly unexpected Kup nonetheless appreciated the distraction. It certainly beat trying to make conversation with the antisocial cat. He hailed the Security Director over the airwave. What do you need, lad?
I've received word that Jazz's team finished their investigation. Optimus just sent out a Priority 1 request for all officers to report to the conference room. There was a certain undercurrent to his voice that caught Kup off guard, an uncharacteristic emotion that contrasted magnificently with the officer's wary and paranoid persona. Anticipation? While I attend the meeting I'll require someone to remain in the Hub and fill in my position. Seeing as you're already well versed in monitoring the cameras, I trust that you can take over in my absence?
Not that it mattered. Seeing as how Kup was one of the only mechs Red Alert would entrust the job to there really were no other options.
Joints popping, he rose to his feet and briskly rolled the muscle cables along his collar. Pausing to retrieve his datapad, the pale green mech harrumphed, Aye. Give me a klik to stroll on down to the rec room and grab a cube. I'll find some slacker to cover my shift in the meanwhile.
Thank you, Kup. It's nice to know that we still have some reliable Autobots that can be trusted to do their job.
At the drastically harsh tone Kup recoiled a little, taken aback by the barbed statement. Not quite sure what prompted that remark, the veteran pushed aside his faint bewilderment and steered their conversation in a new direction: Has anyone heard about Prowl as of late?
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. If anything, Red Alert sounded even colder when he spoke. That, the Security Director sniffed, is presumably something that Ratchet will no doubt mention during the conference. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get going. And just like that he terminated the communiqué.
For a long moment Kup stood there in front of the cell while the dark-colored Decepticon watched.
"Tch. How do you like that?" the celadon mech snorted. Grinding his denta together, he cast the black feline a cross look and folded his long arms across his chestplates. "Tell me; are your comrades as rude as mine? 'Cause if they're not I might just ask Prime to throw me into the bargain and go back with you."
If Ravage had a comment then he wisely kept it to himself.
Resignation filled the old warrior as he accessed the public communications channel. Feeling both offended and justly vindictive, Kup ran through a mental list of Autobots off-duty, eager to share his soured mood with the rest of the world. Just who to assign to brig detail…? One highlighted name popped up on the schedule and Kup's expression turned decidedly sinister. Crooked grin on his face, he crooned across the airwave, Oh, Hot Rod?
Static fizzled and popped in his audio before Hot Rod answered: Whatever it is, I didn't do it.
Kup checked a sigh. You're not being accused of anything, dimwit.
Oh.
Unless there's something you'd like to fess up to?
…I think I'll pass. The apprehension in Hot Rod's voice was replaced with a sullen expectation. What do you want this time?
Ah, the petty revenges were indeed the sweetest.
It isn't what I want this time, Kup serenely assured him, enjoying himself immensely. If he was going to suffer through a bad day, then so was Hot Rod. It's what Red Alert wants. You've just been assigned to guard the prisoner.
Me? squawked Hot Rod. Are you kidding? I just finished my shift! Make Springer do it or something.
This isn't up for negotiation! Sorry, kid, not my call to make. Not entirely, anyway. And you lay off of him. Springer's got his hands full with overseeing the Wreckers while Magnus is away.
He could almost hear Hot Rod rolling his optics. If Springer didn't want the additional workload then he shouldn't have accepted the promotion. Besides, I'm busy.
Time to resort to his favorite persuasive technique: good ol' fashioned yelling. Kid, if I hear you complain one more time I'll give you something to really complain about. Now get your aft down here!
It was the threat of additional work and increased volume that won Hot Rod over. Sulkily his charge relented, Got it, and signed off, but not before Kup heard him mutter something about fat, old muffler-suckers.
Mission accomplished. The aging Cybertronian disengaged his comm. line and spared Ravage a parting glance. "Alright, my replacement's on the way. He should keep you adequately entertained while I see to some additional duties. Have fun, you scraplet-bitten nuisance."
Instead of the familiar raised hackles or bared fangs Ravage merely leveled him a thoughtful look. Calculating. Narrowed optics kept their gaze trained on Kup as he did one last sweep of the brig, double-checking his post for anything that he might have forgotten or neglected during his shift. The entire time he felt the intensity of the symbiote's gaze against his plating like the heat of sunlight, unrelenting. While Ravage couldn't have possibly overheard his conversations, there was something about the way the silent Decepticon watched that put Kup's instincts on edge.
Ravage might have been the one in the cage but by no means was he the prisoner.
Suddenly eager to be out of the symbiote's presence, Kup frowned at him once before turning on his heel to leave. Only once he stood outside did he release a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Outside of the brig the usual stream of femmes and mechs awaited him, moving about from place to place. Thanks to the ex-drill sergeant's height Kup was able to cut through the throng with relative ease, limping calmly if not quickly by his comrades as they went about their separate tasks. Without the distraction of his work the old warrior's thoughts shifted and settled, falling back into their regular patterns. Pressing questions took precedence over the thoughts of his current obligation, and as Kup was want to do he permitted them, letting his mind return to Red Alert's earlier reaction. Old habits died hard, and as a former commander the interactions between his crew weighed heavily upon him, causing the frown on his aged face to be etched deeper. Like Prime, he still answered to the oldest of those military codes, the ones where emphasis fell on the wellbeing of the soldiers that he was tasked with keeping alive, on the battlefield and on the home front. So he chose to address the strife displayed by Red Alert, and through extension the rest of Iacon.
That there was emotional tension was obvious. Even now Kup's attuned senses felt it, were trained from eons of practice to know what to look for in the sea of faceplates moving about: Optics shuttering increasingly more often. Weight shifting between pedes. Armor clamped tight to their frames. Fists clenched and arms tucked close to the frame. Gazes avoided or downcast, unengaged in the world around them to attend to whatever thoughts clouded their minds. They were all the prevalent signs of individuals consumed by stress, doubt, anger, confusion, and fear, and the more Kup observed, the more he understood. No need to scan their EM fields when their bodies were laying bare all of the details.
Stress was infectious. It rippled outward from its source, affecting everything that it came into contact with, bleeding through the ranks like wildfire.
Red Alert was no more impervious than they were to the events of the last few decacycles: the fatalities, the stricter regulations regarding trade and cargo, the loss of a major outpost and Energon exporter, Ravage's solo expedition into the base…
And Prowl.
Primus, did Kup feel bad about that, even if he'd kept his thoughts to himself on the matter.
Suicide in Cybertronian culture was pretty uncommon, even now―unless you were counting the twins, who were so reckless in battle that Kup wouldn't have been surprised if they one day decided to run into a fight with bombs strapped their chests, stamped with a Wheeljack seal-of-approval.
Death, the end result of taking one's own life, was a concept that many Cybertronians still struggled to cope with, especially with the war. It was alien, foreign to them. As a race whose longevity made them gods amongst the rest of the universe, they had little experience with dying. With change. Frames could always be repaired. Malfunctioning parts could be replaced. In most cases, as long as the spark was intact, then a 'bot was virtually capable of living forever. Civil war was a cruel wake-up call for their world, because it clearly illustrated that even immortals could die. And that, more than anything else, was what truly made so many Cybertronians afraid of death. For the first time, those who hadn't already been affected by it realized that it applied to them.
He would know all of that. He had been around when that mindset was at its height, just before the decline of Sentinel's rule.
Perhaps that explained why so few could fathom the SIC's actions. What could possibly be influential enough―powerful enough―to bypass that instinct deep in their cores to avoid death at all costs?
Of course, all of them made an exception to that rule by consciously choosing to participate in fights that they might not walk away from. But then again, Kup mused, they were fighting to live. None of them went into battles intending to be gunned down. But Prowl? He might as well have walked into a firefight unarmed, that was how insane his suicide attempt looked by comparison.
Whether Red Alert's newfound hostility was born from that common ignorance or some other reason, Kup honestly couldn't say. Personally, he didn't understand the motives behind it either, although he certainly felt no anger toward the tactician. Only toward himself for the hideous oversight.
If I was always so skilled at reading body language, then why didn't I act when I saw all the signs?
Simple: Because like everyone else, Kup had believed that no one would choose death over life.
How wrong he was.
A long exhale left him as the ancient warrior limped into the rec room. What little good humor he'd garnered from torturing his apprentice had evaporated. Like the rest of them, he was infected by the stress, corrupted by the tension, tainted by the insecurity and overwhelming emotions that thickened the air like smoke.
It was suffocating.
Trying to shake off the ill thoughts clinging to his frame, Kup padded toward the dispenser along the wall of the spacious room. He shifted his focus from his musings to the area's other occupants, soaking up his surroundings while he busied himself with filling up a cube. Like always the pale green mech did a headcount of the Autobots present, well-meaning optics assessing each and every one of his comrades present…
…and whatever hope he'd held for a quiet, uneventful day was abruptly shattered.
At the center of the rec room Blaster was sitting on one of the larger sofas, long legs folded on the cushion. Odd that the Communications Expert hadn't yet left for the meeting. Though perhaps that could be explained by the mountain of symbiotes quite firmly sprawled over him, determined that he not get up.
The heavyset bulwark of Ramhorn was tucked securely under Blaster's right arm, one optic cracked open as the rhino nestled against his master's side. For once the normally disgruntled symbiote seemed content to cuddle rather than isolate himself from the mainstream going-ons around the base. Perched on the armrest closest to the orange mech was Eject. Arms were slung back behind his helm as the blue cassette tapped a foot against the furniture in time to the heavy percussion pouring out of Blaster's stereo. Cradled in the center of Blaster's lap was Steeljaw. In a rare display of public affection the lion allowed himself to be scratched behind the ear as he contributed his own soundtrack, a steady purr, to the obnoxiously loud song.
It wasn't the unusual bonding session that was causing the problem, however.
It was Rewind.
"Did you know," the black little mech piped up from the floor, "that in half of all reported cases suicide was committed with a firearm?"
"Huh." Blaster paused mid-stroke along Steeljaw's back to give Rewind a quick, if not tight smile. "You don't say."
Unintentionally encouraged by the officer's words, Rewind nodded his enthusiasm. "Yes, quite. I also learned that during the post-Golden Age era there were an estimated one hundred suicide-attempt survivors. I guess we can now verify that statistic." He waved the datapad in his hand to refer to whatever source he was getting his information from.
Briefly Blaster lifted his head, his sculpted face taking stock of the scalding glares and uncomfortable expressions shot in their direction. While obviously aware of the reactions around him he did nothing to dissuade the garrulous cassette. Clearing his intakes, the bright orange mech bent forward―careful not to dislodge Steeljaw―and gave Rewind a light pat on the head. "Good work, Rewind. Why don't you see what else you can dig up?"
For the second time that day Kup found himself too dumbstruck to react.
Amongst the many problems the veteran had anticipated as a result of Prowl's actions, an overly-talkative symbiote was not one of them. Clearly Rewind wasn't doing it to rile up his unwilling audience, even as he spouted out numbers and statistics to a room full of soldiers who looked as if they wished one of the Dinobots would come along and "accidentally" step on him. It was an idiosyncrasy that Kup likened to Bluestreak―neither knew when to keep their mouth shut, especially when their input wasn't wanted. No rules were being broken, yet the widespread discomfort made it obvious that something needed to be done before things got out of hand. And judging by the fidgeting and hostile looks, it needed to be done now.
As Kup set down his cube next to the dispenser he considered the matter carefully. How to diffuse the situation without offending either party? One option would be to ask Blaster to leave and head to the fragging meeting already, like he was supposed to. The only problem was that he'd cause a scene and possibly offend the Communications Expert and his little posse. And despite his opinions about how inappropriate Rewind was being, there wasn't a part of the old mech that wanted to stir up more bad feelings that was necessary.
That, and Kup really didn't have the authority to order the group to leave. Technically speaking, Blaster outranked him. Once Kup had been an officer in the Security Department, and a damn good one at that. That was, until over the course of many vorns he came to recognize that there were new subordinates rising through the ranks, sharp-minded and just as much deserving of the position as he had once been. Red Alert had been one of those individuals. And so one day he had finally strolled into the Prime's office and quite literally shoved his resignation form down Optimus' throat, telling him that it was time for him to grow a spine and just replace him with someone already. Now the ancient mech served as an advisor to the brass, and a mentor to the new recruits whom he could impress upon with his vast wealth of experience and help in their training.
Though in Kup's opinion, Hot Rod needed help that went beyond his pay grade. In their time together the only thing he'd been able to impress upon the brash idiot was how to fast talk his way out of an argument.
Lips pursed, the celadon mech crossed his arms and scowled. Now, how to get Rewind to stop…?
Unfortunately, someone else had beaten him to the punch.
"Blaster!" Cliffjumper snapped. The red minibot slapped the cube he'd been about to polish off onto the table, and the rec room went deathly quiet. "Can't you shut him up? No one wants to hear that slag!"
All four of the symbiotes blinked, bewildered, yet Blaster simply rolled with the blows. At the same time he muted his internal speakers. Palms held up in appeasement, he soothed, "Hey, mech, Rewind don't mean any harm. That's just how he copes. Everyone does what they can to deal with hard times. 'Sides"―Blaster flashed a cheeky grin―"he's my little walking thesaurus. It's his job to make sure that my head doesn't get any emptier than it already is. You're not gonna discriminate against nerds, are ya, Cliff?"
Cope? the advisor repeated. Sure enough, when Kup ran an expert optic over the cassettes, he saw that they were trembling, worst of them all Steeljaw. That might explain why Blaster had yet to depart for the meeting.
Apparently Cliffjumper wasn't satisfied with that explanation. In a fluid motion the crimson minibot hopped off of his chair and stalked across the room, covering the distance between them. Each sharp jerk of his limbs sent up all sorts of warning signs. The entire room tracked his movements until he stood directly in front of the sofa, servos planted firmly on his hips. "I don't care," the frontliner snarled. An accusatory finger was jabbed at Rewind, who cowered on the ground at Blaster's pedes. "You order that little runt to mute it. I'm sick of listening to him spewing that garbage." Voice suddenly shooting up an octave, Cliffjumper mimicked in a nasally tone, "'Did you know that ninety percent of all mechs that off themselves were annoyed to death by Rewind?'"
An icy chill swept through the room. No one moved.
Slowly Blaster began to rise from his seat. Steeljaw hastily scrambled off of his master's lap and onto the sofa, tension in his frame coiling tight like Ramhorn and Eject beside him. Never once taking his optics off of Cliffjumper, he ordered, "Read the next statistic, Rewind."
Cliffjumper's fists clenched.
For an agonized moment Rewind sat between the much taller, much angrier mechs, his little hands trembling around the datapad he clung to like a lifelife. Acutely aware of all optics in the room on him, the black symbiote swallowed hard and stole a glance at the screen. "According to the article―"
Cliffjumper lunged.
With a feral cry Blaster threw himself bodily at the minibot and plowed him into the floor, deflecting the kick aimed at his cassette. Together the two rolled across the ground, fists smashing into each other's frames wherever they could find an opening. Uproar followed the assault as their mad scramble resulted in Cliffjumper momentarily coming out on top. There was no pause in the onslaught as he executed several vicious jabs to the Communication Expert's face. What the tinier Autobot lacked in size and brute strength he made up in pinpoint accuracy; one expert slash resulted in a sickening pop as a curved fingertip caught Blaster by the optic, tearing it free. Sapphire Energon oozed out of the empty socket.
Before the minibot could land a second blow Blaster retaliated. Long, powerful backlegs were drawn up to his chest, catching Cliffjumper on the underside of his abdomen. With a powerful thrust he flung him a solid ten feet, sending him rolling toward the edge of the gathered crowd. There was no remorse in Blaster's bleeding face, no trace of his regular friendliness as he descended upon the supine 'bot with the wrath of the proverbial gods.
A pair of pale green arms dug into the officer's shoulder, tearing him away from his opponent. With a herculean heave Kup dragged the thrashing Blaster backward, venting hard from the exertion.
"Enough!" he bellowed. "Both of you, stand down!"
Slingshot wisely decided to break off from the crowd and haul the dented and scraped Cliffjumper to his feet, mirroring the hold that Kup had on Blaster. The injured Autobots leveled each other malevolent looks once they were both standing upright and no longer so winded.
"Don't…touch…them," hissed Blaster. Energon cascaded down his cheek from the dark hole where his optic had been. As his remaining optic narrowed he glared down at the seething minibot. "If you ever hurt them, I'll kill you."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
"Brig. Now," Kup ordered tensely. With a jerk of his helm he summoned forward Hot Spot and Tracks, both of whom quickly took up Kup's former position and pulled Blaster's wrists behind his back. Neither he nor Cliffjumper protested to the treatment as they were shepherded out of the rec room, the heavy atmosphere hard on their backsides. Without hesitating the four shaken symbiotes trekked after them.
Once the group left Kup cast a stern glare to the rest of the bystanders. "All right, show's over," the veteran barked. "Either get back to what you were doing or get out. Bumper, go contact Grapple and let him know that we need his maintenance staff up here to clean up this mess."
The Special Ops mech jumped a little at being addressed but still managed a quick, "O-Of course, sir," before he darted out of the room.
As the crowd started to dissipate Kup activated his short-range comm. line. Hot Rod, there are several 'bots heading your way. Put them in cells away from each other, on the opposite side of the brig if you have to. Once the staff meeting is over I'll have them dealt with.
Curiosity was evident in the young mech's voice, but for once he didn't argue. Sure thing, Kup.
Thanks, lad. Certain that the kid would keep to his word, he signed off. With a long, heartfelt sigh Kup scrubbed his faceplate with his hand.
Fragging cassettes. All of them.
Why couldn't this ever be easy?
"Alright, Magnus." Skyfire hauled himself out from under the console and dusted off his armor. "The signal should be working this time. There shouldn't be any communication errors, so go ahead and start her up."
"I appreciate the help, especially on such short notice," Ultra Magnus rumbled, his voice brimming with gratitude. Battle-scared hands ghosted over the panel and typed into the keyboard. Palest blue lit up along the seams as his palm pressed against the touchpad. As the augmented refractive transmitter booted up the commander turned his helm. A faint smile crinkled around his mouthplates as he stared at the two other occupants of the communication center. "You as well, Blurr. Though I'm sorry about the electrical bug. The medics here will be able to sand off the scorching and set you right soon enough."
The courier shrugged off the apology and beamed, readjusting his grip on the tool kit. Were his paintjob white with green and red accents instead of blue, he would have looked eerily like Wheeljack. "It's-quite-alright-sir-I-barely-felt-the-zap. I've-had-worse-shocks-than-that-like-the-time-Wind charger's-magnetic-field-was-on-the-fritz-and-the- reversed-polarity-charged-the-electrons-in-everyth ing-he-came-into-contact-with."
The massive jet made a rueful sound. "Yes, well, be careful in the future. Too much contact with raw electricity might do more harm than good on a 'bot's systems."
"I don't know," Chromia piped up. She had been leaning against the transmitter, wry smile on her face. "Maybe if we give him a few more good shocks it'll somehow make him even faster."
Skyfire visibly cringed at the thought, but Blurr took it in stride. "Hey-if-that-actually-worked-no-Decepticon-would-e ver-be-able-to-get-a-target-lock-on-me-again! We'd-win-the-war-hands-down!"
"If we all didn't go crazy first from listening to you talk," Ultra Magnus chortled. "Alright, you three, go get yourselves a cube and some rest. You earned it."
"You heard the boss." Amusement glittered in the femme's optics as she pushed off of the device and padded toward the door. She gave an airy toss of her streamline helm and glanced back over her shoulders. "Come on, Skyfire. You owe me a drink."
The scientist's frame slumped a little as he sighed. "That I do," he conceded, though he sounded not nearly as resigned as he was trying to pass himself off as. "Remind me to never agree to an arm wrestling contest with you again."
"That's what you get for not listening to Moonracer. Femme knew what she was talking about." The bold statement was followed by a playful punch to the white Autobot's side, causing Skyfire to flinch a little. "Size doesn't translate to brute strength. I'd have thought that a smart mech like you would have been able to figure that out."
The flyer gave another sigh, this time geared toward himself. Indeed, the arm he had used was now sore, his rotator cup equally so. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You too, motormouth, let's go." Chromia waved Blurr over.
Unbothered by the nickname, Blurr bid Ultra Magnus a good meeting and offered a quick bow before he bounded out the door, the heavy tool kit swinging wildly in his hands. "Wait-for-me-Skyfire!"
Only after the two had left did Chromia actually proceed to follow suit. At the exit she paused, lingering long enough to shoot her superior a small, hopeful smile devoid of the usual bravado and confidence she bore. "Say hi to Ironhide for me?"
A fond smile tugged at his lips. "Of course, my dear," Ultra Magnus promised. Looking relieved, the cobalt femme finally departed through the slide-open door, leaving just the vice commander alone in the cramped room.
Best get to work.
He turned and slid past the wide array of equipment, his footsteps masked by the whir and hum of the powerful machines. Ahead of him rose a small dais, a silver platform with a glass circle at the epicenter. Through the transparent breaks in the floor paneling Ultra Magnus could observe the complex network of powerlines transmitting electricity to the generator, bathing his armor and the room in a wash of ghostly blue light. Upon climbing up to the dais the glass panel underneath pulsed, scanning his spark signature and EM field.
A mechanical drone came from the speakers overhead: Voice recognition requested.
"Autobot Ultra Magnus," the blue-red mech announced, "commanding officer at Tyger Pax and leader of the Wreckers."
Voice recognition accepted and identity confirmed. Now transmitting coordinates over a secure channel.
Directly overhead the generator began to pulse more fervently, its glow strengthening as the atoms in the air were charged. Underfoot the glass dais surged, the prism-shaped magnifier etched into the panel working to refract, to bend the very light around him.
A blinding surge followed, and a moment later Ultra Magnus found himself several thousand miles way, sitting in the conference room in Iacon.
His baritone as smooth as ever, the commander intoned lightly, "We really do need to ask Hound to work on reformatting the hologram projector. I swear, the stupid thing blinds me every time I use it."
A soft laugh came from the chair directly across from him. With a warm glint in her optics Elita One teased, "I think that's age talking. You never hear any of us complain when we do these long-distance calls."
"Age my aft," Ultra Magnus grumbled. "Ironhide's vorns older than me. Unlike that old rust bucket I still have some youth left."
"That 'old rust bucket' that you're so rudely insulting just happened to take down an entire regiment a metacycle ago," Ironhide huffed. He looked entirely too smug for his own good.
"Primus," Elita swore, and for a klik it looked as if the Femme Commander was fighting back the urge to bang her head on the table, "don't get him started."
"Gentlemen, ma'am," Perceptor interrupted, his tone placid yet insistent, "we really do need to get on with why we're assembled. Pleasantries should be saved for another time."
"Of course." Ultra Magnus snapped back into the role of authority, hands steepled together. His gaze skimmed over the conference room as he took in each of the commanders present.
At the head of the long table sat Optimus Prime, his deep expression benign and welcoming as always, if not a little shadowed by the circumstances that had summoned them here. Moving down the table clockwise was Jazz. For once there was no cheerful smile or wisecrack from the saboteur. Whatever emotion his visor hid was portrayed in the tightness of his frame, the thin line of his mouth, the rigid posture that replaced his normally laidback sprawl.
Wheeljack was the next 'bot seated beside Jazz. Indigo and yellow lit up the helm fins on either side, the complementary colors sliding together like oil on water―a portal to the inventor's emotions, for those who knew how to read the chromatic spectrum. The chair between him and the next officer―Perceptor―was empty. Perceptor himself looked composed as ever, intelligent features likewise moving about the room. Seated to the physicist's right was Elita.
On Ultra Magnus' side of the table the chair to his immediate left was also missing its occupant, something that didn't escape his notice. On the left of the empty seat sat Red Alert, looking stony-faced as ever. And now that the meeting was about to start Ironhide looked decidedly less cheerful than he had moments ago; not nearly as cool as the Security Director, but there was no denying the stormy look brewing on his face.
And last but not least, Smokescreen.
The acting Head Tactical Advisor looked as if he hadn't slept in days―a possibility, considering that he had traveled via ship non-stop for two orns from Tyger Pax to Iacon and then spent the next few days up until now assuming the duties of the mech whom he replaced. A hard tremble passed through the interloper's frame as he stared a hole into the table, his yellow chevron bowed, weighed down by the thoughts and feelings he was no doubt subjected to.
Something in his spark reached out for the young tactician whom he had gotten to know fairly well while they'd been stationed together. Angling his frame toward the doorwinger, Ultra Magnus called, "Smokescreen, it's good to see you again."
The reply sounded as if it was being dragged out of his vocalizer. Straightening a little in his seat, Smokescreen rasped out, "You too, sir." A harsh cough followed as he cleared his throat in a desperate effort to sound more composed. "Sorry that you couldn't actually be here."
He waved the comment aside. "That's life for you. Just got to make do with what you can."
What he said was true. Due to the reality of fighting a war on multiple fronts Ultra Magnus physically couldn't be at the meeting. It was thanks to the holographic emulators developed largely in part by Hound that he could still sit in on the discussion and participate. Given the severity of the issue, it was a good thing, too.
The conspicuous vacant seats continued to nag at the edge of his conscience, and he had to ask.
"Optimus," Ultra Magnus spoke up, "where are Blaster and Ratchet? Surely they should be here by now?"
The Matrix-bearer's optics took on a touch of sadness. "Ratchet has yet to report. As for Blaster, he is currently being detained for infighting."
Well, he certainly hadn't seen that one coming.
"You're kidding," Ultra Magnus swore, shaking his helm in disbelief. "I may not have known him well myself, but I was under the distinct impression that he wasn't quarrelsome."
A dark shadow flickered across the Weapons Specialist's scarred face. "Just goes to show, ya think ya know someone, only for them to show ya just how wrong ya are."
Silence followed his ominous comment. Although Ultra Magnus couldn't pinpoint the source of his abrupt cynicism, he didn't miss the way more than one 'bot tensed. Someone's chair scraped against the floor. Near the end of the table Jazz's hand began to tremble; only sheer force of will stilled the saboteur's movements. Smokescreen had yet to glance up, though going by the twitch of his doorwings he was suppressing whatever reaction he was struggling with.
"W-Well"―Perceptor made an awkward noise at the back of his throat, clearly trying to break the ice―"we can't wait for Ratchet any longer. He'll simply have to be informed by one of us about what transpired here."
"Perceptor's right," Red Alert primly tacked on. "We're wasting time. The issue needs to be solved now."
When no objections were forthcoming Optimus gravely inclined his helm. "I must agree." Noticeably straightening, the red-blue mech calmly swept his gaze about the room, taking an astrosecond to meet all of his commanders' stares head-on. "As you are all aware, we are here to discuss what happened five orns ago when Second-in-Command Prowl tried to take his own life."
Acid churned in Ultra Magnus' tanks. No matter how many times he heard those words spoken he doubted he would ever get used to them. He found no comfort in that fact.
"As of this moment," rumbled Optimus, "Prowl is being kept in solitary confinement in the ICU, courtesy of the medbay staff. Two cycles ago he was reawakened from cryogenic stasis once he was deemed no longer in critical danger of dying from his injuries. What little I've been informed of by Ratchet is that, as predicted, he is resistant to treatment and disinclined to talk." In that second Ultra Magnus saw something slip in the professional nature of his report, the faintest hint of a waver: "Within less than a joor of being brought online Prowl made another attempt to take his own life."
A brittle choke came from Smokescreen before he swallowed down his reaction.
A pause. "Given the pressing urgency of the matter, I scheduled this conference a decacycle sooner than intended, to discuss our options in regards to Prowl's safety and the short and long-term status of Iacon," concluded the Prime, his expression forcing itself into some semblance of calm. The deep baritone of his vocalizer dropped an octave as he said, "I don't need to tell you that what has taken place is tragic. Nor does such a simple word give the situation the direness it deserves. Emotions are running high, and the question remains how we intend to respond to the matter. In that," Optimus quietly admitted, "I don't know."
Elita raised her hand. "It would be best to start from the beginning," the femme reasoned, flashing her mate a reassuring look. "We need to pool our information together―what we do and don't know."
"That's a bit difficult to do right now," came Red Alert's crisp reply. "There's only one mech who knows the answer to that and he's currently not talking. Perhaps we should instead focus on―"
"Actually, Red." Jazz's roughened accent cut across what was sure to be one of the Security Director's infamous monologues. The black-and-white shifted in his chair to speak directly to the CO, staunchly ignoring Red Alert's glare. "My team an' I found some intel we thought vital t' share. If ya don't mind, I'd like t' open th' discussion with our findings first, an' only proceed from there."
The challenge couldn't have been any more obvious.
Ironhide revved deeply.
For a long moment Optimus stared intently at Jazz, measuring the gravity of those words. To his credit Jazz didn't flinch beneath his searching gaze, as many weaker wills might have. Air whooshed out of his vents as the Prime at last sighed. Whether it was in resignation to the inevitable or the weight of many burdens pressing down on him, Ultra Magnus couldn't say. "Very well. Please proceed." He dipped his head in a clear indication that Jazz had the floor.
With a terse nod Jazz scooted his chair around to reface the entire command element. One hand busied with his subspace as the visored mech began: "Our initial objective was t' see if there was anything in Prowl's quarters that could have given us a clue as t' what…what happened." Several datapads were withdrawn and handed to Optimus and Wheeljack, to be passed around the room. "We took pictures of what we found: destruction of personal property, upcomin' mission statements, recent Autobot casualties, Energon production rates―it's all there."
As Ultra Magnus began to skim over the photos of the wreckage Perceptor glanced up from one of the confiscated reports. The hand not clutching the data slate reached up to fiddle with the eyepiece over his optic, a nervous, pensive habit of his. "…this is―that is, to say―where to even begin…?" Evidently at a loss for words, he turned back to Jazz, flustered. "Pardon my lack of professionalism on the matter, but Primus. I…I fail to comprehend what I'm looking at."
"What's there to understand?" snorted Ironhide, tossing one of the files across the table to Elita. "Seems pretty simple to me―he went off the deep end. Spent one night too many readin' these slaggin' things and it was too much for him to handle."
In the timespan Jazz's face contorted with rage Perceptor cut across the would-be confrontation: "While I hardly claim to well-versed in psychology, I understand the basic principles as to why Prowl, or any 'bot, for that matter, might have become depressed from this type of day-to-day occupational work. However," the scientist elaborated, "some of these documents belong to other departments." From the screen Perceptor read off, "Special Operations, Maintenance, Finances, Medical… My question is, why would he invest himself in other branches that aren't Tactics?"
Ultra Magnus gave a slight shrug. Discussing someone's sanity wasn't something that the commander found himself comfortable with doing, yet he was still obligated to give his input. "Maybe he was trying to bolster other divisions because he was failing in his own."
"Negative," Elita corrected him, shaking her head. "Before his team departed for Kaon Tactical was run as efficiently as ever. I would know because Firestar collaborated between the Femme Division and his over the last two weeks as part of the inner-department assimilation program we officers have been overseeing. Everything was always submitted on time."
Kliks went by before Wheeljack spoke up, his voice practically bleeding apprehension: "Jazz? What―What is this in his washracks…?" To clarify he flashed the image first toward the saboteur, then to the room at large.
When the photo was turned his way Ultra Magnus fought down a gag reflex.
Smokescreen had yet to look up.
"Prowl's been intentionally purgin'." Behind the layers of rigorous detachment Ultra Magnus saw Jazz tremble. It was taking everything the saboteur possessed to not break down. "It confirms what Ratch' said about th' frailty of his systems, that he's been on th' decline for a while now 'cause he wasn't gettin' th' fuel he needed." After a second of rummaging through his subspace he took out a slim tube of rancid green-blue Energon, corked at the top. "Took a sample right before we left. I was gonna give this to our CMO, but seein' as he isn't here―catch, 'Jack."
He tossed it.
Wheeljack fumbled with catching the sallow, repugnant Energon. It bounced between his palms as if he were handling a hot coal before he finally managed to grasp it. He gave the capsule a look that bordered on disturbed before pocketing it. "Ugh. Yeah. That…That's vomit, alright."
Over the sharp intakes from Optimus, Elita, and Perceptor, Jazz reported, "We also confirmed that prior to th' first attempt, Prowl had been cuttin' himself. Often."
Exasperation welled up in the ebony mech's reply. "Oh, please. That again? Look, we may have visual confirmation that he tried to slit himself up the first time, but how can ya possibly prove that he's―"
Thunk.
Embedded into the table in front of Ironhide was the dark blade, the metal still stained with Energon.
His arm still outstretched from the throw, Jazz shook long and hard, ventilations coming out in choppy breaths. "There's your proof, Ironhide," he snarled. "There's your fragging proof."
Nausea frothed violently, threatening to spill up from his throat onto the table. With a long shudder Ultra Magnus suppressed the too-strong reflex and straightened. His gaze returned to the Weapons Specialist, who was suddenly overcome by the gravity of what he was seeing. Incredulity, rage, and shock competed for dominance on his weathered features, no doubt burning straight into his core. Static shot out of his vocalizer as several of his gun components gave aborted whirs, as if he was struggling with the desire to act on impulse.
"Are you telling me that fragger has been using my tungsten carbide to―to―" Too incoherent with fury to speak, Ironhide gesticulated wildly, his faceplates twisted. No one dare correct him about his claim to the weapon; practically everything in the armory either had belonged directly to him or had been supplied to the armory through his efforts. "…fine," he at last spat. "Fine. You were right. Doesn't change what he did."
"No," Optimus quickly intervened, silencing Jazz before the saboteur could try to fight, "it doesn't. However, this information will be valuable to the medical archives and undoubtedly steer us in the right direction."
"Sir." An adamant edge crept into Red Alert's voice, chilling the leader of the Wreckers to his spark. "In light of the new information presented to us, I have an appeal to make."
Optimus nodded and gave his Security Director his full attention. "And what would that be?"
With an upturned chin Red Alert said, "The events of the last decacycle, along with Jazz's findings, are conclusive: Prowl had been unstable for a while now, going back who knows how long. The recent actions of our Second only reaffirm this." Here the red-and-white mech lowered his head minutely, deepening the fatigued yet firm shadow around his optics. "I call into question whether or not a mech who is so mentally unstable should be allowed to continue his position."
"Meaning?" Jazz's tone was pitched so soft that it was frightening.
Again Red Alert steadied himself, taking a moment to gather his thoughts―Or stall, Ultra Magnus added. When he spoke again there was no shortage of accusation. "Meaning that Prowl is a danger to himself and to the rest of the Autobots. Can we trust him to do his job in the future without another circumstance like this arising? What if next time it's on a mission, where there are lives at stake!" he exclaimed, and to the red-and-blue commander's surprise his voice shot up an octave. Only for a second did he pause to collect himself then resume full-throttle, now openly agitated: "There's no guarantee that he'll recover, and even if he does he still might relapse. No diagnosis on Ratchet's part can change that. I suggest that in order to prepare for the long-term future we demote Prowl from Head Tactical Advisor and Second-in-Command and give those positions to those next in line."
A deep shudder ran through Smokescreen's frame, but otherwise he said nothing.
Ironhide rumbled an agreement while Wheeljack and Perceptor swapped meaningful looks. Elita's optic ridges shot up high on her face.
It was Jazz who spoke.
He rose from his chair with a tight scowl marring his mouthplates. "Optimus." Although the address went to the Prime Jazz kept his visor locked on Red Alert. Anger that he refused to conceal any longer glinted behind the glass, razor sharp. "If ya promote me t' Second-in-Command I will resign. I refuse t' accept a position that is currently filled. There's no need for a new SIC when we already have one."
Taken aback by the ferocity of the demand, Ultra Magnus gaped.
"Jazz, please sit." It was more of a request than a command. After a pause of supercharged silence the saboteur acquiesced, sliding painfully slow into his seat. Optimus acknowledged Red Alert with a polite nod. "While I appreciate your investment into the security of Iacon and its inhabitants, there is no need to play devil's advocate. I agree that there is no certainty that Prowl will recover. However, there is also no certainty that he won't not recover. It's too early to start making such drastic changes. Rest assured that the duties of Second-in-Command are being handled by myself and Jazz, and are well managed."
"Ya just reminded me of another point I wanted t' make, actually." Palms braced on the tabletop as Jazz leaned forward. "Instead of tellin' me how t' do my job why don't ya do yours? Do you have th' security logs from the previous week?"
Torn between insulted and mulish, Red Alert settled on glaring. "What do you need them for?"
"My team has reason t' suspect that someone broke into Prowl's quarters while he was in Kaon," Jazz explained, this time to the room at large. "I'd like t' have a copy of th' footage t' see if anyone was recorded."
Red Alert shifted. "That…will be problem."
"Why is that?" This time Ultra Magnus was able to put aside his shock long enough to ask.
Humiliation briefly flickered over the Security Director's face, followed by annoyance. "When Ravage hacked into Teletraan and shut down the power generators he also scrambled my security logs." He bowed his head and glared at the table, probably trying to burn a hole through it. "I have yet to uncover all of the lost footage and separate the corrupted files. Some of it will be impossible to recover. It'll take some time before I can supply you with them."
"What―" Elita's question was cut off as the doors to the conference room slid open.
"I'm sorry I'm late," First Aid apologized as he backed inside and proceeded to reset the lock. "There was an incident."
"It's quite alright―" The rest of Optimus' sentence died off as the Protectobot fully turned around to face the room.
"First Aid…" Horror clouded Wheeljack's voice. "What happened to your face?"
Where once was the junior medic' face mask was a series of brutal scrapes and gouges around his mouth and cheek arches. Droplets of Energon clung to the shredded fringes of the wounds, indicating the Energon lines had been resealed and stopped leaking. The left horn on his frame was crushed. Cracks fragmented the glass on his visor, spiderwebbing its surface. Below his neck the red armor was scuffed and dented, as if he'd come to the meeting directly from a skirmish.
Shuffling the medical reports in his hands, First Aid ducked his head, self-conscious under the optics of so many officers. As the red-and-white medic moved toward Ratchet's usual seat, he murmured, "Prowl…made a second escape attempt. Ratchet is currently sedating him and running several more scans, in addition to overseeing the cleanup."
Out of the corner of his optic Ultra Magnus saw Smokescreen snap his head up.
A delicate hand touched the corner of the damaged faceplate. "Prowl faked a full-frame seizure, and while we were distracted he took a laser scalpel to my face." A soft frown graced his faceplates, accompanied by a shiver. "My mask took the brunt of the attack, so I sustained no serious damage…"
…but without it Prowl would have done worse.
It was painfully obvious what the Protectobot had left out.
Concern welled up in his spark for the kid. Unable to help himself, Ultra Magnus asked, "Are you sure you're up for this? I don't want you to overtax yourself."
If anything First Aid looked acutely embarrassed by the concern. Shrinking shyly away from Wheeljack's hand on his shoulder, he answered, "Yes, I-I'll be fine. Thank you."
Like the Autobot on his left Optimus leaned forward, his gaze openly honest and searching for answers. To what questions Ultra Magnus could only guess at. "What have you to report?"
Momentarily First Aid looked dazed by the address, and a fleeting smile touched his lips. The inexperience showed in the way the medic swallowed as he inserted a datachip into one of the outlets along the table. It was bittersweet for Ultra Magnus, to sadly recall the innocence of such a young age, only to see it scarred and traumatized by the cataclysms of war.
As the drive finished loading the projector at the center of the table lit up. A second later a full three-dimensional rendering of the tactician's profile flickered over the table. With a brief shake of his head First Aid reached out and motioned toward the downsized holographic image. "Most if not all of the superficial damage has been healed. The only part we couldn't repair with much success was the protoform." Lightly tapping the 3D diagram caused it to flicker. Beneath the scaled-down dermal plating the under portion of the frame was momentarily illuminated bright pink against blue, to highlight the indicated region. "As you are all aware, unlike external armor the protoform is the foundation for a Cybertronian's body and houses most of our major systems―circulatory, the neural net, and the spark. While our self-repair systems can heal most integumentary damage on the armor and small amounts of damage to the protoform, prolonged injury…" Another tap, and the gridded outline of Prowl's wrist was brought into focus. "…creates permanent scaring."
Dark blue optics widened as Smokescreen wordlessly eyed the diagram. His back-mounted sensor panels quivered.
"His tanks have shrunk from a lack of refueling, and some of his armor's density has been lost from his body cannibalizing the internals," the junior medic continued. It was uncanny how much the red-and-white mech sounded like his teacher in those calm, immersed tones, like he was channeling his inner-Ratchet. A complicated gesture with his servo caused the pixels to shift to a cross-section of the catabolic system. "Once we get proper nutrients into him, we can hopefully get Prowl to cooperate long enough to consider a plan of treatment."
Ultra Magnus raised a hand. "And what, exactly, does 'treatment' entail?"
Stress and accumulated frustration showed as the pacifist shuttered his optics. "We don't know yet." Armor stiffened as he made a slicing motion through the air, and the projection hovering over the table vanished. To Prime he said, "We'd like to request several transfers from other Autobot outposts to bring in specialists who might be able to help us. Rung, if I'm not mistaken, is currently stationed in Simfur."
"I'll see to the transfers immediately. Though I must admit, I'm surprised," Optimus declared. "Are you really so doubting of your own abilities to see this through?" Honest surprise colored his voice as the Prime patiently gazed at the medic.
Again, First Aid dipped his helm. "Ratchet and I aren't psychologists. While my mentor has trained both me and Swoop well, neither of us has had any experience with trauma counseling. War rarely necessitates psychological profiling and treatment when…when the physical injuries take precedence." He cringed inwardly, and to Ultra Magnus' optic he looked absolutely drenched with guilt. "It is an oversight that we intend to fix."
"And in the meanwhile?" Wheeljack asked, a hint of incredulity showing. "I mean, I don't want to just leave him there while we sit on our afts and do nothing."
The young Protectobot sighed, shoulder blades slumping a little. "There's little we can do while Prowl continues to fight us―literally―every step of the way. I mean, we finally opted to remove the electric stasis cuffs because we thought it might calm him down, but we―"
"You did what!"
Everyone, even Optimus, jumped at the screech.
Doorwings flared and jaw clamped, Smokescreen leveled a heated glare toward the Protectobot who cowered under the rigid stance. Heavy ventilations hissed out from between his denta. Legs trembling, he kicked back his chair and dug his fingers into the table, scraping its metallic surface. "Are you telling me that you were using the stasis cuffs designed for interrogations on my brother?"
"We needed a way to suppress him!" First Aid defended himself, though to Ultra Magnus' audios, it sounded like the medic hated himself for saying it.
Ironhide leveled Smokescreen a cold look. A digit was pointed directly at First Aid as he yelled back, "Look what your 'brother' did to him! He's a danger to himself and to others, Smokescreen! He needs to be restrained!"
The tactician's optics glinted like chips of ice, the familial resemblance between him and Prowl so strong that Ultra Magnus nearly looked away. "Can you blame him? He's running scared right now!"
"Oh?" Humorless, hollow laughter echoed around the room as he sneered. "Did Prowl tell ya that? 'Cause the last I heard, he wasn't talking to anyone."
"Enough."
The firm command was enough to bring the others to their senses. It was only then that it came to Ultra Magnus' attention that he had leapt to his feet, like the other officers in the room. One by one they settled down so as to not appear so out of control of the situation.
Heedless of the order Smokescreen whipped around, shoving blindly away from the table and stalking toward the door.
"Smokescreen." Warning and concern laced the Prime's tone. "Where are you going?"
Glancing over his shoulder, the blue Praxian snapped, "To see my brother!" before he stormed out of the room.
The now-accustomed to silence stretched between the Autobots, both mockery and reminder to the indecision and tension beneath the surface, seeping in like a poison they were all powerless to stop.
"First Aid," Jazz pressed. It was that absolute lack of emotion that made Ultra Magnus bristle. "Those stasis cuffs belong t' Special Ops. My department."
The Protectobot cringed. "I know."
"I never authorized them t' th' medbay."
For a moment First Aid closed his optics, looking as if he were begging some listening god to give him strength. From experience Ultra Magnus knew that Primus had very selective hearing and was more deaf than not. "We circumvented the usual procedure and went to the next Autobot who possessed the authority. We asked him instead."
"Who?"
A long, anxious breath rattled through his frame like a dead wind. "Mirage." When Jazz continued to say nothing the medic elaborated in higher, more panicky tones than before, "Given your involvement in the issue, R-Ratchet suggested we ask him. You would have been too emotionally compromised to allow us to use them."
Beyond the visor emotions raged, a blackness soured and infected by betrayal.
"I think that we're done here." Thankfully Optimus intervened. "Like First Aid said, there isn't much more we can do at the moment until we have the resources and Prowl's cooperation. Until then we'll move forward one orn at a time, to the best of our abilities. Go in peace."
Red Alert was predictably the first to get up. His aura radiated disappointment and frustration as he strode purposefully out of the room. Perceptor stood next, looking outstandingly uncomfortable from the amplified feelings of his comrades. With a courteous nod he filed out of the conference, unsubspacing a datapad as he did so. Ultra Magnus watched as Elita lent down next to Optimus, whispering a hurried conversation into his ear finials before rubbing her faceplate against his. Optimus murmured something too faint to hear as he affectionately nuzzled back. Too soon the Femme Commander was turning on her heel and following after Perceptor and Red Alert.
Jazz said nothing, only frigidly ignored Ironhide and First Aid as he left.
The Weapons Specialist shot the tungsten carbide blade a dark look before he grasped it by the pommel and ripped it out of the table. As he rounded to the other side the black mech thrust the dagger into First Aid's hands with low grunt, "Here," before he departed. The Protectobot gawked at it, and Wheeljack hastily brought him up to speed as they padded out of the room.
Which left only the Prime and Ultra Magnus.
"I'm sorry, old friend," Ultra Magnus murmured. He tried to place as much depth and sincerity in the words as he could, cursing the limited mobility of the hologram. "I wish there was more I could do to help."
Optimus Prime bowed his head. "So do I."
With a final sigh Ultra Magnus disengaged the projector, and like dying stars beneath the dawn, disappeared.