Hello, my dearsparks. I know it has been a while. I am sorry. Life has been life, and we all know how that has a tendency to suck one's will to live out. But Prowl and Jazz are back, and you may all frolic with the knowledge that the story has not abruptly ended. There is still to much story to tell. =P
My dearest thanks to all my readers and reviewers who have held on to the strings of their sanity while waiting for my lazy ass to write this stupid chapter. You can all thank Atsadific for pushing me to finish this chapter while I have been staying with her in England. As always, your love, enthusiasm, and wild flailing has given me the strength and inspiration to persevere with this story. So, my thanks to brohne, Fianna9, Tiamat1972, CnightJoy, DemonSuffer, Faecat, Komi V, Gilded Orchid, Camfield, Poiseninja, luinrina, Nikkie2010, Kidara, Queen of the Red Skittle, Yami Dragoness of Dark, Exactlywhat, VyxenSkye, Agent 0r4gn3, Gamermice, renegadewriter8, DragonLady86, Christarpax, who-says-we-cant-win (sorry for the dashes, fanfiction wouldn't allow for the periods), Field Empathy, Kai-Chan94, Emi, kathy3meme, Peacewish, Alathea2, Guest, White Morticia, Randomstrike, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, MoonWallker, Daklog73, Sideslip, Wanderling, TheVastaNararda, Lurker, Midnight Marquis, xdragonslayerx, Bluebird Soaring, Optimus Bob, evilbunny777, savyandroid, Krysala, JenEvan, Lecidre, Ien, mamabot, SunlightOnTheWater, yamiishot, Dragonstormgirl, RagdolDark, Mercedes Wolfcry, 4N7, Leonixon, 16DarkMidnight80, FIREstee, Guest, geuss, m, warperchick, and SolusWarrior93. Thank you all~
Where You and I Collide
Chapter 44
Not even home for an orn and Prowl settled back into the routine of his life as if he had never left.
It was... comforting to be back. Yes, comforting. It took a breem to decide on the exact word to describe his current physical-emotional state, and it seemed 'comforted' was the best in this instance. Iacon was where regimented order reigned – at least for the most part; where all inner workings operated as a well-oiled machine, undisturbed by Prowl's absence... with the exception of Smokescreen's scheduling abilities.
To be within Iacon's sacred walls meant Prowl was back in his seat of power, where he and his logic reigned nearly supreme.
As his first order of business, Prowl redid the roster.
He could not change anything for the current orn, but he did so for the following orn and the next cycle afterward. While many on base held little notion of the many difficulties inherent in creating a base-wide schedule, it took a certain knack to create something akin to a clockwork masterpiece. It was not simply taking the right bots and sticking them in the appropriate slots. At any given time, Iacon's population was in flux as bots were sent out on missions, coming back on missions, recovering in the ICU, locked in the brig, or otherwise on modified duty. It was up to the base scheduler to deal with the constant flux and movement of the Autobot warriors, scheduling around their needs and activities so that all operations and functions of the base were covered.
Without any pride at all, Prowl could own up to his unquestionable organizational genius.
Unfortunately, Smokescreen... was less apt when it came to creating the physical evidence of perfection. It was one of his many shortcomings, aberrations in his programming that Prowl attributed to corruptions somewhere in his data files, because clearly it was not native programming they shared. For Smokescreen's sake, Prowl no longer commented on it. That often.
Upon posting the retouched schedule, Prowl's personal inbox promptly began to fill with messages of gratitude. A strange and bewildering experience, distracting in its odd frequency, and Prowl hoped it did not continue. To be praised for a duty expected of him was superfluous and disturbing.
It's about time! Trailbreaker's message read, astroseconds after the schedule had been reposted. Thank Primus you fixed everything!
Thanks, Prowl! another cheerful message said.
You're back? Someone wrote. You fixed the schedule?! I thought I was going to have to work with Mirage tomorrow!
Smokescreen's message showed up not long after. You are suddenly Number One Bot on base. Everyone loves you and they are singing your praises. I think I'm jealous.
Prowl did not respond to any of the messages, not even Smokescreen's. It was best not to encourage the behaviour.
Sometime shortly after mid-orn, his door hissed open and Red Alert marched in. The Security Director appeared his usual self, bright red paint accented with crisp white. He stood at the in-between height range of a mech and minibot, a little too thin in build for proper defence in battle but excellent for speed and agility. His slighty awkward appearance matched his twitchy personality.
"You," said Red Alert, pointing one long, trembling digit directly at Prowl.
Prowl arched an optic ridge, setting down the pile of Sideswipe's data pads he had been in the process of prying apart. "Yes?"
"You."
"Yes, we have established that, Red Alert. I have been away for too long. I have work to catch up on. Get to the point... please."
The flatness of his tone had its expected effect. Red Alert jerked back, his spinal column snapping straight. The small crystal apertures atop his head flickered briefly. Much to Prowl's surprise, relief flooded Red Alert's features, something akin to hero worship and perhaps adoration.
"Prowl," began the Security Direction after taking a steadying drag of air, "don't take this the wrong way, but you must never leave this base again. Ever."
"I beg your pardon?"
Those crystal apertures flickered once more. "I really do not think Iacon or myself will be able to take it if you went on an extended leave again."
Intrigued, though mostly annoyed, Prowl raised an optic ridge. "Please elaborate."
"Without exaggerating, both you and I can agree that there are few others around here of your calibre. As a commander, you are an exemplary representation of Autobot ideals-"
Prowl withheld the grimace that wished to make itself known.
"You have enviable finely-wrought control over your division, other Autobot warriors, and over yourself-"
Again, he fought the urge to grimace.
Red Alert was poised to continue his recital of all of Prowl's extraordinary – though, unfortunately, questionable – virtues, the tactician quickly intervened before the account could become anymore damning.
"Red Alert, I understand what you are saying about me, but what I do not understand is why you are saying them. Care to explain?" And since Prowl did not mean that as a carte blanche for Red Alert to run away on another random train of thought, he immediately amended with, "Please be as quick and concise as possible. Preferably in one sentence."
Understandably, Red Alert took a moment to consider his words carefully. "You are the only thing in Iacon standing between the proper operation of this entire base and complete and total utterchaos."
Because such a statement lacked an sort of proper prescribed response, Prowl was briefly at a loss before murmuring a slightly questioning, "Thank you?"
"It's true."
"Although I understand that what you say is a gross exaggeration of reality, nevertheless I must thank you again."
Mildly irritated by Prowl's seeming humility, Red Alert pressed on insistently. "I know that you and Smokescreen come from the same cadre, but, well, honestly – no one would guess the same programming. He does not have the same intense, straightforward drive that you have towards your function. I am proud to be a commander alongside you. There are not many who are like you, Prowl. Primus knows, I wish there were more."
A ghost of a smile lit the corner of Prowl's mouthplates. "I often wish the same thing."
A jittery laugh, replete with relief that his meaning had finally gotten across, drifted from the other bot. "Now, I imagine I should leave, shouldn't I? You have work to do, and I can't leave the cameras unattended for too long. Before I go, though, I just wanted to mention something that I heard while you were away. Perhaps you might find it interesting."
"Oh?" Prowl did not need to feign interest. Red Alert was not among the typical gossipmongers, and certainly Prowl was not the typical Autobot interested in anything gossip-related, so this unprecedented instance gained Prowl's undivided attention.
"Yes, well... mind you, this is not in any way official-" Red Alert raised his hands in a calming gesture, as if Prowl might possibly get overexcited by the coming news, "but I have heard that Ultra Magnus is considering stepping down from being Optimus's second in command for the Autobots. Operating in that capacity as well as base commander is apparently taxing for him."
"I would imagine."
Red Alert nodded readily. "If he steps down, you can be sure that I will nominate you as his replacement. I can think of none other who would be more appropriate. Now, I really must go. It was good catching up with you Prowl, and it is doubly good to have you back." With that said, he gave a shaky smile – one that constantly looked like it was out of practice – and quickly turned down the hall to return to the safety of his isolated alcove.
Prowl stared after the bot long after he was gone. He gave his head a shake, determinedly returning to his work, battle computer comfortably assigned to work while his inflective conscious considered other matters.
Second in Command? He couldn't say that the thought had never crossed his mind. It was a part of his programming to strive for advancement. He was already the Head Tactical Adviser for Iacon; given that Iacon was the highest ranked base of the Autobot forces, there was no higher position within the Autobot-wide tactical division. The next logical step would be to strive for a position beyond the base divisions. Optimus Prime's Golden Circle, his personal advisers and commanders who helped to oversee the Autobots in their totality.
It was the absolute summit of advancement for someone like Prowl in the Cybertronian's current war-beleaguered circumstances. It bore more consideration in the future, but for the time being Prowl could not see that he would have been an appropriate candidate. He was not as in-control as he wanted to be, and might pose as more of a risk to the Autobots than an asset if he took such an important appointment.
Plus, Jazz. Not that Jazz himself was a tactical risk anymore, no more than a particularly unpredictable wild card, but Prowl had the personal obligations to his partner and friend. It would not be borne that Prowl sit idle while Jazz risked his life waging a one-bot war against the vilest scum the Cybertronian species had to offer. With their recent excursion into the wilds of Cybertron as evidence, Prowl was not a frontline bot; he was a thinker, planner, and organizer – and on that front, he had vast stores of resources at his disposal with which to aid Jazz. Until Prowl could be sure that Jazz was secure and stable, relatively speaking, than it was in the Autobots' best interest that he refrain from looking too deeply into advancing his position in the ranks.
"Red Alert will simply have to understand," Prowl murmured to himself, while knowing full well that Red Alert would do no such thing.
Having decided a particular course of action, steel-plated with solid logic that best served the Autobot cause, Prowl thrust himself back into his work. He was relieved that the remainder of his orn was far less eventful than his beginning. He was mildly inconvenienced by his handicaps, as any bot would be when missing an arm and voided of the essential use of his absent interface panel, but that only meant that the going was slow, not impossible.
At the end of the orn, an energon cube prepared to his specific tastes was set in front of him.
Forced to pause to pick up the cube and sip from it, Prowl looked up in time to watch Jazz sprawl comfortably in the chair across from him. The saboteur's visor was back in place. His silver armour was clean, and obviously he had been buffed sometime during the orn if his devilishly polished looks were any indication.
With another sip from his energon cube, Prowl settled for a much-needed social interlude. Jazz was easily the most acceptable reason on base to take a break, particularly to solve the delightful mystery of his much-improved mood.
"This," Prowl intoned with a toast of his cube, "is exactly what I needed right at this very moment."
"Ah know," Jazz replied. "We got woken up early and even Ah'm a little tired at this point. Figured ya worked the whole orn in here. Ya definitely needed the cube."
Prowl inclined his head gratefully, watching the silver mech over the rim of his cube as he took another slow sip. He was smiling when he lowered the rim. "You are in a much improved mood."
"Ya noticed that, did ya?" There came a playful smirk, far less tense than it had been in a long time.
"Indeed," Prowl confirmed in a similarly playful vein. "Given the activities that typically put you into good moods, who did you irreparably traumatize?"
"Mirage."
Prowl momentarily looked panicked, enough for Jazz to laugh at him.
"Ah'm joking."
"Oh... good."
Jazz paused. "Ya... want meh ta traumatize him?"
"No."
"Ya hesitated there."
"I had to think about it."
Jazz laughed again.
Prowl felt the corners of his mouthplates twitch in response. "I assume you have found your missing stuff, or else you would not be in such a good mood."
Jazz's smirk evolved into one of his rare smiles. He touched the cool diamond of his visor, running one of his battered claws along the bottom edge with a loving caress. "Yeah, found mah stuff. It wasn't as bad as Ah thought it was."
"The Autobots weren't unceremoniously kicking you out?"
"Nah, nothing like that. Ah jumped ta conclusions."
"You admit to this freely?" Prowl wondered, casting a playfully disbelieving look.
"Only in front of you. No one else."
Prowl dared a wider smile of his own. "Who took it?"
"Guess."
One astrosecond later and a thousand possibilities calculated by his battle computer, Prowl said, "The femmes."
Jazz rolled his optics, though the effect was lessened by the diamond shield hiding the gesture. "That wasn't a guess."
"Who needs guessing when I have superior logistical programming on my side?" He leaned forward, unusually eager to hear the details of Jazz's excursion, despite his marked dislike for gossip. If it was something that clearly cheered Jazz, rather than put him in a fouler mood, then apparently its importance was paramount to Prowl. He gestured invitingly with his hand as he said, "Now, tell me what happened in your encounter with the femmes. Spare no details."
Happy to oblige, Jazz took a draught of his energon before recounting the details of his harrowing encounter. He spared no details, much to Prowl's approval. It was a bit like living vicariously, seeing the world briefly through Jazz's optics; the world appeared more colourful, somehow blurred together and sharp at the same time, detailed in ways that Prowl had never known the world could be before he had met Jazz. And as Jazz spoke, the tensions of their journey lessened and became distant. They eased back, relaxing, remembering what it was like to be a part of Iacon, to be as they were while in Iacon.
Jazz kicked his feet up on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles comfortably. "So, that's where Ah've been for most of the orn. Got cleaned up and polished at one point, but mostly Ah've been sorting through mah stuff ta make sure the femmes didn't break anything."
"I can't say this is unusual for their division," Prowl intoned, staring down at his cube pensively. "The femmes are elitist; they have always operated beyond the realm of our regular divisions."
"If they want something done, they get it done," Jazz said. "Ah can relate ta that. But Ah'd rather they kept their claws off mah stuff."
"Good luck with trying to enforce that," Prowl snorted. "What they lack in strength, they make up for in their propensity for scheming. Elita One especially. She the most shrewd creature I have ever encountered. But this? Stealing away your possessions, simply to assign you a new room? It seems unusually... involved. She seems to have fixated on you, even long before this obvious episode."
"Fixated, yeah, that's a good word for it. Her and her whole division seem to have taken it inta their heads that Ah'm their favourite amusement." Jazz took a swig of his nearly empty cube. His tone was, surprisingly, only a little bit annoyed that he had vicious creatures possessed of questionable interests involving themselves in his business.
Prowl watched his friend for a moment, gauging the half-hidden expression on Jazz's faceplate. At one time, to acknowledge such nosiness would have been enough to throw Jazz into tailspin that would have left someone in the med bay – most likely Firestar, the most accessible of the femmes, and the one most likely to stick her fingers too close to the open flame that was Jazz. Now Prowl saw acceptance and resignation on Jazz's faceplate, that he simply acknowledged that the femmes' scheming was merely a way of life, a part of his life. Perhaps he would deliver revenge in some obscure and inventive way, but no one's life was at risk.
Prowl felt proud to know Jazz had come so far in the last two vorns.
But still, that did not excuse Elita One and her femmes from what they had done. To Jazz, he said, "Don't take this personally, but whyever would they involve themselves with you?"
Jazz snorted, glancing over his shoulder towards the door that was firmly shut, without evidence of any femmes lurking nearby. "Ah have been asking mahself the same thing ever since the orn Firestar flopped her lazy red aft in front of meh and said Elita One told her ta follow meh around. From orn one, that femme saw something in meh that... Ah don't know."
Prowl felt himself smiling at his friend. "Perhaps she saw what I saw."
"The tactical advantage of having someone like meh on your side?"
"That too, but I was going to say 'potential.'" When Jazz shot him a quizzical look, Prowl smiled wider. "I saw the way you so lost when you ran out of Straxis with me, and I knew there was a chance that you could be more than what you were. And now look at you, proving me right."
Jazz looked away, shifting his weight uncomfortably in his seat. "Ah'm not an Autobot."
"I am not pushing you to become one," Prowl reminded. "The decision is yours to make. As of this moment, I am simply happy that you are here with me." He paused, clearing his vents. "I mean... I am happy that you have decided to stay as long as you have here."
"Ah am happy that Ah've stayed as long as Ah have," Jazz replied. "Who knows? Maybe some orn Ah'll wear that stupid red decal."
"I can hope," Prowl said. "And it's not stupid."
Jazz laughed. "Let's not get inta that right now, okay? We barely just got back. Let's settle back in before debating the questionable design choices of your faction, yeah?"
"Agreed," Prowl sighed. "So what will you do about the femmes? I assume you are going to repay them for this?"
Silver shoulders jerked up in a simple shrug. "Don't know, Ah gotta think about it first. The whole lot of them didn't mean any harm, not really. It's not like they meant ta make off with mah stuff and never tell meh."
"Oh?"
Jazz inclined his head. "They were expecting us ta announce our return, and they probably meant to surprise meh with the room."
"Ah, yes, and I can see how their plans would have been disrupted by our silent and abrupt return," Prowl agreed. "Perhaps next time we go out on a life-threatening secret mission serving one of your personal agendas, we leave our itinerary with them?"
The snort that came out of Jazz was enough of a response.
"What do you make of it?" Prowl wondered, catching the saboteur's gaze. "The room, I mean – is it a nice one? Elita One wouldn't have given you some hole in the wall, not unless she wanted to declare war with you."
"Her declare war? She's too classy for that. It'd be Chromia at the top of the battlements screaming it at full volume." Jazz shook his head, a smile gracing the upturned curve of his handsome mouthplates. "As for the room, it's right in the barracks. Right in the spark of things with everyone else, actually. Four walls and a roof. Not much else Ah can say about it."
Curious, Prowl clicked into Iacon's database and accessed room assignments. He was impressed to see that someone had updated the floor plan – a duty that normally fell to him. Without a doubt, he knew the femmes were responsible for this, as if updating room assignments made Jazz's new quarters official and irrevocable. Their Word Was Law. Prowl might take exception to their high-handed behaviour, particularly where it toed the line superceding the socio-political power hierarchies on base, but in this he could easily cede to their choices.
Jazz got up and came around the desk, bracing one hand on the back of Prowl's chair to lean over and peer down at the screen. He was close enough that their fields mingled, and Prowl felt his partner's heat radiate from him. The saboteur's expression was curious as he examined the blueprints displayed on the screen, no doubt memorizing them to know who was nearest his room and find out who the greatest threats were.
Prowl shifted aside to offer a better view of the screen. "Not a bad room, good size, decent placement. Your current neighbors are all respectable Autobots I have never had any trouble with, so the noise levels should remain at a minimum."
"Ah like noise."
"Then make it yourself."
"Only if you're with meh." Jazz's sudden grin was salacious.
"I walked right into that one," Prowl sighed, wishing he had the spare arm to reach back and elbow his partner.
"So, who am Ah stealing this room from?" Jazz asked.
With a quick check, Prowl supplied the answer. "Previously inhabited by Crosshairs."
"Armouries?" Jazz enquired, not familiar with the mech but guessing his division simply by the designation.
Prowl nodded. "Apparently transferred out to Axium Nexus, under Ironhide's orders to help train with a new short-range high-yield laser weapon he and Wheeljack have been developing. The femmes must have been circling the room even before its inhabitant left. Probably harassed him to leave sooner so they could stake their claim."
"Sounds like something they would do," Jazz drawled, staring at the floorplan. He followed the hallways down a carefully selected route. "It's close ta your room."
"I noticed."
Another suggestive smile lit Jazz's silver faceplate. "Don't lock your door at night."
Prowl sighed again, rolling his optics. "I stopped bothering with that a long time ago." But quickly after that statement, they both laughed with easy humour. Jazz was still laughing when he made his way back around the desk to his seat. His empty energon cube was tossed expertly into the waste receptacle. Prowl took up his own, nearly empty now, and took a long draught to finish it up quickly.
Jazz gave a nod towards the cube. "There's filter cleaner in there, but Ah doubt it's going to do much at this point. We've taken in so much junk that even mah filters are clogged up tight. Both of us are going to need internal rehauling."
"And wouldn't Ratchet be thrilled to hear that?" Prowl drawled wryly.
"It's an easy fix," Jazz said. "If things calm down in the med bay soon, ya could probably get First Aid ta do it for ya without Ratchet ever finding out. It's barely surgery, just sliding the dirty filters out and slapping new ones in."
"I will keep that in mind if my filter issues persist." Prowl turned back to the blueprints still showing on his screen, considering them for a moment. "Did the femmes put everything of yours back in its proper place after they relocated it?"
"As best they could, Ah imagine. Some things were off. Ah spent most of the orn fixing everything they messed up. Plus..." Jazz dug into his subspace pocket and dropped a small collection of delicate-looking trinkets across the space of Prowl's desk. "Five listening devices, two spy cameras, one spark resonance reader, and the locking code for Firestar's quarters accompanied by the message 'Any time you want it.' Ah suppose this is their version of 'Welcome Home' gifts."
Prowl locked onto the last listed item, leaning across the desk to pluck it up and immediately tossed it into the waste receptacle.
Jazz calmly watched the security code and its invitation disappear. "Ah didn't want that one, anyways."
"Good," Prowl snorted through his vents. "She is still seeing both Red Alert and Inferno. I do not imagine they would appreciate their trio becoming a quartet."
Jazz grimaced as if a bad taste hit his mouthplates. "She ain't mah type anyways."
"Again, good. Firestar is not for everyone, even if she might give that impression. Incidentally, Red Alert came by earlier," Prowl intoned.
"And? What did Twitchy have ta say?"
"He came by..." Prowl hesitated, rethinking the wisdom of informing Jazz of the distant possibility of a promotion. That was a matter to be dealt with later. So, instead, he said, "He came by to welcome me back and inform me that I am the only thing standing between the proper operation of this base and utter chaos."
The flash across Jazz's faceplate said that he had caught Prowl's pause.
"He has always been one to exaggerate situations," Prowl pressed.
"Yeah."
Prowl shifted his attention away, regretting that single moment of impulsiveness. He felt the immediate urge to berate himself for acting without thoroughly considering all possibilities first, only to squelch the thought.
He felt Jazz's watchful gaze on him while he sifted through the collection of spyware. He picked pieces up and examined them with more interest than necessary.
"The femmes could have at least waited until you were settled in before rigging your room," Prowl suddenly intoned, feeling in need of some sort of verbal interlude. "This is in poor taste, even for them." He held up one listening device to examine it under the glare of his office light. Impressed with it, he held it up to Jazz. "Mind if I keep this one?"
"Be mah guest."
Making sure it was turned off, Prowl stashed it in his drawer and already considered the possibilities of its use. His expression was purposefully bland as he said, "I hope you do not plan to retaliate. They did go to all the trouble of moving your stuff in the first place, and they undoubtedly had meant it in a kind gesture."
"They're safe from meh," Jazz murmured. "Ah don't feel like going through all the fuss of retaliating for something that Ah actually appreciate. Maybe later Ah'll think of something, but right now Ah'm tired and got too much on mah mind."
"That is a relief, at least." Prowl noted Jazz's expression, more pensive than usual. Though he could not say exactly for certain the things that churned in the saboteur's mind, he had superior logistical programming on his side. "You are thinking about what happened in Shockwave's lab, aren't you?"
Jazz immediately shot to his feet, so suddenly that Prowl worried that he would storm out and disappear. No such thing happened. Jazz merely circled back to the door, locked it, and came back to his seat. Instead of resuming his comfortable spawl, he sat up properly, which Prowl knew was an indication of how serious Jazz was about the particular topic at hand. Another indication was the silence that lay like a heavy cloak about him.
The light shining through the saboteur's visor seemed especially intense as he spoke. "We can't let things go cold, Prowler. This is too important to let Shockwave slip between our fingers." He clasped his own fingers before him, resting his chin upon the perch while his elbows braced against his knees. "Ya saw what he was doing out there... Ah've never seen anything like it. Ah've never even heard of anything like it."
"I have been considering every possibility of what Shockwave is doing, but there is no outcome that seems feasible to me," Prowl admitted. "It is science seemingly without purpose, without rules or morality. If he functioned as he has been doing before the war, the Research Core would have shut him down-"
"If they knew about him," Jazz intoned darkly. "Ah get the feeling Shockwave's been around for a while, but stuck ta the underbelly of Cybertron like Ah did. It's easier ta hide in the dark."
Prowl felt a prickling of cold awareness creep down his armour. "You think he might be an Old One?"
"Possibly." Jazz stared down at the shadow cast by Prowl's desk, contemplating it solemnly. "It's just a feeling Ah get; he's too knowing, too practiced, ta be new at this game. Shockwave has had a lot of time ta get good at what he does, whatever it's supposed ta be."
"I would hesitate to call it even 'science'," Prowl said. "It is unmitigated torture, a disgusting perversion. What he hopes to achieve from his efforts is beyond me."
Light from above glinted off of Jazz's newly polished horns as he nodded. "We have ta track him down. Track down all the labs, hunt down whoever knows about him, whoever is working with them... We have ta shut Shockwave down..."
"I hate to say this, but if Shockwave is as experienced at going undetected as you suspect he is, then it may already be too late," Prowl replied darkly. "He has had plenty of time to pack up his operations. He could be anywhere on the planet – any hole-in-the-ground, any gorge, anywhere in the poles. For all we know, he could have moved his labs off-planet. If he's beyond the atmosphere, then he's beyond our current reach."
Jazz cursed softly, thumping the edge of the desk with his closed fist. "We can't let him go on with what he's been doing. Ya saw what he did ta those bots."
"Yes, I did see," Prowl murmured softly, feeling sickness churn in the depths of his tanks as the memories arose. "Worse yet, I know that a member of my cadre was deeply involved in Shockwave's madness." He gazed at Jazz with sympathy rather than accusation. "What happened to Kingpin was his own fault. I do not blame you for killing him. I lay the blame squarely at Shockwave's feet, as well as the Psi ex Machina."
There was a glimmer in Jazz's expression as if relief had settled there.
Prowl shook his head, "I won't bother to avenge Kingpin – he doesn't deserve it. But for all the others that have suffered, are suffering, and will suffer at the hands of a mad mech and whatever ties to a cult he might have, it is those bots who I will dedicate my efforts to."
"You do that, and Ah'll just focus on finding Shockwave and ending him. Ah'll kill him when Ah get mah hands on him," Jazz vowed. "Just so ya know in advance, Ah'll kill him a thousand times over before Ah let him die the most vile death Ah can design. Ya won't stop meh, Prowl, so don't even try to throw some stupid Autobot reasoning at meh."
The vehemence of Jazz's words vibrated in Prowl's sparkcase. "No, I won't stop you."
"Good." A long, tired woosh of air rushed out of Jazz's vents. He sagged, looking as tired as Prowl felt. So many things he had to do, his list growing longer with each passing orn. Never had he carried on his shoulders so many missions of intense meaning. He had responsibilities to others now, and the weight of them was heavy.
A single dark hand reached across the width of the desktop, patting the silvered top of Jazz's head. A gentle, consoling gesture. "We have leads, Jazz, and we can follow up on them. If anything, we can put pressure on the Decepticons themselves. If we find out what Shockwave's connections are within the ranks, we can shut them down and force him out of hiding."
"Or it could end up doing the opposite, having Megatron hear about it and close ranks so tightly on Shockwave that we never see, hear, or smell a hint of him for all long as we live," Jazz countered darkly, shaking his head beneath Prowl's hand. "Who knows exactly how long Shockwave has been operating under the radar? We rattle him too much, we'll never see him again."
"Then we will be careful. We'll be quiet," Prowl assured. "We can use Special Ops and Intelligence & Espionage if need be."
Jazz snorted dispassionately.
"Mirage may not be our best option, but his bots are well trained. They know how to investigate discreetly; if we ask them to keep their optics open for suspicious activities while they are in the field, it will increase the probability of us finding something of worth."
"Delegation is not mah specialty."
"You are in luck, because it is mine." Prowl stared on soberly. "There are plenty of leads for us to begin with. We know that Shockwave has ties to the Psi ex Machina. We know that he is targeting Neutrals for experimentation, and that he is working out of isolated areas. We have that data pad you took from his labs; there might be something on it that can help us."
"Right, the data pad. Ah forgot about that," Jazz chuckled lowly, running a hand over his faceplate.
"It is an excellent lead," Prowl insisted. "We may not know what is on it at this very moment, but it may prove to be useful."
"Ah gotta get working on deciphering it, don't Ah?"
"I have every confidence in you," Prowl said. "You are the most capable bot I have ever known. If you put your mind to anything, you are clever and devious enough to come out far ahead of anyone else. As for myself, I am more aware now than I was several fortnights ago that I am better suited to desk work rather than be out in the field."
"Ya weren't that bad," Jazz countered weakly.
"I was mortifyingly horrible," Prowl insisted. "In battle, I am fine. But trekking across the wilds of Cybertron while exposed to the worst climes imaginable for a robotic species? I freely admit that I was not designed for that sort of nonsense. I held you back."
"Ya kept meh anchored."
Prowl sucked in a deep drag of air, then released it when he calculated that arguing the point was pointless. "I did both," he said. "But my strengths lie here, where there are bots to control and massive databases at my disposal. I can best contribute to the research side of our mission, to finding any background on Shockwave, or finding a hint of the Psi ex Machina that may lead us to him. At the very least, I can search the archives for answers to the things we saw out in the Pole."
The dancing corpses, the impossible techno-organic hybrids, the extreme unlikelihood of Xerxia...
Prowl pressed on determinedly. "I will do what I can to research everything else."
"Yeah," Jazz breathed noncommittally.
Prowl caught the distant lilt in that single breathed word, understanding what it meant. A mind too full of a thousand plots and schemes to be completely braced in the present. Eagerness tempered by physical and mental exhaustion.
"Jazz, right now there is little that we can do. We cannot follow every lead we have at once, especially not as we are now. A few more orns will not hurt our plans," he said, settling back in his seat. "Our best option is to rest and prepare ourselves."
A noise of discontent rattled from deep within the saboteur's chest. He made to rise from his seat, but stilled when a dark hand grasped his claws.
"You don't have to go," Prowl said. "You are obviously still tired."
"Exhausted," Jazz admitted.
"Stay here," Prowl invited. "I could do for the company, even if you simply recharge in the chair. Being in my office again reminds me of how lonely my function can be throughout the orn."
Jazz settled back in his seat with remarkable acquiesence. He glanced around the desk, noting the newly organized piles of data pads. "Ya need any help? Ah don't want ta be sitting here doing nothing."
Prowl pushed forward one of the piles. "You can deal with this one."
Jazz made to pick up the top pad, only to find that the rest of them followed with it. He shook the glued pile once, and then arched an optic ridge at Prowl.
"That," Prowl said, "is Sideswipe's pile. I discovered it was more of a two-armed job."
It was late evening by the time Blackhawk finally emerged from the lower levels of Iacon. He had been lurking there for most of the orn, intent on getting work done. It was only when he spirited himself away to someplace quiet and unknown that he was able to escape the usual plethora of distractions that bombarded him when in residence in his office. He often attributed his propensity for working in isolated secrecy to his youth spent as a pirate, though his habits proved to be immensely useful as commander of the Iacon Special Operations division.
Nightbeat, his second in command, was waiting for him at the doorway to the exact lift that Blackhawk rode – despite Blackhawk having told no one of his sojourn into the bowels of Iacon. Nightbeat had obviously not been waiting long, perking up and nearly smiling at his commander's approach.
Blackhawk nodded to his second. "I no longer feel the need to ask about how you knew I was coming up on that specific lift."
"Sometimes it is better not to know," Nightbeat replied with a shrug.
Having long ago accepted that Special Operations was the dumping ground for all of the strange and unusually talented bots of the Autobot forces, Blackhawk merely nodded in silence. He admitted to himself that he knew his second in command well enough, and really did not want to know Nightbeat's secrets. And, to be perfectly honest, Blackhawk knew the reverse was true. Despite him being the commander of one of the best trained and most capable collection of Autobots, he doubted many were eager to poke into his past to find out what made him tick. Not for lack of curiosity, but out of respect for Blackhawk's secrets and a personal wariness of what they might find.
Nightbeat cast a quick survey of his commander. He blinked slowly peering out through constantly cloudy optics – a consequence of his severe insomnia that he refused to have fixed. Approving of whatever he saw, the agent inclined his head. "I take it you had a productive orn?"
"I got more done than I expected," Blackhawk replied, gesturing that they should walk together. "It is quiet down there, not so many distractions. I find if I stay in my office all orn-"
"There is always someone to walk in on you?"
"Exactly."
Nightbeat looked off down the hall, a permanent mild frown etching his faceplate. "It's rarely us, you know."
"I know," Blackhawk assured, clapping a hand on his second's shoulder. "My division is rarely any trouble at all. You are all too well trained. The rest of the Autobots on the other hand..."
Nightbeat laughed. While all Autobot divisions had their own personal rivalries with each other, each thinking themselves the best or most vital, Special Operations held it in clear conscience that they were unquestionably both.
"Now, tell me why you were waiting for me," Blackhawk said, steering down an empty corridor. It was late enough in the evening that most bots had settled down for the night, only a few unlucky warriors left assigned to patrolling halls and wasting away at monitor duty. "You rarely venture away from your own rooms unless it is something significant."
For a moment, the other Autobot contemplated what he would say. His mouthplates opened-
"-and don't tell me it was because you couldn't recharge," Blackhawk cut in pointedly, casting a sidelong stare to his second that was meant to encompass all that he thought of that excuse. "It's been two fortnights since you last recharged – the excuse is as old as dirt."
Nightbeat laughed again, but the sound was weaker this time. "It hasn't been that long, has it? I can't remember..." He shook his head with a grimace. "I almost fell into recharge the other night."
Blackhawk gave him a congratulatory clap on the shoulder. "Good for you! What stopped you from going all the way?"
"Too loud," Nightbeat sighed. "Every time I think I get a break in the noise, it just starts back up again. It's been really loud, lately. Senselessly loud." He pawed absently at the side of his head, causing a metallic clacking noise where his audio dial had come loose from him pawing at it so often.
Blackhawk made an appropriate noise without giving a definite answer. He knew for a fact that there was no noise around Nightbeat's quarters, mostly for the fact that Nightbeat had packed up his room several vorns ago and moved into an isolated storage room on the outskirts of base. No activities in the area, no reason for any bot to be out there, so no source noise that Blackhawk could account for. Whatever noise kept Nightbeat up for endless nights, Blackhawk suspected it was all in his head.
"Maybe soon the noise will die down?" Blackhawk offered consolingly.
"I have a feeling it will die down soon," Nightbeat agreed with no small amount of longing. His cloudy optics blinked slowly, the trek across the curve of his optics appearing to have taken as much effort as it would have taken Blackhawk to swim across the Mercurial Sea.
They walked for several more steps before Blackhawk figured it was an appropriate time to bring up his original question. "So, the lift, Nightbeat?"
"Right, right, the lift..." Nightbeat breathed quietly, again staring off into the distance. "There's a meeting going on. I figured you would have liked to have known about it."
"Oh?" Immediately, Blackhawk remotely accessed his inbox to see if he had missed anything important. There was nothing there of any significance. "I wasn't sent a memo."
"It's not one of those kinds of meetings," Nightbeat replied.
A moment of silence before the dawning realization. "Ah, one of those meetings."
"Yes." Nightbeat revved lowly in his chest, his frown becoming a pinch more obvious. "Elita One called it. She's up to her usual schemes again."
Blackhawk inclined his head, grateful for the warning. It was one thing to be perfectly aware that Elita One was a powerful femme with powerful connections, but another thing entirely to know that she and her femmes were actively involving themselves in a new scheme entirely separate from their usual duties assisting the Autobot forces.
Being the commander of the Femme Division, and sparkmate to the Prime on top of that, there were few who wished to get in Elita One's way when she set her mind to something. As Special Ops commander, Blackhawk preferred to be in the know about the femmes' escapades rather than in the dark about them, if only to spare him the surprise later when it all came to a head.
Pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor, Blackhawk tried desperately to ward off the headache he felt coming. "So Elita One has called a secret meeting. Any idea what this meeting is about?"
Nightbeat canted his head as one might when hearing a noise from far off in the distance. The sound of their clicking footsteps in the empty hall marked how long they went in silence. Blackhawk waited patiently.
"I suppose you haven't heard yet that Jazz and Prowl have returned?" Nightbeat wondered.
"I just heard right now," Blackhawk replied, barely missing a step. It surprised him not at all that they had returned, though it had concerned him that they had been away for so long. "Obviously the meeting will be about Jazz."
"What else could it be about? Elita has made it clear that she is set on having Jazz for the Autobots, if not for her own division," Nightbeat snorted, rolling his optics. "Isn't it a little redundant to be courting a sure thing? If they push any harder, they're going to scare him off."
"Elita One is merely playing with her prey now." Blackhawk shook his head with a bare smile. "Jazz is one of us. Perhaps a little rough around the edges, but all the more effective for it. Elita only wants to seal the deal by putting a red decal on him.
"Ridiculous," Nightbeat admonished. "Like putting a leash on a hurricane. I would much rather have him free to do his damages rather than harness him and risk losing what makes him so effective."
"I agree with you fully, but please don't tell anyone that," Blackhawk sighed. "The majority rules that Jazz must become an Autobot, so who are we to gainsay them? The one thing I know is that if the rest of them are pushing and we are not, it only makes our division look better."
Nightbeat chuckled lowly.
Blackhawk chuckled as well. "When did Prowl and Jazz get in?"
"Last night. It didn't get around base until this morning, and by that time, you were already down below. I didn't think the news was important enough to interrupt your work for it."
"And that is why I love having you as my second in command. You are fully capable of taking care of business without me, and you know exactly what sort of news I would like to hear and what I would not," Blackhawk said proudly.
"I cannot be your second forever," Nightbeat warned sadly.
Blackhawk knew it to be true, but did not press it. "Dare I ask how you found out about this meeting?"
"No."
"I didn't think so." The next thing Blackhawk intended to work on was not asking needless questions of his second. He imagined Nightbeat would appreciate it. "Lead on, then?"
"Of course." Nightbeat lead on at the same slow, contemplative gait he always loped along at. Being that they were nearly the same height, and had long vorns of sharing company together, Blackhawk was happy to match speed and comfortably ramble alongside. Familiar corridors passed them by, then the sharp bite of the setting evening outdoors as they crossed a courtyard into one of the larger main compounds. They weaved around to the back, where smooth hallways began to be dotted with familiar storage doors, before Blackhawk got an idea of exactly what direction they were heading.
They turned a corner and were forced to draw up short before they ran over the femme lurking there.
"Oh," Firestar chirped, blinking up at them. Her fingers were laced behind her back as she balanced her weight on her heels, swinging back and forth to give her a deceptively innocent appearance. She did not bother to hide her appraisal of them both, her optics trailing slowly down their frames and then back up again. "Are you supposed to be here?"
One of Blackhawk's optic ridges arched slightly. "Are you supposed to be here?"
Firestar met his stare evenly. "Yes, I am."
"Well, I outrank you, as does Nightbeat, so I suppose both of us have more of a right to be here than you do."
The femme blinked again, pursed her mouthplates, then gave them both a definitive frown when she could not come up with an appropriate comeback. Since she could not turn them away, she said, "You're late."
"I know," Blackhawk assured.
"He was working, which is more than what anyone can say for you," Nightbeat said flatly.
Firestar offered an incendiary glare so potent that if Nightbeat were a lesser bot, he would have had his paint fried off. Not to be outdone, Nightbeat stared back without heat and without blinking. As a chronic insomniac, he had perfected the art of staring off into the distance without blinking for very long periods of time. Eventually, Firestar was unnerved enough to find other things to stare at – namely Blackhawk, who wasn't much of an improvement in the looks department.
"My apologies for being late," Blackhawk said with a quick bow of his head, though failing to convey any sense of apology at all. "Shall I slip in, or do I need to give you a password?"
Before Firestar even opened her mouthplates to say anything, be it snarky or not, Nightbeat piped in flatly. "Jazz."
Firestar didn't bother to hide her disgruntlement as she grumbled, "That's the password. Go in."
Blackhawk took a step toward the door to a storage room that was no longer a storage room. He glanced back at Nightbeat, only to find his second in command already several steps back up the corridor in the direction they came in.
Sensing his commander's regard, Nightbeat turned and canted his head. "I have work to do."
"Good luck, then," Blackhawk bid.
"You too," Nightbeat murmured, giving his back as he disappeared around the far corner.
Blackhawk stepped up to the correct door and let it hiss open before him. He squinted against the sudden dimness, waiting for his optics to adjust before he decided if he wanted to enter or not. Through the shifting darkness, several metallic shapes sharpened into focus. Their spark resonances read clearly on his scanner, announcing the presences of Elita One and her second; Ironhide somewhere in the room with Ratchet close at hand, and Blaster skittering about if the sound of small, quick feet across the floor was an indication. Wheeljack might have been in the room, though the spark resonance Blackhawk was reading was slightly distorted.
The moment the door had opened, all optics focused upon him. Their regard was sharp, assessing, able to be felt upon every dip and curve of Blackhawk's armour. He did not like to be under other bots' scrutiny, preferring that they were under his.
"Deciding whether or not to come in, Blackhawk?" Elita One wondered, immediately drawing Blackhawk's optic. He adjusted to the light and watched her come into focus, sitting at the very back of the room in a shadow cast by Ironhide's massive frame. A small cube of high-grade was perched in her fingers, the liquid languidly swilling around and around as she turned her wrist.
"I suppose I will be coming in," Blackhawk replied, lifting his feet to avoid Blaster walking past him.
Chromia scowled as he approached the table. "You've been missing all orn."
"I've been around," Blackhawk replied smoothly, taking an empty seat when no one offered him one.
"I take it you know who is back," Elita One said, raising an expectant optic ridge.
"My second recently informed me of their arrival," Blackhawk shrugged, peering around the transformed room, noting the changes since the last time he had visited. It was coming together nicely. The gas leak had finally been fixed, leaving the air clean and clear, with a distinct lack of hissing pipes in the background. The floor was swept; the tables and chairs that had been dragged in were of far better quality than the rickety messes used before. While the replaced lights had the potential for good, bright lighting, obviously someone had opted for the more mysterious option of dim lights and dark shadows.
A large slab of sheet metal was propped atop of two concrete barricades, forming a rudimentary bar where a collection of scattered cubes had collected. Behind the slab, against the wall, was a piled pyramid of high-grade cubes ranging in fantastical colours, and no doubt coming in a range of qualities, flavours, and strengths. No one offered a cube to Blackhawk, which was fine. He would have refused anyways.
Seated comfortably, Blackhawk surveyed the collected commanders. "Should I be worried that I wasn't invited to your private party?"
"Mirage wasn't invited, either," Elita One pointed out impishly.
"Mirage is an aft," Blackhawk pointed out.
"Indeed he is," Elita One agreed.
Blackhawk waited, flicking a glance at his fellow commanders for any hint on their faceplates. Ironhide might as well have been wearing a mask for all the emotive power his faceplate possessed. Ratchet's permanent frown was equally useless. Wheeljack's head was currently braced on the table, so whatever his expression might have been, Blackhawk was not privy to it. Blaster was lurking somewhere beneath the table. If Red Alert were present, he would have have been easily readable. Unfortunately, because of Red Alert's nervous disorder, it made it extremely difficult to have anything secret around him without a mild breakdown occurring, hence his lack of invitation to most off-the-books meetings.
Finally Elita One decided to put him at ease by reaching across the table and patting his hand. "Wherever you were today, your access to the mainframe must have been disrupted, because I did send along a private memo."
Blackhawk gave a cursory refresh of his inbox, discovering the delayed encrypted message.
Wheeljack, still faceplate-down, raised a hand. "My fault. Bad go with a magnetic field generator down in my labs. It blew a fuse, then blew up."
"I thought I felt a mild tremor through the floor," Blackhawk commented.
"It was a good explosion," Wheeljack grunted, his crystal fins flashing weakly. Only he could call an explosion a 'good one.' "I think I was unconscious for three joors."
"Five," Ratchet corrected.
"Oh... yeah, five." He then proceeded to correct his chronometer.
"Explaining the spark resonance," Blackhawk said with a shake of his head.
"It'll sort itself out in a few orns," Ratchet grumped. "You can't stand next to an exploding magnetic field without feeling the effects of it." Which did not make things better when he lifted a hand and smacked his friend with it.
Blackhawk smiled at the pair, amused by their oddly affectionate and yet violent relationship.
Elita One cleared her vents quietly, gaining attention. "Now that we're all here, shall we get to the spark of the matter?"
"I want no part of this," Ironhide grouched, crossing his massive arms across his chest. "I came because I knew she was up to something-" he jerked his head in his sparkmate's direction, to which Chromia narrowed her sharp optics on him. "But if you all are planning to wind Jazz up and set him loose on the rest of base, forget about it."
"Wind him up?" Elita parroted, hand to spark with the utmost innocence.
"Don't think I didn't hear from Crosshairs what you did to him to get him out of his room," Ironhide snorted. "What game do you think you're playing? Breaking into Jazz's room and stealing everything that glitch owns? That is just asking for trouble."
"One of the unfortunate things about being sparkbonded – one can never keep a secret," Chromia lamented. "What are you getting so high and mighty about anyways? Most of what we found in Jazz's room was stolen anyways."
Ironhide's optics flashed from underneath the deep overhang of his optic ridges. "I needed no such advantage as my bond to you to know exactly what you have been up to. Red Alert watched you and had his division on high alert for any fallout that might occur. My division was put on alert for backup."
"He went to you before confronting me?" Chromia exclaimed, outraged.
"For some reason, Red Alert thinks I am the lesser of two evils. I cannot imagine why," Ironhide drawled, barely reacting as his mate planted her fist firmly in the armour of his upper arm. He peeled her fist away and gave it an affectionate rub to his cheek, which nearly cost him his left optic when her claws shot out.
Blackhawk pressed his mouthplates together to resist the urge to laugh.
Setting his sparkmate away from himself, notably pushing her chair with his foot so as to be as far away from him as possible, Ironhide continued. "As for most of his possessions being stolen, it doesn't matter. They're his now. Are you femmes so disconnected from reality that you would risk the health and safety of the rest of base just for your manipulations?"
Elita One dismissed the weapons specilist's grumbles with a wave of her delicate hand. "Oh please, Ironhide, melodrama does not become you. All went well, as I knew it would. I think Jazz was rather pleased and flattered with our initiative to welcome him deeper into the Autobot ranks."
"Deeper into a trap of your own making, you mean," Ratchet snorted. "Can you imagine if he wasn't 'pleased and flattered' by your so called initiative? Ironhide is right, you took a foolish risk. You could have easily have asked him if he wanted to move into a new room."
"We would have taken care of it if Jazz hadn't liked our surprise," Chromia said with finality.
Elita One raised a shoulder. "Besides, if we had asked, it simply would not have had the same meaning. This is a room he has earned, rather than one he asked for. He's more likely to keep it if he sees it as a prize."
Blaster, who had scrambled up onto the table and sat amongst their towering frames, shrugged his skinny red shoulders. "I'm seeing what you two were going for, but I'm still leaning with the big bots on this one. I saw Jazz and Prowl when they first came into Iacon airspace; they were cagey. Whatever happened out on their mission might have fixed their squabble, but it seriously put them on edge."
"I did sense that about him when I spoke with him this morning," Elita One agreed.
"Both he and Prowl were acting a bit odd when I saw to them last night," Ratchet intoned.
"Exactly," Blaster pressed. "What if Jazz snapped? Then we would have had either a whole division of dead femmes or one dead minibot. Or both. Probably both. Wouldn't that be just wonderful?"
Chromia looked thoroughly offended by the implication.
Blackhawk leaned back in his seat for comfort, prepared to sit out the meeting in silence. He usually did not contribute, especially when there was nothing important to add. Mostly, he chose to attend because they kept him up to date on the nonsense his fellow commanders found necessary for their daily lives, and because it was just like a comedy routine that never stopped being funny.
"I say you should just leave him the pit alone," Ratchet said. "Jazz is coming around on his own, without you prodding him along at a speed that might just make him dig his heels in."
"I second that," Blaster solemnly agreed.
Wheeljack, still faceplate-down, grunted his agreement.
Ironhide was in the process of raising his arm in solidarity, but was forced to redirect the motion when Chromia's chair screeched a bare inch closer to him – within hitting distance.
"I am not doing this just for my own entertainment," Elita One admonished. "Certainly you know me better than that."
The blank looks she recieved clearly asked Did they really?
She valiantly ignored their stares, pressing on in an imperious tone that cast no doubt that she was the Prime's sparkmate. "I know perfectly well that Jazz will eventually become an Autobot. It has been a forgone conclusion ever since Prowl managed to bring him to base."
"Then why start pushing now?" Ratchet pressed, annoyance lacing his tone. "You have managed well enough for two vorns, leaving Prowl to manage Jazz. It has worked to our advantage. Jazz is close to coming over to our side."
"Is he?" Ironhide wondered skeptically.
Ratchet sighed, shrugging. "According to Prowl, it may take some time yet for Jazz to come to his own conclusions, but Prowl is cautious by nature. He would never give a definite answer if he did not have the solid proof to back it up."
"I just prefer not to poke at an unstable time bomb," Ironhide scoffed.
"And what is your professional opinion, Ratchet?" Elita One asked.
"I saw Jazz last night with my own optics and he was a changed bot from the night he left here six fortnights ago," Ratchet admitted. "He's a changed bot from the animal that prowled in here two vorns ago. Give it time and sooner rather than later he'll be asking the Prime to take his oaths." He narrowed a jaundiced optic on the femme commander. "He's still volatile though, and if you push him he might just push back."
Chromia landed a challenging glare on Blackhawk, which he felt the heat of prickling up and down his armour. "What are your thoughts on the subject, Blackhawk?" she demanded. "Besides Prowl, you are the only one who has worked closely with Jazz. Surely you have some ideas you might like to share?"
He raised his hands as if to ward off that piercing glare. "No thoughts at all, except for those like Ratchet's. Leave him as he is. Jazz has survived this long by his wits alone, so who are we to stick a leash on him?"
Chromia's mouthplates curled in a sneer. "You are only so confident because Jazz works so closely with your division. You think he is practically a part of Special Ops already, even without a decal."
"Yes, I do have that personal advantage, don't I? Perhaps it is because I do not push him to be anything other than himself?" Blackhawk replied evenly. "I appreciate Jazz for his abilities and I accept that he is not like any of us; I do not expect him to be anything else other than what he wants to be." He paused, inclining his head boldly to Chromia. "If only your femmes did not shadow him every orn and night, he might feel more inclined to grace you with his presence."
Before she could come across the table at him, in a fight Blackhawk was not confident he would win, Elita One put a restraining hand on her second that successfully anchored her to her seat.
"Play nicely," the femme commander ordered.
Because this could go on all night, and Blackhawk was honestly looking forward to some decent recharge, he cut straight to the chase. "If you would simply tell us the meaning behind your sudden spike of interest in the bot, perhaps we would be more inclined to understand your view? Obviously we are all of a consensus here that Jazz will be an Autobot when he wants to be one. In the meantime, the timetable seems inconsequential."
Elita One was all seriousness when she said, "Because Jazz needs our protection."
An odd silence briefly filled the room, one which generally came when all present were wondering if they had all correctly heard the same bizarre statement.
Blaster cleared his vents, a cautious and skeptical optic on Elita. "Are we talking about the same insanely volatile sociopath who could probably disassemble us and sell our parts on the black market without blinking once?" He gestured pointedly. "You know, that Jazz."
"Yes, the very same," Elita One confirmed.
"Right, just checking," the communications commander sighed.
"Have you lost your mind?" Ratchet snorted.
"No, I have not," Elita said with a sharpness in her tone that said she was not impressed that everyone else failed to see what she thought was so obvious.
Ratchet slapped his hand on the table. "The only protection Jazz needs is from himself, and Prowl has been doing a fine job of that."
"But Prowl cannot always be there to protect Jazz, now can he?" Elita One shot back. "Prowl has his own life, his own duties, and while he might be able to divide himself for some time, he cannot go on indefinitely."
"So you worry for Prowl, not Jazz," Ironhide observed.
"I worry for both of them," Elita One said. "Prowl is not infallible, and Jazz is not invincible. They are involved in something dangerous."
"Aren't we all?" Ironhide countered. "This is war, Elita. There is rarely any guarantee for safety for any of us."
"I know that, but there is more than a war being fought out there," Elita replied solemnly. "Jazz is involved in whatever that 'more' happens to be. Though I cannot confirm it, I suspect it has something to do with Shockwave."
At the mentioning of that particular designation, the other commanders stirred around the table. Blackhawk sat up straighter and gave his full attention to the femme.
Elita One settle back with a somber expression. "So I see that all of you remember that debriefing that Jazz gave us not too long ago. It just so happens that Moonracer spoke of similar happenings during her stay here – disappearances, kidnappings. Shockwave's apparent modus operandi."
"Do you see where this is leading?" Chromia asked. "We have literally nothing on this bot, which makes him all the more dangerous to whoever is stupid enough to go poking around his lairs."
"Which Jazz is doing with aplomb," Ratchet said with dawning unease.
"And dragging Prowl around for the ride," Elita concluded darkly. "We are all perfectly aware of Jazz's strengths, and we are equally aware that he does have weaknesses. Shockwave has become his own personal pet mission, which has set him on a dangerous path that leaves him vulnerable."
Wheekjack dragged his head up and propped his chin in his palm. "He's going to throw himself out there, into the wilds, alone, and have nobody to help him. He doesn't ask for help."
"Exactly," Elita One said. "I realize that pushing Jazz may not be the best of options, but if he were to become an Autobot, then at least I could rest assured that he would have the backup of the Autobots whether he liked it or not." She set aside her cube, barely touched as it was. "To many of us at Iacon, he is already one of us. If he were in trouble, we would go to him. But what if he is beyond our reach? No other base would recognize Jazz, nor run the risk of going to his aid."
Blackhawk tapped his fingers on the tabletop. "I understand what you are saying, Elita. More often than not, Jazz is left to his own devices. Prowl cannot always be there to keep him in line. Jazz never wished to share the information about Shockwave with us in the first place, and I doubt he will be willing to do that now or in the future."
"It will be his private war, if he has anything to say about it. If he is to take Shockwave on, Jazz will need every advantage possible," Elita One pressed. "We are his best advantage. He need not know that we are working behind the scenes to help him."
"You are a devious creature," Blaster chuckled.
"So what do you suggest we do?" Ratchet asked warily, shifting in his seat.
"Simply make it obvious that his best option is to become one of us," Elita One said. "Push the subject if you must. Do what you feel is necessary. Just keep in mind that this is all to keep him safe."
Ironhide rubbed the bridge between his optic ridges. "If this is the plan, Optimus can't hear about it."
"What shouldn't I hear about?" Without warning, the lights above flicked to full brightness. The gathered commanders recoiled from the sudden assault on their optics, throwing chairs to the ground in their haste, blinking myopically at the tall figure of the Prime now standing in the doorway.
Elita One recovered with stunning swiftness, her smile bright and welcoming as if she had been expecting him all this time. "Optimus, how delightful to see you! What are you doing down here?"
"I knew you were up to something. You can't simply hide something like that from me." Optimus Prime's expression was more exasperated than charmed. "Another secret meeting, dearspark?"
"Well," she sighed, coming to his side and taking up his arm. "I wouldn't call it secret, per se. More like a gathering of select invitation."
Ironhide snorted, and this time Chromia did manage to hit him.
"On my own base, Elita?" Optimus lamented. "At least here, you could pretend I have some power."
"Oh Optimus, you know I have every respect for your position. You are Prime, but I am your sparkmate and the commander of the Femme Division. I have duties to the Autobots as well, and some you shall not be privy to." And then she flicked him. "And do not go digging through our bond for the answers."
Optimus respectfully relented.
With impressive skill, Elita One managed to turn her sparkmate to the hall and guide him out without him casting an optic onto the rest of the commanders. She left the rest of them to find their own way out, confident they would not cause a scene. She could keep the Prime busy for the rest of the night so he did not coming questioning them in the middle of the night.
Steadily but slowly, the rest of the gathering dispersed.
Blackhawk was the last to exit, wondering what had become of Firestar. He assumed she had been on watch to prevent a thing like this from happening. At the very least, she could have given a shout to let them know the Prime was approaching. He caught sight of her at the far end of the hall, looking duly apologetic for failing in her duty. As soon as Blackhawk saw who stood over her, he understood her failing.
Mirage held one of her wrists shackled, the expression on his faceplate etched in its typical repose of distain. No doubt he had been the one to alert the Prime.
"Aft," Blackhawk muttered.