Chapter 27

Notes: Chapter Warning: Canon-typical violence

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

INTERLUDE

I. Jazz

The audience with Sentinel was going about as well as Jazz expected – which was to say it was a total clusterfuck. He shifted on his pedes, glancing discretely around the hall. The upper-caste mecha were jostling one another in their impatience, and the press of so many mechanoids was starting to make Jazz feel twitchy. He resisted the urge to press a servo flat against the sub-space pocket next to his spark casing, which contained two of his blades. Sentinel's Primesguard had missed it when they frisked him. It was the only body mod that his former Master had installed for which Jazz was thankful. In eight million years, only Prowler had been able to find it against his will – and that had taken days of Jazz playing hard to get.

(Or, as Prowler recalled it, days of "frankly aggravating resistance to interrogation".)

Tomato, to-mah-toe.

Jazz was only half-listening as Starscream started bickering with Sentinel. He scanned the room, visor obscuring his field of vision as he calculated their exit strategies. The audience hall had two access points — the main entrance, through which they had entered, and a small door behind the dais. Neither was particularly appealing as a last resort. As far as Jazz could see, they had two options if things kept going south: fight their way to the antechamber under the protection of Trailbreaker's force fields and hope Soundwave could hack the ground bridge (not ideal), or hand Sam off to Skywarp and hope he'd survive the warp-flight off the ship (less ideal – even if he did, Bumblebee would still be vulnerable.)

Jazz's attention was pulled back to the present by Sam, who took a faltering step forward.

"Sentinel," Sam called out, "What they say is true."

Jazz resisted the urge to grimace as Sentinel's full attention landed on the kid. The older Prime's optics narrowed as he regarded the little organic in front of him, and the intensity of that gaze had Jazz's situational protocols pinging in alarm.

Evidentially, Starscream recognized the danger as well, because he snapped his head to the side, wings held stiff, and hissed, "The Holy Steward has not addressed you, boy."

Sam ignored him, lifting his chin to say, softly but definitively, "I am the things they claim."

In front of them, Sentinel's optics brightened with tightly leashed anger. "Is that so?"

Jazz's spark tightened inside his chest. He recognized that look — half challenge, half warning. He had seen it on his former Master's face more times than he cared to remember, and it had never preceded anything good.

Sam returned Sentinel's gaze without flinching. "Yes."

For the second time in as many kliks, Jazz resisted the urge to grimace. Sam was too young and too inexperienced to understand the impudence of his actions – but Sentinel wouldn't see it that way. Jazz took a moment to feed the most recent data into his tactical software, and when the results returned a moment later, he internalized a sigh. The new projections weren't particularly encouraging.

A sudden spike of anxiety had Jazz glancing towards Sam again. It took him less than an astro-second to realize that the lexicon hadn't translated Sentinel's phrasing correctly.

/He means a litmus test, kid,/ Jazz offered wryly.

The accompanying wave of appreciation made Jazz's mouth plates twitch despite himself, but his amusement was short-lived. A tall mechanoid shouldered through the crowd a short distance away, and Jazz's servo went instinctively to his hip, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. The mechanoid went to his knees, prostrating himself in front of Sentinel, his electromagnetic fields flaring and dimming with emotion.

"Holy Steward, please, do not suffer us to hear anymore," he beseeched, bowing his helm. "There can be no truth to these claims."

Jazz resisted the urge to roll his optics. Pits, upper-caste mecha could be so dramatic.

Optimus lifted his head, speaking before the older Prime could reply. "Sentinel, I accept your right to render judgment on me, freely and without reservation, but all we have said is true, witnessed by Autobots and Decepticons alike and corroborated by those loyal to you. First Emirate Xaaron, Legate Crossblades, and Chief Medical Officer Meltdown can all attest to the Allspark energy regenerating inside this man's body, a feat made possible by his claim to the Primacy."

The low murmur that had been steadily building since they arrived was punctuated by angry cries and exclamations throughout the crowd.

"Impossible!" shouted a small femme near the podium.

Jazz sized her up in an instant. Minimal armament, no weaponry. Not a threat.

"All evidence to the contrary," Optimus rumbled, meeting Sentinel's heated gaze directly.

"Evidence? What evidence have you provided?" Sentinel sneered. "A handful of inanimate shards and a trace energy signature. That is not evidence — it is heresy." Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but Sentinel raised his servo, cutting him off. "You speak of evidence, then let us have evidence." The older Prime turned, pinning Sam beneath his gaze. "Show us what miracles you can perform. Touch the Well."

Sam visibly blanched. "Wh-what?"

At the same time, Optimus pushed to his feet. "That is an unfair trial, Sentinel."

The older Prime turned his head, spearing Optimus with a hard look. "You claim he has rebuked death twice already. What is once more?" His face twisted in a deep grimace. "After all, it is not as though we are lacking the dead to choose from."

For the first time since entering the audience hall, Optimus' electromagnetic fields roiled with barely restrained emotion. "Surely, there are other tests—"

"None so definitive as this," Sentinel interrupted.

Optimus frowned deeply. "Primes do not command of Primus, Sentinel, we can only—"

"Do not quote scripture to me, Optimus Prime," Sentinel warned coldly. "I will not suffer it. Not from you."

Before Optimus could reply, the Matrix of Leadership flared brightly, causing its blue glow to spread across the audience hall. Optimus and Sentinel turned in unison, their expressions mirror images of surprise, to regard the ancient artifact. The Matrix was rotating slowly in place, equidistant between them, brightening and dimming in a steady rhythm. The agitated murmuring of the crowd trailed off as its light grew brighter and more magnificent with each pulse.

Jazz's attention was momentarily arrested by an incoming ping from Cliffjumper, which appeared on his visual display flagged with highest priority signifiers. Jazz accepted the connection immediately. /What is it?/

/It's Sam,/ Cliffjumper replied without preamble, his voice strained. /Something's wrong./

Jazz glanced in Sam's direction. The kid was standing in the same spot near the podium, but unlike every other person in the audience hall, he wasn't looking at the Matrix of Leadership. Instead, he was visibly tracking something through the crowd. Jazz half-turned, following his line of sight, but he couldn't see whatever had caught the kid's attention. Not quite sure what to expect, Jazz keyed up his extended sensory array — and then he blinked in surprise. Sam's bio-metrics were reading base-line normal across the board. Heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, respiration, all normal. The realization made Jazz's fuel lines run cold. He glanced at Optimus, who was watching the Matrix of Leadership in consternation.

/Boss?/ he pinged. /I think we might have a situation here./

Immediately, Optimus turned, first to regard Jazz, who tipped his head towards the kid, and then to regard Sam. Prime's face tightened in concern, before he took a step closer.

"Sam?" he murmured.

Sam gave no indication of having heard him. He was staring at something on the far side of the audience hall, his brow furrowed as though in deep thought. Jazz followed the kid's line of sight for a second time, but he still couldn't see anything that would account for Sam's unwavering focus. He glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, who was watching Sam with an anxious cant to his door wings. Wordlessly, Jazz sent a status query. Bumblebee's optics flicked briefly to his face, before he shook his helm in reply.

Optimus lowered into a loose crouch in front of Sam, who gave no indication he was aware of his presence. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Starscream, who was watching the goings-on with a tight frown, glanced sidelong at Prime. "What is it? What's happening?"

Optimus' brow furrowed slightly in consternation. "I don't know," he admitted.

After a long moment, stretched almost to the breaking point by the oppressive silence that had fallen across the audience hall, Sam exhaled a soft breath.

"Rumble," he murmured, almost like a revelation.

Optimus leaned closer. "Sam?"

The kid seemed to come back to himself all at once. He glanced first at Optimus, his eyes flicking across the older Prime's face, before he turned to look at Sentinel. Jazz immediately recognized the determined set of the kid's shoulders — he had seen it for himself often enough, and Jazz found himself bracing for impact before the kid even opened his mouth.

"Rumble," Sam repeated firmly. "That's who I choose."

Sentinel's earlier anger was no longer apparent. Instead, the older Prime was watching the scene unfold in front of him with an inscrutable expression on his face. "There are others who—"

"No," Sam said, cutting off whatever he was about to say — Jazz would have been impressed by the kid's temerity, if their afts weren't all on the line. "It's Rumble."

Rather than the cold indignation Jazz might have expected, Sentinel seemed to consider Sam for a long moment, and then he dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Then it shall be so."

Sentinel turned, rumbling something inaudible to the two Primesguard who were standing on the dias. The nearest of the two postured deferentially, before they both turned and made their way through the door that Jazz had tagged earlier. The crowd shifted restlessly as Sentinel gestured for Optimus and Sam to join him. It took some doing — the steps weren't exactly sized for humans. When they finally ascended the dais, there was a brief discussion, and then Sentinel turned to regard Soundwave, who was standing in stoic silence at the back of Starscream's retinue.

"Do you have the frame?" he asked, not unkindly.

It took a long moment, but eventually, Soundwave inclined his helm. "Affirmative."

Jazz knew a brief moment of surprise. It was no secret that Soundwave greatly mourned Rumble's loss, but Jazz wouldn't have pegged him as the type to carry an inanimate frame in sub-space. It just wasn't practical. Sub-space pockets were constrained by mass, rather than size or shape, and an in-tact frame – even the intact frame of a cassette – would have surely maxed-out his capacity. Even Jazz, who was prone to the occasional bout of sentimentality, wouldn't sacrifice the sub-space needed for energon or weaponry, and especially not during a mission.

Sentinel inclined his head. "Then come forward."

Thundercracker and Skywarp stepped aside as Soundwave started towards the dias. Starscream watched him with an unreadable expression on his face, which for Screamer probably meant that he was doing some serious thinking. As Soundwave made to start up the steps, Starscream took a step forward and swept into a low bow.

"I would accompany him, Your Grace," Starscream demurred. "With your permission, of course."

Sentinel frowned down at him. "To what purpose?"

Starscream pressed a servo above his spark casing. "As a witness, Holy Steward – to spread the word of whatever happens here."

Sentinel ex-vented an undignified snort. "All and sundry will know of what happens here today, whatever that outcome may be. You are hardly needed."

From his vantage point, Jazz would see the way Starscream's wings tightened fractionally in irritation, but otherwise the Seeker gave no indication of offense. "That is true, but as Megatron's former second-in-command, the remaining Decepticon forces would be more likely to believe it coming from one of their own." The winglord dipped lower into his bow. "Your Grace."

Sentinel stared down at Starscream for a long moment. Briefly, Jazz wondered whether the Seeker had overplayed his hand, but then the old Prime inclined his helm. "You may observe, if you wish." Sentinel turned to go, before glancing over his shoulder. "In silence."

Starscream spread his arms wider in acknowledgment, before straightening from his bow. He glanced sidelong at Soundwave, faceplates tight, and then the two Decepticons made their way to the top of the dais, before following Sentinel and the others out of the room. Meltdown, who heretofore had been standing on his own, suddenly jerked, as though in surprise, and then he started forward. The CMO seemed apprehensive as he approached the dais, but as neither remaining Primesguard impeded his progress, he made his way up the steps, before disappearing after the two Decepticons.

As soon as the doors swung shut behind them, the crowd immediately broke out in animated conversation. Jazz glanced sidelong at the others. Cliffjumper had moved to stand beside Bumblebee, whose plating was tucked close to his frame in an obvious display of agitation. In Optimus' absence, Kup and Ironhide repositioned themselves to flank them. Trailbreaker remained at Jazz's side, his optics sliding over the crowd, vigilant and alert. Jazz ex-vented a long, slow release of air. Their situation had gone from bad to worse. Sam and Optimus, deep inside the Gauntlet, weaponless and surrounded by potentially hostile forces, being subjected to an unfair trial with little chance of success.

Oh, yeah. This was going swimmingly.

With little else to do but wait, Jazz glanced around the assembly hall. There was a group of Vosian lords near the dais who looked none-too-pleased. The four mecha were huddled together, seemingly engaged in intense conversation, although Jazz couldn't pick up anything from a cursory penn-test. He briefly debated pressing deeper, but he discarded the idea almost immediately. There were too many of Meister's former clients in the crowd to risk revealing himself. Otherwise, the gathered mechanoids looked exactly like Jazz would have expected from Sentinel's retinue. Polished. Poised. Powerful.

"Wonderful," Jazz sighed.

Trailbreaker glanced sidelong at him. /Sir?/

Jazz shook his helm minutely. "Nothin'. Just thinkin' out loud."

Whatever Trailbreaker might have said was forestalled by a sudden pulse of Allspark energy that rocked through the audience hall like a shockwave. Jazz was momentarily rendered blind and deaf until his internals compensated for the surge. When his vision finally cleared, audials still ringing with feedback, it was to find that the others in the audience hall had been similarly affected. The nobles and their ilk were leaning on one another and shaking their helms as they tried to regain their bearings.

Prowl had grudgingly told him about the night of Jazz's resurrection, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself – the air still thrumming with the touch of something divine.

Jazz couldn't prevent the small huff of disbelieving laughter that escaped him. Attaboy.

The nobles' disorientation lasted for about three astroseconds – and Jazz knew, because he was counting – and then the audience chamber erupted into chaos as everyone started shouting over one another. The true believers were easy to pick out in the crowd, because they immediately began prostrating themselves in front of the dais. Others transformed into alt mode, which was an impressive display of deference by nobility under any circumstance, let alone in Sentinel Prime's audience chamber after he had been made to look a fool in front of his entire court.

Jazz suppressed his grin at the thought. Sentinel's expression must be glorious right now. He wondered whether he could weasel an image capture out of Starscream – it probably wouldn't be that hard. Jazz's grin curled a little wider. He was gonna have it printed and framed and hung in his hab-suite.

/How's the kid?/ Jazz commed Optimus, his optics sliding across the crowd. The clamor was growing louder with each passing moment.

There was a brief pause, and then Optimus replied, /He fainted. Meltdown is with him now./

Jazz was caught off-guard by the sudden visceral concern that stabbed through him. /He alright?/

/Yes, Jazz,/ Optimus murmured. /Sam will be fine./

The gentleness in Prime's voice made Jazz realize that he had revealed too much. He grimaced faintly, before sending a terse acknowledgment and closing the connection. Jazz's attention was drawn back to the crowd – the nobles were jostling one another in an effort to approach the dais, and the space that had been afforded to them upon their arrival was quickly dwindling.

Jazz turned, directly a terse, "Form up," to Ironhide and the others, who stepped closer to Bumblebee. The scout turned, whistling something sharp and pissy sounding to Ironhide, who ignored him. At the same time, a willowy noble stumbled into Jazz as he was pushed from behind. Jazz gave him a sharp shove back towards the crowd, before glancing sidelong at Trailbreaker. "Crowd's gettin' a little rowdy for my tastes."

Trailbreaker grimaced deeply but said nothing in reply.

Suddenly, the doors against the back wall swung open. Sentinel's Primesguard appeared first, taking their positions on either side of the dais, and then Sentinel appeared in the darkened entryway. The clamor, which had been growing in pitch and volume ever since the Allspark pulse swept through the hall, reached a fever pitch at his appearance. The nobles, the landed gentry, and their retinues all shouted over one another as they vied for his attention. Optimus appeared next, although the crowd paid him little attention. Their attention was focused on Sentinel – and on the open doorway behind him. OP came to stand a short distance away from Sentinel, his head half-turned to regard the older Prime. The warrior priests and attendants came next, their white armor standing in stark contrast to the gleaming charcoal metal all around them. Meltdown came next, already in alt mode, and he drove forward just far enough to clear the doorway before pulling to a stop.

Jazz glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, ready to order him back into position if he started forward, but the scout remained where he stood – tense, but unmoving.

Sentinel raised his servo, but it took almost a klik before the clamoring mechanoids fell silent. When at last the only sound in the audience chamber was the distant rumble of the ship's engines, Sentinel inclined his head and began to speak. Jazz barely listened to the face-saving slag he spouted to course-correct in the wake of his asked for miracle — holy ordinance, divine will, Primus works in mysterious ways, blah, blah, blah. Most of the assembled nobles seemed to be eating it up, but others weren't as… fervent. Jazz made a mental note of the opaque expressions and rigid shoulders – it seemed there were some infidels amongst the true believers in Sentinel's court.

And then Sentinel said something that commanded Jazz's full attention.

"After the Prime has recovered, he will be moved aboard the Gauntlet. Optimus Prime has agreed to remain here, as my guest, to prepare a place for him—"

Jazz stiffened in alarm. /Boss?/

"—so as to ensure his comfort and safety. It will require adjustments on our behalf. The requirements for organic life are—"

/There was no other way,/ Optimus replied.

/No other way?/ Jazz repeated skeptically. /The kid'll never go for it./

"—but Primus has made His will known. The Allspark must be protected at all costs." Sentinel finished, inclining his head. The crowd hummed their assent — a low pitched vibration that set Jazz's dentae on edge.

/He will,/ Optimus replied. /Sam understands what is a stake./

Jazz suppressed a grimace. The kid only knew what they wanted him to know.

As Sentinel finished his speech, two of the white armored warrior priests stepped forward, transforming into alt mode and driving down the sloping side ramp. The crowd parted as they approached, giving them a wide berth. Meltdown followed behind them, and then, to Jazz's surprise, two other mechanoids took up the rear. The first was a tall medical build in red and white with the tell-tale chevron on his helm, but the other was harder to peg. He was tall and lithe with deep blue, almost indigo colored paneling. He didn't have any noticeable kibble that would set him apart as a member of the nobility, but his armor was fine and detailed.

Jazz glanced up at Optimus, their optics meeting across the distance that separated them. /Who're the stiffs?/

/Pharma and Sigel,/ Optimus replied, his tone opaque. /Pharma is Sentinel's Chief Medical Officer. Ratchet had… many things to say about him, over the years. Sigel is an attendant./

Jazz raised a brow ridge as the retinue started down the aisle. /Whose attendant?/

Even from a distance, Jazz could see the grimace on Optimus' face. /Sam's. Sentinel would not be dissuaded./

Jazz ex-vented a soft snort. The nobility loved their attendants — mecha to clean and fetch and dote on them, a fact Jazz knew all too well. He also knew Sam was going to absolutely hate it.

As the retinue approached, Bumblebee transformed down into alt, before falling into place just behind Meltdown. He drove so closely that he wasn't more than a few inches from the ambulance's rear bumper. Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker followed suit, taking their places behind them, which left Ironhide, Kup, and Jazz standing alone in the middle of the aisle. Jazz was in the process of composing a message to ask whether he should return to the Ark when he received an incoming ping without ident-codes or signifiers. Jazz glanced at the entryway behind the dais to find that Starscream and Soundwave had returned to the audience hall. The communications officer wasn't looking in his direction, but that was fine. Jazz understood how this game was played.

/Hey Sounders, I hear congratulations are in order,/ Jazz greeted with artificial levity. /Mazel tov on the bouncing baby boy./

The immediate press of caution had Jazz's battle protocols trying to come on-line. He rejected the request and re-routed the sub-routines to a secondary processor, before sending a single query glyph in reply.

There was a protracted pause, and then Jazz's primary visual display blinked with a data transfer request. Jazz stared at the notification in surprise. /Care to tell me what's inside that file?/

/Intelligence,/ Soundwave replied.

Ironhide and Kup started towards the dais at Sentinel's command, and Jazz kept his expression neutral as he fell into place behind them. Jazz was an excellent infiltrator, but Soundwave was better, even without the wholemind reading thing that Sounders was rumored to have going on. The file was flagged as a memory datum, but it could be anything.

/Sharing information with the enemy?/ Jazz asked neutrally.

/Starscream has negotiated peace with Optimus Prime,/ Soundwave returned.

/Yeah, yeah,/ Jazz mused as he pulled the meta-data. It didn't look suspicious, but that didn't mean anything from an intelligence frame.

/Information: of interest to Jazz. Open it or not,/ Soundwave replied, before severing their connection.

Rude, Jazz snorted as he considered the datum. It wasn't a large file, so if it was mal-ware or a virus, it would have to be something short-acting, and it certainly wouldn't hold a candle to Jazz's security protocols. All things considered, it would be a ridiculous risk for little gain, which is what had Jazz decompressing the file on the spot. Soundwave was a lot of things, but short-sighted wasn't one of them.

The memory datum was from Soundwave's perspective. It began just after Rumble docked inside his chest. Jazz was taken aback by the depth of the Carrier's emotions — stunned disbelief, joy, relief, joy. Jazz hadn't known the stoic mech was even capable of it. The feeling of Rumble hard-lining into place was odd, but the rush of connection was almost rapturous when it happened.

Jazz felt a flash of frustration. What was the point of this?

On the altar, Sam's knees went out from under him. Meltdown's holoform caught him before he hit the cold stone. The medic was surprisingly composed as he worked — laying him down, running a medical scan, checking him over. Jazz was grudgingly impressed. Meltdown was a competent physician, but he didn't have Ratchet's unflappable calm or his Ratchety-ness in general.

Soundwave watched it all — just as he watched the other occupants in the room. Starscream was still shouting at him to bring Rumble out of his dock. Optimus Prime had joined Meltdown to attend to the boy, who seemed none the worse for wear. Soundwave found the boy's unconsciousness somewhat alarming, but he knew that involuntary stasis was a side effect of accessing the Allspark's power.

Jazz frowned deeply as the last thought flashed through his mind. And just how do you know that, Sounders?

And while everyone else was watching Sam, Soundwave watched Sentinel Prime. The older Prime was watching Meltdown assess the boy with an impenetrable expression on his face. Still, Soundwave was so distracted by the events of the last two kliks that he almost missed the encoded transmission. It brushed against his mind like a breeze, and he found himself pushing through the firewalls on rote.

/Watch the Prime,/ Sentinel instructed. /Report back to me on all he does — miss nothing./

Soundwave angled his helm slightly. The older Prime was still staring at the boy laid out on the altar. The message had been too quick to fully parse — but the undertone of command was unmistakable.

As was the reply, immediate and definitive. /I obey./

All at once, Jazz found himself back inside his own processors. If he was physically capable of purging his fuel tanks, he would have done so.

Well, fuck.


II. Ratchet

The brig was dark and quiet – as it had been for the last deca-cycle. Ratchet had expected to be tortured immediately, but Tarn had laughed and called him uncivilized, before stripping him of his armor and weaponry and tossing him into a cell. That was where Ratchet had been ever since, kneeling with his arms bound behind his back, watching as his fuel levels slowly decreased. Tarn arrived before they went critical, of course. The DJD leader deactivated the energy barrier, and then made a show of dragging a chair into Ratchet's cell. The squeal of metal against metal was painfully loud to his sensitive audials after days (weeks?) spent in silence. Tarn settled in his seat like he was lounging on a throne, before sub-spacing an energon cube. The soft, warm glow of energon illuminated the sardonic half-smile that pulled at Tarn's mouth.

"You must be hungry," Tarn surmised.

"Starvation of prisoners is a war crime," Ratchet growled — or tried to, anyway. His vocoder was staticky from disuse.

Tarn made a polite sound of concern in the back of his throat. "My apologies. We have been rather busy, and I'm afraid the time has gotten away from me. Regardless, I am here now, and look, I have brought your rations."

Ratchet was briefly tempted to tell Tarn exactly where he could shove those rations, but he wasn't foolish enough to do so. Tarn wasn't about to let him off-line from fuel loss, which meant that he wouldn't allow Ratchet to refuse rations, either.

"What do you want, Tarn?" Ratchet ground out.

Tarn hummed softly as he turned the energon cube over in his hands. "You know what I want."

"Yeah, well, smelt you and your Master both," Ratchet rasped.

Tarn glanced up, a frown tightening his face plates. "Don't be impolite."

"Slag off," Ratchet bit back.

Tarn's expression was impassive as he transferred the energon cube to one servo, and then he backhanded Ratchet roughly across the face with the other. "Manners."

Ratchet's audials were still ringing when he spat at Tarn's feet. "I'll never give you the codes."

"Your cooperation is neither expected nor required," Tarn replied, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "The codes will be retrieved regardless."

Tarn smiled down at him, before pushing to his pedes. He made another show of pulling the chair out of the cell, and then he reactivated the energy barrier. Ratchet's intake lines constricted as Tarn peeled open the energon cube and poured it down the drain set in the middle of the floor.

"We can try again tomorrow," Tarn tsked, before leaving the empty energon cube, still glowing with residue, on the chair in front of Ratchet's cell. "Rest well, medic."

The next three days had followed the same pattern. Eventually, Ratchet stopped responding to Tarn's barbs, which seemed to suit the Decepticon just fine. His lack of overt defiance earned him another energon cube, which Tarn opened and held up to his intakes. Ratchet stared at him in outraged disbelief, but Tarn just raised a brow ridge expectantly. The resulting quarrel, though one-sided and pathetic, given Ratchet's condition, nevertheless resulted in the energon cube being taken away again. The process was repeated until his fuel levels were critical, and then the DJD medic administered an energon drip – just enough to keep him conscious – and then the process continued.

By the time that Ratchet finally allowed Tarn to hand-feed him, he was on the brink of a full cascade failure. The DJD medic was often at his side now, hard-lined into his systems and watching his vitals with a frown on her face. Tarn stroked the back of Ratchet's head as he drank. When the cube was half-gone, Tarn asked, idly, "Do you know why I'm doing this?"

Ratchet shuttered his optics. Of course he knew why — Megatron had suffered a similar indignity while imprisoned on Diego Garcia.

"We never starved him," Ratchet rasped.

"That's irrelevant," Tarn said, not unkindly.

Ratchet thought it was wholly relevant, but he said nothing in reply. Tarn continued feeding him until the energon cube was empty, and then he handed it off to the medic. "What is his status, Nickel?"

"Most of his systems are critical," she replied, an undercurrent of disapproval in her tone.

"And?" Tarn asked wryly.

"He's stable for now," Nickel groused. "But if you want him to stay that way, you'll keep his fuel levels above 40 percent."

"That's marvelous news," Tarn announced, pushing to his feet and making his way back into the brig. "Medic, isn't that marvelous news?"

Ratchet watched warily as Tarn approached a large object on the far side of the room. It was waist-height and perhaps several meters in length, and it had been covered in a metal-mesh sheet throughout his entire imprisonment. Tarn yanked the sheet away in a flourish, revealing an interrogation bench. Although the rest of the room had a dusty, misused feel to it, the interrogation bench was clearly well used and maintained.

All at once, Ratchet realized why there was a drain in the middle of the floor.

"And now, medic," Tarn announced, steepling his servos as he offered Ratchet a serene smile, "you and I can chat about those access codes."


In the days that followed, Ratchet suffered.

Tarn turned off his internal chronometer, so he was unsure how much time passed while he was strapped to the chair, but the torture assumed a predicable pattern. Tarn would ask him questions, and then he would inflict pain in direct proportion to the usefulness of his answers. The torture was mostly mental — Tarn was an adept infiltrator in his own right, and he was capable of inflicting great pain with a minimal amount of damage. The first time that Ratchet tried offering up a sleeper code, however, Tarn flayed his protoform with a knife until the agony eventually tripped Ratchet into a full cascade failure.

When he came back on-line an interminable time later, it was to find Tarn staring down at him. The Decepticon's face was perfectly opaque, revealing nothing of his thoughts. When it was clear that Ratchet was fully conscious again, Tarn leaned down and murmured, "I would not advise you to try that again."

And then, as though to emphasize his point, he lightly slapped Ratchet's chest with the blade he had used to flay his protoform. The curved metal was still dripping with his internal fluids.

It took almost a full cycle before Tarn's medic deemed Ratchet was stable enough to continue the interrogation. This time, however, Tarn worked in silence, speaking only to ask questions or give commands. Ratchet's world became a blur of pain and fear and disorientation. Tarn's temper began to fray as time trudged onwards without success. He was quicker to punish, was sharper with those who assisted him.

But through the red haze of agony that had subsumed Ratchet's waking moments, he realized that his firewalls were holding.

The realization would have made him weep in relief, were he physically capable of it.

The next time that Ratchet struggled up from the darkness of stasis, it was to the feeling of a cool cloth against his brow. He jerked in alarm, but his restraints held firm.

"Easy, Hatchet," an amused voice murmured from somewhere nearby. "He really did a number on you, didn't he?"

Ratchet forced open his optics to find Strika standing at his side. The former Quintesson-era war-frame was wiping him down — the cloth she was holding was streaked with his energon and other internal fluids. All at once, Ratchet knew a moment of profound despair. The last he heard, Strika had been stationed in deep-space. The only person who could have recalled her was—

The sound of metal being dragged across the floor caused Ratchet to turn his head. He watched in sinking dismay as Helex and Tesarus positioned a berth against the far wall. Megatron lay supine on its flat surface — still in stasis, but very much alive. Tarn stood nearby, watching as Nickel rearranged medical equipment and double-checked intake lines, and at his side stood Shockwave, waiting in stoic silence for whatever the DJD leader would command of him.

Ratchet angled his head to stare at the ceiling in sinking resignation. So, it had finally come to this.

"You should have given him what he wanted," Strika murmured, pressing the cool cloth against the side of his face. "You knew this was inevitable."

"Do you know what he's done?" Ratchet rasped without looking at her. "Do you know how far he's fallen?"

Strika faltered in her ministrations, but only for a moment. "I have been informed, yes."

The admission shouldn't have wounded him, but it did. Strika was a member of the Old Guard. She might have been a Decepticon, but she was the best of them. Ratchet would have thought better of her — more the fool, him.

At some unspoken command, Shockwave stepped up to Ratchet's berth. The former Senator wasted no time establishing a hard-line, and then he was burrowing inside Ratchet's processors. The pain was indescribable. Shockwave peeled apart his firewalls, one by one, and then he was rifling through the deepest recesses of Ratchet's mind.

Ratchet tried, Primus, he tried, but Strika was right — the end was inevitable.

When Ratchet came back to himself afterwards, it was to Tarn standing by his side. Strika was nowhere to be seen. Briefly, Ratchet wondered whether he had hallucinated her – he hoped that he had.

"There you are," Tarn murmured, almost kindly. "I'm glad you're awake. I wouldn't want you to miss this." As he spoke, the Decepticon reached out, clasping Ratchet's chin and gently angling his head to the side. Ratchet watched helplessly as Shockwave jacked into Megatron's ancillary port. It only took a matter of moments before the Decepticon leader jerked against the berth—and then, vents shuttering loudly, Megatron opened his optics.

Unable to do anything else, Ratchet despaired.

Notes: He's baaaaaack!