Brief break from smuttings
Especially since this part was almost done anyways, just needed to finish the piece at the end with Prowl.
Title Nowhere to Turn
Pairing(s) (eventual) Jazz/Sideswipe, there's another in there if you squint ;P
Warnings None that I can think of
Summary A wounded, cornered mechanimal would aptly describe the red rocketeer that stumbles his way into Jazz’s life. Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered. Now, if only Jazz could find out what the slag was going on with him.
Part 1
Part 3
Hastily constructed structures told the story of just how suddenly the Autobots had been forced to retreat. The structures stood as the only markers of what building led to what task force, and the meaning of the markers changed every metacycle so that it would be harder for the Decepticons to keep track of what markers led to important structures. Jazz led the way through the neatly disarrayed piles of supplies, scattered throughout the streets. He was careful not to touch any of them, as some were trapped, and none but the resident supply officers knew which.
Sideswipe veered off to one side, squeezing into an alleyway and transforming. He stumbled as he did so.
Jazz snapped to his feet, crossing the few steps between them and steadying the warrior. “Dude, where’re you going?”
Sideswipe swayed unsteadily, his pale optics flickering. “Somewhere to lie down until Cybertron stops spinning.”
The saboteur tugged him away from piles of supplies and leaned the warrior against a building. “Why didn’t ya say somethin’ if you were damaged that badly!”
“Wouldn't have done much good if I had,” he groaned, leaning his head back. “Besides, not much can be done about it, except to wait for it to get better.” Sideswipe shoved himself off the wall, straightening. “Which is exactly what I'm about to do.”
“Oh, no ya don'!” Jazz stopped him, clenching wires within the red and black mech's elbow joint. “You are goin' to see Ratchet. Does he know about yer little,” Jazz paused searching for the right word, “glitch?”
Sideswipe glared down at Jazz's hand, pinched frown on his face. His pale optics shuttered for a moment and he relaxed his arm. “Yeah. He knows there's nothing to be done about it.”
Jazz grinned as he pulled the larger mech back onto the main causeway. “Betcha that made him fritz.”
A grin crooked Sideswipe's mouth. “To say the least.” He looked around the camp as Jazz moved with purpose. “How do you know where you're going, anyway?”
“Yer supposed to be directed to where ever yer supposed to be by yer squad leader. You are goin' to the med bay. After what we both went through, that's our first stop.” Jazz tilted his head to frown at the obstinate warrior. “After Ratchet repairs ya, someone will tell you where to go next.”
“Jazz!”
A mech and a minibot ran to meet Jazz. They came up short when they noticed the saboteur's companion. The Special Ops team leader pulled them off to the side, dragging Sideswipe with them. Jazz looked up to see if Sideswipe would try to leave before he let go of the warrior's arm, and moved a little further away.
“Bumblebee, Mirage.” He pulled his fellow operatives into a small hug. “’Swipe, where ya goin'?” He looked back, guessing correctly that Sideswipe would try to slip away.
The red and black mech stopped midstep. He sighed and fell in behind Jazz.
“You two wanna tell me what went wrong with this operation?” He modulated his voice low, intending the words for their receptors only. The smiles faded from the two faces and Mirage frowned while Bumblebee crossed his arms.
They stared at the ground in thought, until Mirage spoke up. “It was on that roof and the other was empty.” He paused, his optics darkening. “It could have been a decoy, but the roof they used had nothing on it when I was looking for likely spots, I'm certain of that!”
Bumblebee glanced up at Jazz's neutral face. “The plans called for a sizable generator, the decoy roof had the likeliest amount of free space. I...” he hesitated, wincing and turning his optics back to the ground. “I completely missed the one they used.”
Mirage's optics shifted to look behind Jazz's shoulder. “He's trying to escape again.” He covered his mouth as if in thought, but Jazz could see the grin he hid.
Bumblebee slapped his own hand over his mouth, snickers slipping through his fingers as Jazz whirled.
“’Swipe! Where the slag do ya think yer goin'? We ain't nowhere near medical.” He snatched Sideswipe back by the hatch panel on the warrior's arm.
Sideswipe's engine groaned, and he vented a sigh. “Jazz, come on. I'm drained, can't I at least grab some energon before I go?”
A goodie pack appeared in the saboteur's hand, and was promptly offered to the red mech. “I ain't gonna be much longer. I wanna make sure Ratch sees ya.”
Jazz watched him take out an energon goodie and stare dully at it before turning back to his two team members. He modulated his voice again, so that it wouldn't carry. “Y' were supposed ta destroy the controls, 'Bee.” He lightened his tone, wanting to hear the yellow mech's explanation.
“I did!” The other two shushed the minibot when he all but wailed those two words. “They shouldn't have been able to get it to spark a wire, much less blow up a city block!”
Jazz regarded the distraught little mech, his thoughts taking him down paths he'd rather not travel. Yet the truth seemed to stare him in the face. “It's okay, 'Bee.” He straightened. “I want a report from both of ya on just what went wrong with the Op.”
“Yes sir,” they chorused despondently.
“Hey, it's okay.” He grinned at them, placing one hand on their shoulders. “Why don't you two go finish whatever it was you were doing before ya saw me.”
Mirage glanced over Jazz's shoulder, frown creasing his face. “I thought I recognized him. That's Sunstreaker's roommate, right?”
Jazz snapped a surprised look at the taller mech. “You've met Sunstreaker?”
Mirage's optics widened with equal surprise. “You mean, you haven't?” Mirage's surprise was warranted, as Jazz made it his duty to know every mech in Prowl's unit.
“That slagger is one tough bolt to catch. How do ya know him?”
Bumblebee wore a disgruntled expression, and Mirage grinned guiltily. “I was actually going to take him to task for attacking Bumblebee like he did.” The cultured voice dropped an octave. “But we got to talking. I catch him in the rec room every so often.”
Jazz stared at Mirage. Of all the mechs Mirage could have included in his small list of friends, Jazz would never have expected that violent maniac to finagle his way in. “We'll talk about this later, Raj. You need to get going.”
The two operatives nodded and turned to go. Jazz grabbed Bumblebee's arm, preventing the smaller mech from leaving. Mirage didn't miss the gesture, as told by the widening of his optics, but he didn't say anything and left.
Bumblebee waited patiently, curiosity alight in his optics. The small smile that had been growing on his lips died when he took in Jazz’s stern expression. He didn’t resist as the team leader drew him closer, his lips brushing the minibot’s audio horns.
“’Bee, did that Decepticon see ya, when you were tryin’ ta shoot him?”
The white brow knitted together in confusion. “Which one?”
“That new intelligence officer, masked, and visored?” Jazz ducked his head so that he could meet Bumblebee’s wide optics.
“After that red dolt blew my shot, yeah he saw me!” The minibot pulled away slightly, his face going passive rather than reveal the turmoil Jazz could still see in his optics. “Why?”
“I need ya to get over to Ratchet,” he paused, unwilling to voice the order, despite the necessity, “ask him to give you an intensive processor scan.”
Bumblebee pulled away a little more. “What?” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. The order was tantamount to an accusation of treason.
“Don’ argue with me. Just get it done. Okay?” Jazz pressed his lips into a thin smile, using his well-practiced reassurance to hide the crawling worry in his circuits. The hurt look on his team member’s face pulled at his sympathy. The slagger knew how to use his attributes well, Jazz had ensured that. “That Con’s a telepath ‘Bee. Ya know we can’t risk it.”
“I would never-“
“I said, don’t argue with me.” He released the yellow minibot’s arm. “I know ya wouldn’t.” He didn’t want ‘Bee to think that Jazz thought him a traitor. Far from the truth.
Those few words seemed to relax Bumblebee, and he glanced over Jazz’s shoulder. “He’s gone.”
Jazz spun about, wondering what the slag Bumblebee meant. Sideswipe had managed to slip away. “That no good, rusty pile of scrap! What the slag doesn’t he understand about standin’ right there, and waitin’ for me to go to medical. He’d better be there!”
Bumblebee grinned before beating a hasty retreat from Jazz’s playful swat. Even so, he stormed the rest of the way toward the designated medical building, fully intending to bend someone’s audio horns if that bot wasn’t already there.
He wasn’t entirely surprised, though he was extremely disappointed, when he didn’t see Sideswipe anywhere in the waiting area. Injured mechs littered the floor and benches, waiting for the medics to attend them.
Wheeljack walked amongst the injured, pausing to check on a mech and direct medics to see to that one, or motion for the corpse to be moved away. He noticed Jazz’s sweeping gaze and his vocal indicators flashed in a silent gesture. The saboteur moved closer, never ceasing his search for the red warrior.
“Prowl’s still online, waiting for you. Ratchet’s got him set up in one of the private rooms.” The engineer took in Jazz’s wandering gaze.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d go in there and talk to him, now, Jazz. He needs to go offline so his self-repair can work.” Ratchet came out of the area marked as the OR, cleaning energon off his red hands. He scowled at the saboteur, light optics narrowing. “Bumblebee and Mirage have already come and gone, if you’re looking for them.”
“Nah, I’m lookin’ for a mech named Sideswipe. Seen him?”
Ratchet frowned, gesturing for Jazz to move. “You mean Sunstreaker’s roommate?” He jerked his chin behind him.
Jazz noticed then the gold plating mixed in amidst all the others. “That’s the Sideswipe.” He wandered over to the golden mech, whom he still hadn’t met.
Wheeljack shook his head, stooping next to the offline Sunstreaker. “He hasn’t come in here. Is he damaged?” He looked up at Ratchet. “This one was next anyways, Ratch.”
“Is Sideswipe damaged? That's like asking if the rain's acid.” Ratchet grumbled, kneeling down to look over Sunstreaker.
Jazz stood, stepping out of the two larger mechs way. “Yep. I ain’t that well off myself.”
Ratchet’s light-eyed gaze seemed to finally focus on Jazz and his brows furrowed. “Then get in to see Prowl, and get your aft to the OR. I’ll have someone check the other units’ stations to see if any of them have Sideswipe.”
“’Preciate it, Ratch.” Jazz waved at the two mechs, homing in on the signal that had been pinging at his comm.
Prowl sat in a private recovery room, small but suited to the purpose it was designed for. He looked up from the datapads he sorted through on his lap. His optics flashed and he hastily gathered the datapads into a stack, his optics narrowing at the saboteur. “You don't see these.” They vanished into a subspace pocket.
Jazz grinned at the tactician. “Don' worry I won't tell a spark.”
His doorwings twitched in amusement, but he flinched. “That's good of you.”
They both knew that Ratchet knew anyways.
Jazz looked his friend over, wincing at the tarp covering his legs. Ratchet wouldn’t have placed that there, unless what was under was an unsightly mess. “Did y' get my message?” He turned his gaze back to the tactician's serene face.
“Yes. Communications went down right after.” Prowl's doorwings lifted, despite the obvious pain it caused him, his optics brightening as he activated his authoritative programming. “What I want to know, Jazz, is what that weapon was doing on that particular roof? You were supposed to be rendering the canon inoperable, why didn’t you realize that you had the wrong roof sooner.”
Jazz lifted his chin, bringing up his own officer protocols. “The Cons had a decoy set up.”
A frown flashed on Prowl's face. “A decoy?” His optics narrowed and his optics flickered as he ran calculations through his battle computer. “A decoy should not have fooled you that long, Jazz. You are not that sloppy.”
Jazz's grin turned embarrassed. “Yeah, well...”
Prowl vented a sigh, holding up a hand to halt Jazz's explanation. “I'm sorry, I'm too tired to hear it right now, Jazz.” His optics softened. “I wanted to ensure that you returned safely.” He settled back into the angled back of the medical berth, wincing again as he shifted both his legs and his doorwings. He reached up to his helm, drawing out a data chit from the slot underneath his cheekguard. “If you could give me a preliminary report, at least, before you leave the room, I'd appreciate it.”
“Sure, buddy.” Jazz hastily began writing the report in his processor, even as he took the data chit from Prowl's fingers and inserted it into his own slot.
Prowl smiled slightly as he watched Jazz. “While you're writing that report, mind telling me how Sideswipe handled?”
Jazz winced, his optics dim as he continued to focus a part of his processing power on that slagging report despite Prowl's interruption. “He has a problem wit' authority.”
Jazz swore Prowl was laughing at him with his optics. “You noticed?” The white hands clasped on the tarp. “What did he do?”
“He argued my orders to save a bunch'a civilians. Didn't seem t' think it was his responsibility. Swipe's got some strange ideas 'bout what it means to be an Autobot...”
'It’s just that everyone has always told us-me that w-I belong in the Decepticons. Just ask Prowl.'
Jazz crossed his arms under his bumper, staring at the floor. His report complete, he searched for and found a packet he kept on his hard drive for just such occasions, when Prowl gave him a personal data chit.
Prowl didn't seem surprised by the revelation about Sideswipe. “Doldrum also had strange ideas about what it meant to be an Autobot, if you will recall. Consider it our duty to re-educate Sideswipe, and his roommate, if he also harbors those ideas.” The commander leaned his head back, a brief flash of pain flashing through his knitted brows. “Are you done with that report yet, Jazz?”
Jazz didn't exactly recognize the 'surprise pack', the file title a strange one, a conglomeration of numbers that made no sense. But he recognized the intent of it within his memory banks and transferred it onto the data chit. “It's done.” He ejected the diskette, taking it between two fingers and offering it to Prowl, with a little bit of his own added flare. “Y' need t' get some rest Prowl. Do ya need Ratch?”
“It's not necessary to disturb him.” Prowl accepted the data chit, inserting it back into his helm drive. His optics dimmed, and he opened his mouth to speak. Only his jaw snapped close and his optics flashed on, wide with alarm. “Jazz, what-” All-too-pale optics stared briefly at Jazz, before Prowl's systems shut down to stand by.
Jazz wondered at that sudden shut down, but dismissed it as Prowl having overstrained himself again. Ratchet was going to have a fit. He made sure Prowl was comfortable, his doorwings at a relaxed angle, and nothing bent awkwardly before he left the room.
Ratchet's gaze met his as soon as he left Prowl's room, the medic's optics bleeding free of color as he stared at the door.
“Prowl's rechargin'.”
“I know,” Ratchet grumped back. His head jerked back down to the mech he and Wheeljack were lifting. “It's just-” Ratchet shook his head, unable to verbalize the cause for his concern. Jazz assumed it was simply the unnerving feeling of Prowl's sudden lack of response, the same reason his optics paled like they did. “Get your aft to the OR.”
“Sideswipe?” A small string of hope that the warrior had gone to another unit's medical facility embedded itself in Jazz's processor.
Wheeljack answered as Ratchet blinked in surprise. “He hasn't been reported as being seen by anyone else.” His vocal indicators flashed with irritation. “And I mean, no one else has seen him at all.”
“We'll worry about that afthead. You get to the OR. I'll have one of the juniors look you over.”
His face drawn in a grim smile for the audiofull a certain mech would receive, Jazz obeyed the CMO's orders. As he entered, he couldn't help but pause by the offline golden mech that roomed with Sideswipe. He wished Sunstreaker were online, perhaps he would have some answers about his roommate's strange behavior.
Title Nowhere to Turn
Pairing(s) (eventual) Jazz/Sideswipe, there's another in there if you squint ;P
Warnings None that I can think of
Summary A wounded, cornered mechanimal would aptly describe the red rocketeer that stumbles his way into Jazz’s life. Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered. Now, if only Jazz could find out what the slag was going on with him.
Part 1
Part 3
Hastily constructed structures told the story of just how suddenly the Autobots had been forced to retreat. The structures stood as the only markers of what building led to what task force, and the meaning of the markers changed every metacycle so that it would be harder for the Decepticons to keep track of what markers led to important structures. Jazz led the way through the neatly disarrayed piles of supplies, scattered throughout the streets. He was careful not to touch any of them, as some were trapped, and none but the resident supply officers knew which.
Sideswipe veered off to one side, squeezing into an alleyway and transforming. He stumbled as he did so.
Jazz snapped to his feet, crossing the few steps between them and steadying the warrior. “Dude, where’re you going?”
Sideswipe swayed unsteadily, his pale optics flickering. “Somewhere to lie down until Cybertron stops spinning.”
The saboteur tugged him away from piles of supplies and leaned the warrior against a building. “Why didn’t ya say somethin’ if you were damaged that badly!”
“Wouldn't have done much good if I had,” he groaned, leaning his head back. “Besides, not much can be done about it, except to wait for it to get better.” Sideswipe shoved himself off the wall, straightening. “Which is exactly what I'm about to do.”
“Oh, no ya don'!” Jazz stopped him, clenching wires within the red and black mech's elbow joint. “You are goin' to see Ratchet. Does he know about yer little,” Jazz paused searching for the right word, “glitch?”
Sideswipe glared down at Jazz's hand, pinched frown on his face. His pale optics shuttered for a moment and he relaxed his arm. “Yeah. He knows there's nothing to be done about it.”
Jazz grinned as he pulled the larger mech back onto the main causeway. “Betcha that made him fritz.”
A grin crooked Sideswipe's mouth. “To say the least.” He looked around the camp as Jazz moved with purpose. “How do you know where you're going, anyway?”
“Yer supposed to be directed to where ever yer supposed to be by yer squad leader. You are goin' to the med bay. After what we both went through, that's our first stop.” Jazz tilted his head to frown at the obstinate warrior. “After Ratchet repairs ya, someone will tell you where to go next.”
“Jazz!”
A mech and a minibot ran to meet Jazz. They came up short when they noticed the saboteur's companion. The Special Ops team leader pulled them off to the side, dragging Sideswipe with them. Jazz looked up to see if Sideswipe would try to leave before he let go of the warrior's arm, and moved a little further away.
“Bumblebee, Mirage.” He pulled his fellow operatives into a small hug. “’Swipe, where ya goin'?” He looked back, guessing correctly that Sideswipe would try to slip away.
The red and black mech stopped midstep. He sighed and fell in behind Jazz.
“You two wanna tell me what went wrong with this operation?” He modulated his voice low, intending the words for their receptors only. The smiles faded from the two faces and Mirage frowned while Bumblebee crossed his arms.
They stared at the ground in thought, until Mirage spoke up. “It was on that roof and the other was empty.” He paused, his optics darkening. “It could have been a decoy, but the roof they used had nothing on it when I was looking for likely spots, I'm certain of that!”
Bumblebee glanced up at Jazz's neutral face. “The plans called for a sizable generator, the decoy roof had the likeliest amount of free space. I...” he hesitated, wincing and turning his optics back to the ground. “I completely missed the one they used.”
Mirage's optics shifted to look behind Jazz's shoulder. “He's trying to escape again.” He covered his mouth as if in thought, but Jazz could see the grin he hid.
Bumblebee slapped his own hand over his mouth, snickers slipping through his fingers as Jazz whirled.
“’Swipe! Where the slag do ya think yer goin'? We ain't nowhere near medical.” He snatched Sideswipe back by the hatch panel on the warrior's arm.
Sideswipe's engine groaned, and he vented a sigh. “Jazz, come on. I'm drained, can't I at least grab some energon before I go?”
A goodie pack appeared in the saboteur's hand, and was promptly offered to the red mech. “I ain't gonna be much longer. I wanna make sure Ratch sees ya.”
Jazz watched him take out an energon goodie and stare dully at it before turning back to his two team members. He modulated his voice again, so that it wouldn't carry. “Y' were supposed ta destroy the controls, 'Bee.” He lightened his tone, wanting to hear the yellow mech's explanation.
“I did!” The other two shushed the minibot when he all but wailed those two words. “They shouldn't have been able to get it to spark a wire, much less blow up a city block!”
Jazz regarded the distraught little mech, his thoughts taking him down paths he'd rather not travel. Yet the truth seemed to stare him in the face. “It's okay, 'Bee.” He straightened. “I want a report from both of ya on just what went wrong with the Op.”
“Yes sir,” they chorused despondently.
“Hey, it's okay.” He grinned at them, placing one hand on their shoulders. “Why don't you two go finish whatever it was you were doing before ya saw me.”
Mirage glanced over Jazz's shoulder, frown creasing his face. “I thought I recognized him. That's Sunstreaker's roommate, right?”
Jazz snapped a surprised look at the taller mech. “You've met Sunstreaker?”
Mirage's optics widened with equal surprise. “You mean, you haven't?” Mirage's surprise was warranted, as Jazz made it his duty to know every mech in Prowl's unit.
“That slagger is one tough bolt to catch. How do ya know him?”
Bumblebee wore a disgruntled expression, and Mirage grinned guiltily. “I was actually going to take him to task for attacking Bumblebee like he did.” The cultured voice dropped an octave. “But we got to talking. I catch him in the rec room every so often.”
Jazz stared at Mirage. Of all the mechs Mirage could have included in his small list of friends, Jazz would never have expected that violent maniac to finagle his way in. “We'll talk about this later, Raj. You need to get going.”
The two operatives nodded and turned to go. Jazz grabbed Bumblebee's arm, preventing the smaller mech from leaving. Mirage didn't miss the gesture, as told by the widening of his optics, but he didn't say anything and left.
Bumblebee waited patiently, curiosity alight in his optics. The small smile that had been growing on his lips died when he took in Jazz’s stern expression. He didn’t resist as the team leader drew him closer, his lips brushing the minibot’s audio horns.
“’Bee, did that Decepticon see ya, when you were tryin’ ta shoot him?”
The white brow knitted together in confusion. “Which one?”
“That new intelligence officer, masked, and visored?” Jazz ducked his head so that he could meet Bumblebee’s wide optics.
“After that red dolt blew my shot, yeah he saw me!” The minibot pulled away slightly, his face going passive rather than reveal the turmoil Jazz could still see in his optics. “Why?”
“I need ya to get over to Ratchet,” he paused, unwilling to voice the order, despite the necessity, “ask him to give you an intensive processor scan.”
Bumblebee pulled away a little more. “What?” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. The order was tantamount to an accusation of treason.
“Don’ argue with me. Just get it done. Okay?” Jazz pressed his lips into a thin smile, using his well-practiced reassurance to hide the crawling worry in his circuits. The hurt look on his team member’s face pulled at his sympathy. The slagger knew how to use his attributes well, Jazz had ensured that. “That Con’s a telepath ‘Bee. Ya know we can’t risk it.”
“I would never-“
“I said, don’t argue with me.” He released the yellow minibot’s arm. “I know ya wouldn’t.” He didn’t want ‘Bee to think that Jazz thought him a traitor. Far from the truth.
Those few words seemed to relax Bumblebee, and he glanced over Jazz’s shoulder. “He’s gone.”
Jazz spun about, wondering what the slag Bumblebee meant. Sideswipe had managed to slip away. “That no good, rusty pile of scrap! What the slag doesn’t he understand about standin’ right there, and waitin’ for me to go to medical. He’d better be there!”
Bumblebee grinned before beating a hasty retreat from Jazz’s playful swat. Even so, he stormed the rest of the way toward the designated medical building, fully intending to bend someone’s audio horns if that bot wasn’t already there.
He wasn’t entirely surprised, though he was extremely disappointed, when he didn’t see Sideswipe anywhere in the waiting area. Injured mechs littered the floor and benches, waiting for the medics to attend them.
Wheeljack walked amongst the injured, pausing to check on a mech and direct medics to see to that one, or motion for the corpse to be moved away. He noticed Jazz’s sweeping gaze and his vocal indicators flashed in a silent gesture. The saboteur moved closer, never ceasing his search for the red warrior.
“Prowl’s still online, waiting for you. Ratchet’s got him set up in one of the private rooms.” The engineer took in Jazz’s wandering gaze.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d go in there and talk to him, now, Jazz. He needs to go offline so his self-repair can work.” Ratchet came out of the area marked as the OR, cleaning energon off his red hands. He scowled at the saboteur, light optics narrowing. “Bumblebee and Mirage have already come and gone, if you’re looking for them.”
“Nah, I’m lookin’ for a mech named Sideswipe. Seen him?”
Ratchet frowned, gesturing for Jazz to move. “You mean Sunstreaker’s roommate?” He jerked his chin behind him.
Jazz noticed then the gold plating mixed in amidst all the others. “That’s the Sideswipe.” He wandered over to the golden mech, whom he still hadn’t met.
Wheeljack shook his head, stooping next to the offline Sunstreaker. “He hasn’t come in here. Is he damaged?” He looked up at Ratchet. “This one was next anyways, Ratch.”
“Is Sideswipe damaged? That's like asking if the rain's acid.” Ratchet grumbled, kneeling down to look over Sunstreaker.
Jazz stood, stepping out of the two larger mechs way. “Yep. I ain’t that well off myself.”
Ratchet’s light-eyed gaze seemed to finally focus on Jazz and his brows furrowed. “Then get in to see Prowl, and get your aft to the OR. I’ll have someone check the other units’ stations to see if any of them have Sideswipe.”
“’Preciate it, Ratch.” Jazz waved at the two mechs, homing in on the signal that had been pinging at his comm.
Prowl sat in a private recovery room, small but suited to the purpose it was designed for. He looked up from the datapads he sorted through on his lap. His optics flashed and he hastily gathered the datapads into a stack, his optics narrowing at the saboteur. “You don't see these.” They vanished into a subspace pocket.
Jazz grinned at the tactician. “Don' worry I won't tell a spark.”
His doorwings twitched in amusement, but he flinched. “That's good of you.”
They both knew that Ratchet knew anyways.
Jazz looked his friend over, wincing at the tarp covering his legs. Ratchet wouldn’t have placed that there, unless what was under was an unsightly mess. “Did y' get my message?” He turned his gaze back to the tactician's serene face.
“Yes. Communications went down right after.” Prowl's doorwings lifted, despite the obvious pain it caused him, his optics brightening as he activated his authoritative programming. “What I want to know, Jazz, is what that weapon was doing on that particular roof? You were supposed to be rendering the canon inoperable, why didn’t you realize that you had the wrong roof sooner.”
Jazz lifted his chin, bringing up his own officer protocols. “The Cons had a decoy set up.”
A frown flashed on Prowl's face. “A decoy?” His optics narrowed and his optics flickered as he ran calculations through his battle computer. “A decoy should not have fooled you that long, Jazz. You are not that sloppy.”
Jazz's grin turned embarrassed. “Yeah, well...”
Prowl vented a sigh, holding up a hand to halt Jazz's explanation. “I'm sorry, I'm too tired to hear it right now, Jazz.” His optics softened. “I wanted to ensure that you returned safely.” He settled back into the angled back of the medical berth, wincing again as he shifted both his legs and his doorwings. He reached up to his helm, drawing out a data chit from the slot underneath his cheekguard. “If you could give me a preliminary report, at least, before you leave the room, I'd appreciate it.”
“Sure, buddy.” Jazz hastily began writing the report in his processor, even as he took the data chit from Prowl's fingers and inserted it into his own slot.
Prowl smiled slightly as he watched Jazz. “While you're writing that report, mind telling me how Sideswipe handled?”
Jazz winced, his optics dim as he continued to focus a part of his processing power on that slagging report despite Prowl's interruption. “He has a problem wit' authority.”
Jazz swore Prowl was laughing at him with his optics. “You noticed?” The white hands clasped on the tarp. “What did he do?”
“He argued my orders to save a bunch'a civilians. Didn't seem t' think it was his responsibility. Swipe's got some strange ideas 'bout what it means to be an Autobot...”
'It’s just that everyone has always told us-me that w-I belong in the Decepticons. Just ask Prowl.'
Jazz crossed his arms under his bumper, staring at the floor. His report complete, he searched for and found a packet he kept on his hard drive for just such occasions, when Prowl gave him a personal data chit.
Prowl didn't seem surprised by the revelation about Sideswipe. “Doldrum also had strange ideas about what it meant to be an Autobot, if you will recall. Consider it our duty to re-educate Sideswipe, and his roommate, if he also harbors those ideas.” The commander leaned his head back, a brief flash of pain flashing through his knitted brows. “Are you done with that report yet, Jazz?”
Jazz didn't exactly recognize the 'surprise pack', the file title a strange one, a conglomeration of numbers that made no sense. But he recognized the intent of it within his memory banks and transferred it onto the data chit. “It's done.” He ejected the diskette, taking it between two fingers and offering it to Prowl, with a little bit of his own added flare. “Y' need t' get some rest Prowl. Do ya need Ratch?”
“It's not necessary to disturb him.” Prowl accepted the data chit, inserting it back into his helm drive. His optics dimmed, and he opened his mouth to speak. Only his jaw snapped close and his optics flashed on, wide with alarm. “Jazz, what-” All-too-pale optics stared briefly at Jazz, before Prowl's systems shut down to stand by.
Jazz wondered at that sudden shut down, but dismissed it as Prowl having overstrained himself again. Ratchet was going to have a fit. He made sure Prowl was comfortable, his doorwings at a relaxed angle, and nothing bent awkwardly before he left the room.
Ratchet's gaze met his as soon as he left Prowl's room, the medic's optics bleeding free of color as he stared at the door.
“Prowl's rechargin'.”
“I know,” Ratchet grumped back. His head jerked back down to the mech he and Wheeljack were lifting. “It's just-” Ratchet shook his head, unable to verbalize the cause for his concern. Jazz assumed it was simply the unnerving feeling of Prowl's sudden lack of response, the same reason his optics paled like they did. “Get your aft to the OR.”
“Sideswipe?” A small string of hope that the warrior had gone to another unit's medical facility embedded itself in Jazz's processor.
Wheeljack answered as Ratchet blinked in surprise. “He hasn't been reported as being seen by anyone else.” His vocal indicators flashed with irritation. “And I mean, no one else has seen him at all.”
“We'll worry about that afthead. You get to the OR. I'll have one of the juniors look you over.”
His face drawn in a grim smile for the audiofull a certain mech would receive, Jazz obeyed the CMO's orders. As he entered, he couldn't help but pause by the offline golden mech that roomed with Sideswipe. He wished Sunstreaker were online, perhaps he would have some answers about his roommate's strange behavior.