Yellow Ribbon - Chapter 2 of 11
See chapter 1 for story headers
Optimus - Gaps
Optimus Prime set aside another in the endless stream of datapads and vented a frustrated sigh. Logically, he must have had handled this data flow before the virus broke his routine. He just didn’t seem to remember how, or have any clear idea where he’d found time to do the paperwork for the entire ship. He gazed unenthusiastically at the still-vertiginous piles of schedules, inventories and reports, and reminded himself that it was his responsibility to read them - his duty to serve the crew who served him.
Even so, he found himself clinging to the forlorn hope that this information overload was just the backlog arising from their weeks of downtime. The more logical side of his processor, analysing the drifts of office work as if this were a battle, insisted that couldn’t be the case. There was easily work enough here for two or three mechs, if not more.
Shaking his head, Prime picked up the one report that did interest him - Red Alert’s analysis of the Decepticon incident they’d been forced to overlook. The humans nearby at the time had sounded rather panicked over the radio, convinced that a conflict between mechs implied Autobots in need of assistance. Given that not a single mech was off the Ark at the time, let alone as far away as southern Utah, Red Alert had been quick to conclude that the humans were witnessing yet another of the Decepticons’ endless internecine squabbles.
Reasonable, except… except Bluestreak insisted that Red’s initial assumption was fundamentally flawed. His assertion that there were indeed mechs missing - vital mechs unaccounted for - struck a worrying chord. The names that Bluestreak had called, cried out for over and again until Ratchet arrived to sedate him, were utterly unfamiliar. Optimus found himself repeating them quietly nonetheless.
Jazz. Prowl.
There was nothing tangible to accompany the names: no images, no memories, nothing to suggest that they had any meaning beyond creations of Bluestreak’s fever-wracked processor. Nonetheless, something deep inside Optimus Prime, perhaps as deep as his spark and the Matrix that pulsed in tune with it, insisted that there was something there - if not a memory, then perhaps the memory of a memory. A belief that some important recollection hovered just out of his reach.
Shaking his head, frustrated as even that hint slipped between his mental servos, Optimus glanced down at the ‘pad he still held. He’d not absorbed a single word of its contents in the breems he’d been staring at it. He dropped it back to the table with a mild oath, stopping to rub his tired optics in a pointless gesture he’d picked up from Spike.
“Prime to Ratchet.”
“Ratchet.” The medic’s acknowledgement crackled through Prime’s com without a moment’s delay. Ratchet was already in his office, just like his Prime, despite their late night. He didn’t bother to wait for the inevitable question. “His fever’s dropped. His systems actually stabilised pretty quickly once I got him down here, but I’m keeping him in stasis lock as a precaution.”
“He was… in considerable distress.”
“Going out of his processor more like,” Ratchet’s gruff voice stated flatly. “And I thought young Blue had gotten off light. Of all the mechs to take this ‘flu’ to a second phase, it had to be him! The last thing that mech needs is another trauma messing with his processor.”
“You’re sure it’s the virus?” Optimus heard doubt in his own voice. Ratchet had none.
“I told you when we first caught the infection that it looked like there were memory algorithms there. No one showed any sign of a memory problem I could see or test for, so I assumed they were dormant. Looks like I was wrong.” Ratchet vented, the noise coming over the com as a briefly staticky pause. “Optimus, this is worrying. As it is, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to wake Smokescreen from stasis to figure out what’s going on in Bluestreak’s processor, and won’t that be an interesting first conversation: ‘Hello. Yes, we know we were meant to wake you after a few orns, but it’s been a wee bit longer than that. Cybertron’s an empty husk. We’re sort of stuck here. Oh, and I know you and Bluestreak are the last two Praxians we know about, and you’re kind of fond of the kid, but he’s got more than a few cogs loose in that processor of his - mind taking a look?’”
Optimus winced. Ratchet’s sarcasm was born of weariness and frustration but it was no less cutting for that.
“But, Prime, the youngling isn’t the only one who might be affected by this. If we all start forgetting things or developing warped memories, this situation could get nasty. What if I forget how to treat damaged mechs? Or, I don’t know, Red Alert finally lets his paranoia overwhelm his senses and starts reacting to an infiltration that never happened?”
Neither was a welcome prospect. The tactical implications… well, they went beyond Prime’s ability to compute.
“The Decepticons have been quiet this last few weeks,” he noted hopefully, before hesitating as a new thought hit him. “You don’t think they’ve got a dose of this too?”
“Doubt it. I’m pretty sure the Seekers would be mostly immune anyway. Primus forbid anyone ever mention this to Bluestreak, or Smokey for that matter, but from a purely medical standpoint, the Praxian frame has more in common with Vosian Seekers than most ground mechs. I’m pretty sure that’s why he’s reacting so oddly.” This time Ratchet’s pause was longer. “Prime, the Seeker immunity might be more than freak chance. The more I see of this virus, the more I’m wondering if it might actually have been engineered. Primus knows we’ve been pretty low over this last orn, but what if the Decepticons are waiting for this second phase - for us to get even worse?”
Optimus felt his brow-plates fold into a frown. He couldn’t dismiss his medic’s speculation out of hand, nor could he entirely agree with it.
“It’s not like Megatron to wait orns for a tactic to play out.”
“Unless it’s already played out and we’ve just not spotted it yet.” Ratchet’s suggestion was more than a little unwelcome.
Shaking his head, Prime opened a fresh com-link about to ask for another opinion, only to realise he had no idea who to contact. Red Alert would no doubt seize upon Ratchet’s suggestion without question, and Trailbreaker - although a decent strategist when it came to operational logistics and predicting the next energon raid - lacked the experience and emotional detachment needed to get inside Megatron’s corrupt processor.
A frown creasing his brow, he dismissed the thought and let the extra link drop, answering Ratchet’s comment with the com-link equivalent of a shrug.
“How’re the rest of the crew, Ratchet?”
Optimus listened to the medic’s cautiously optimistic report and signed off with a vented sigh. Bluestreak’s physical improvement was doubtless a relief, but Optimus remained deeply worried, both for his crew’s most psychologically fragile member, and for the rest of them if Ratchet’s dire predictions came to pass.
His nagging anxiety refused to fade.
Prime was on his feet, pacing his office with another of the interminable datapads in hand, when Ironhide poked his head through the door mid-morning. The older mech took one look at his Prime and vented hard, stomping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him.
“Ratch told me ‘bout young Blue. Might’ve known I’d find y’here beating on yourself. Optimus, y’ can’t take it to spark ev’ry time a mech goes through a tough patch. He’ll be alright, anyway. Ratch has him in hand, and Bluestreak’s bounced back from worse than a few hallucinations, y’know.”
Optimus paused in his pacing, pinning Ironhide in place with an intent look.
“We took Bluestreak in as a youngling, correct, Ironhide?”
Ironhide’s exasperated expression faded into a sombre frown. He folded red-clad arms across his chest. “’Twas us or nothin’.” His usual relaxed drawl held an unhappy edge now. No one liked the idea of bringing up younglings as warriors. They hadn’t had a choice. “Y’know that, Prime. Just like with Bumblebee.”
“And Bumblebee does your guardianship and guidance great credit.” Prime smiled behind his mask and then paused, the humour draining from his expressive optics. “So who took responsibility for Bluestreak?”
Ironhide opened his mouth to answer and then let it fall closed, one hand rising to rub his helm-crest.
“I carried Bluestreak to Medbay last night, Ironhide, and I activated my com to call… someone. Someone who’d want to know sooner rather than later. And there was nobody. No one I could name who I would wake from recharge to sit by Bluestreak’s side.” He clenched his fists. “There should have been.”
Ironhide shrugged, a hint of guilt in his expression.
“We always did our best by the kid, Prime.”
Optimus Prime waved off the defensive assertion.
“Ratchet mentioned Smokescreen this morning, and I’ve been wondering if perhaps he was Bluestreak’s guardian, but Praxian or not, that doesn’t feel right. Smokescreen wasn’t even assigned to the unit full time until he volunteered for the auxiliary crew. But if it wasn’t him, then who raised the youngling? Did we really just let him bounce from mech to mech like some unwanted chore? And why can’t I remember one way or the other?”
He shook his head, sounding out the names again. “Prowl. Jazz.”
“Prime…” Ironhide started uneasily.
“No. Bluestreak was suffering from more than mere hallucinations. He was convinced these missing mechs exist. He didn’t just have designations for them - he knew their personalities, their likes and dislikes, even their supposed itineraries.”
“The mech’s got a good imagination.”
“True…” Prime’s voice faded to silence. He stood still for a few klicks, aware of Ironhide’s worried optics on him, before striding past his armoury officer, and out into the corridor. He stopped abruptly, turning to stare at the two doors that bracketed his.
“Why are there two empty offices on this corridor?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know there, Prime. Guess if we didn’t need them…”
“Ironhide, your office is a converted closet; Red Alert’s isn’t much better. The Special Ops team doesn’t even have one, as I recall. How does that make sense, with two rooms sitting here unclaimed?”
The glare Ironhide fixed on the door nearest him should have melted it there and then.
“Guess they might’ve been damaged in the crash?” he offered, clearly bothered by his inability to give a more definite answer. “Your room’s not quite all-square, Prime. Maybe the one next door…?”
“Let’s see.”
Prime tapped the room’s access panel without high expectations. Technically an unused room shouldn’t be sealed but Red Alert had taken to locking down more and more of the Ark’s empty spaces, both as a security precaution and as a deterrent to the crew’s significant prankster contingent. This particular door still carried the dents from Bluestreak’s attempts to gain entry, and Prime was reasonably sure that his gunner had the sense to try a button before a full on assault.
Venting behind his faceplate when his tap was met with a flat beep, Prime opened a com.
“Red Alert, could you please release the locks on the two offices alongside mine?”
There was an uncharacteristic pause before the Security Director’s response. When it came, it was frustrated, confused and more than a little concerned.
“Those aren’t my codes, Prime. Whoever locked those doors, I don’t have the authority to override them. I can only apologise.”
“Is that right?” Ironhide frowned, folding his arms across his chest.
Prime couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised. “Very well, Red Alert. Thank you for your time.”
“For what it was worth.” Red probably didn’t intend that comment to be overheard. Optimus exchanged looks with Ironhide, both mechs wincing a little at Red Alert’s discouraged tone. Few things bothered their insecure Security Director more than the thought that something was going on he didn’t have an explanation and security procedure in place for. It came as little surprise when the corridor’s security camera swivelled quietly on its mount to watch as Prime entered the longer, more complex override sequence that he alone was privy to.
Red’s startled gasp was clearly audible over the still-open channel, and even Prime’s optics flared, startled, when the door failed to spring open at his command. Instead, Prime’s override - the highest authority in the whole of the Autobot forces, was met by a single, strangely impertinent question.
“What is Elita One’s third favourite colour?” Ironhide read aloud. “What the Pit? How’s anyone meant to know that?”
“Anyone isn’t,” Prime noted. “The question appeared in response to codes unique to me. It’s seeking to confirm my identity.” Brow furrowed, he stared at the words. “And it was set by someone who knows me - or both Elita and I - very well indeed.”
He leaned forward, shielding the data pad slightly with his body while trying to keep the gesture subtle. Red Alert’s ego could be fragile, especially if he felt his discretion or trustworthiness was under question. This answer though was personal rather than professional.
“Pink?” The confused query from Ironhide came through on a private com. “But I thought that was…?”
Hesitating only for a moment, Prime flashed his old friend an image file. Ironhide’s optics flickered as he took in the vision of Elita One clad in the same deep blue and red as her mate.
“She’d have liked to keep it,” Prime whispered over the com, revelling in the stored memory file. “But first she thought it would scare me off, and then I was Prime and advertising our bond would paint too large a target on her back-plates. She indulges only when we are alone.”
Ironhide’s lip-plates twisted in the barest hint of an embarrassed smile. Prime chuckled at his occasionally prudish mentor.
“Pink suffices. And you can be assured that if Elita One’s preferences have never come up in conversation between you and I, there are precious few others I would willingly share them with.”
Ironhide nodded, intrigued by the mystery now although still looking more than a little sceptical. The door slid open, finally satisfied, and the two mechs stepped forward, looking around them with interest.
At first glance, it seemed Ironhide’s scepticism was justified. The room showed unmistakeable crash damage, its portside bulkhead crumpled and a jagged rent in the roof marking the origin of the distortion ripples visible in Optimus’s own office. There was a spill of datapads, a dozen or so of them, scattered across the desk and the floor beside it, and a couple of empty energon cubes - one resting on the skewed shelves behind the desk, and the second on the floor by its base. On the shelves and scattered between the datapads were a double handful of storage crystals. Picking one up and scanning it, Optimus was pleasantly surprised to discover a short music file from before the war. Scanning the datapad beside it, Prime’s brow ridges shot up to find it protected by security protocols he had neither the time nor inclination to work through right now.
He set it down, turning instead to inspect the locked equipment cabinet standing against the room’s straightest wall. The impressive array of Special Ops equipment - ranging from vision-enhancing visors through to electronic disruptors and simple explosives - at least explained why the room had been well secured, if not when or by whom. Given the layers of security Prime had seen so far, he wouldn’t be surprised to find this neglected room hid further secrets, less apparent to a casual visitor.
Running his fingers over the transparent metal door of the equipment cabinet, Prime gave a frustrated vent.
“Why would we leave all this unused? But there’s no sign anyone’s been in here since we crashed.”
“Ah, Prime?”
Optimus turned, surprised by the strained tone in his friend’s voice. Ironhide tossed him another of the data crystals and Prime scanned it. This data file was longer, containing not just one musical piece but two: One Cybertronian and one of human origin. Accompanying them, a third document laid out a joint analysis of the two, and Prime read it with fascination, intrigued by the similarities and differences, both technical and idiomatic, that the unsigned author highlighted.
Reaching the end of the analysis, Prime looked up at the red mech beside him, both of them recognising that the data crystal, and possibly others here, firmly placed the last use of this room in the Earth era.
“Who on th’crew would write that, even if they could?” Ironhide demanded gruffly, leaning back against the desk.
Prime looked around the room. “It would suit the quick mind of a Special Ops mech.” He raised a brow ridge. “One designated ‘Jazz’ perhaps?”
For a moment or two, Ironhide seemed to be wavering, then he cycled his optics and huffed the air out of his vents, shaking his head.
“It’ll take more than that to talk me into Bluestreak’s fantasy, Prime.” He glanced over the equipment. “Ops, yeah, but don’t y’ go tellin’ me Mirage couldn’t ha’ done this. Those Tower mechs all got musical training, right? And y’ said y’self Ops should have an office. Bee and Mirage have got nerve enough t’just take an empty one.” He snorted. “Probably got a thrill out’a sneaking in under our noses.”
It was logical. Far more logical, in fact, than the alternative - that they’d entirely forgotten a friend and fellow officer. Prime’s insistent spark though…
“Come with me.” He strode from the first room, past his own, and to the second, pausing only to repeat his override on the door.
“No quiz this time?” Ironhide queried.
“No explosives,” Prime noted, stepping in.
Where the first office had been rather chaotic, this one was perfectly, even obsessively, neat. Again, Prime’s thought at first glance was that this office must be disused. The shelves of datapads, each precisely aligned, stored in order and presumably carrying a back up of Teletraan One’s data, dominated the room and suggested it was some mysteriously forgotten library. The desk was empty, its chair - a low-backed seat of the sort preferred by mechs with back appendages of one kind or another - tucked neatly behind it. A second chair sat in front of the desk, while a third - set a little lower and with an independently tilting back - was off to one side. There was no hint of a personality in the room, but just as Prime had first assumed the disorder in the other office to result from the crash, now he wondered who had straightened this one out after their arrival, and kept it just so through the occasional tremor that ran through their volcanic home. He stepped further inside, allowing Ironhide to enter, and turned to speak to him, only to stop and stare in surprise.
There on the wall by the door, where it would be in direct line of sight for anyone seated at the desk, was an exquisite painting of long-destroyed Praxus, its crystal gardens glimmering and its towers aglow with internal light. In the sky above were the almost-forgotten ancient constellations of their home, from before the first wars that wrenched the planet out of her orbit. Twin moons shone in the darkness, reflecting light down to capture the beauty of a city that was now entirely lost. It would be a breathtaking sight anywhere on the Ark. Here, in a room so utterly devoid of any other hint of personality, it was thoroughly bewildering.
Ironhide broke away from their silent study of the painting first, shaking his head with a grunt and crossing the room to study the wall of datapads instead. Picking one at random, he scowled.
“Reports. Mostly tactical and Ops. Pre-Earth.” He replaced the file in its gap and moved along the shelves, squatting with a groan of protesting hip-servos, and plucked out another. “This is from last year. Remember the first time the Twins tried out their jet-judo?”
“Ratchet wasn’t impressed,” Optimus deadpanned, dragging his eyes away from the painting.
Ironhide’s expression darkened. “’Cording to this report, neither was someone else.”
Optimus’s optics brightened in surprise, but a new sound silenced him before he could ask his old friend to explain.
“That’s the external com.” Ironhide frowned, glancing at the desk and the now-brightened monitor that sat atop it.
“That’s the interstellar com,” Prime corrected, more confused still by the presence of a signal that, so far as he knew, was only accessible from his own office and from Teletraan One’s main interface on the command deck.
He slid behind the desk, touching the blank screen and feeling the slight tingle that meant it was scanning his servo-tips and reading the unique network of electrical currents flowing there. After a moment to confirm his identity and access rights, the screen lit up with a sight that lifted his spark even as it thoroughly perplexed him.
“Elita!”
“Optimus!” The pale pink femme seemed equally startled at the sight of his masked face, but recovered more quickly, her faceplates reshaping themselves into a warm smile. “How lovely to see you. I was going to call you after getting this out of the way.” She gave a bright, rueful laugh. “But business before pleasure, as always with us. I don’t have long before Shockwave tracks my location. Can you put Prowl on? I’ve got the energon-usage projections he’s been asking for.”
Optimus had to reboot his vocalisor before he could speak, his optics bright with confusion. “Prowl… is not here right now.”
“Not there…?” Elita One’s pretty face creased with a confusion that mirrored his. “But I thought he was due back from that school tour half an orn ago.” She paused, and then brightened, the humour returning. “Don’t tell me Jazz finally talked him into taking some of that downtime he’s been storing up. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see those pretty door-wings twitch their way through that argument.”
Her voice slowed down as she spoke. Her optics scanned Optimus’s carefully blank face, her smile fading.
“Optimus, what are you doing in Prowl’s office anyway?” She drew in a sharp vent. “He’s not hurt is he?” Again, she scanned the facemask, trying to read optics that couldn’t hide Optimus’s strong emotion, even if they did obscure its meaning. He honestly had no idea what to tell her. “How bad? How is Jazz taking it?”
Optimus blinked at that, his optics flickering, and Elita seemed to read the worst in his reaction and stiff posture. “Jazz too? Oh Primus, they’re not…? Please, tell me they’re not….” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, Optimus! I’m so, so sorry….”
Her vents stuttered and lubricant pooled in her optics, finally breaking through Optimus’s fascinated daze. This was getting out of hand.
“Elita…” he started, not quite knowing what to say, only to repeat the word more anxiously when his mate jumped and glanced behind her. “Elita!”
“I’ve got to go!” she snapped, her vents still unsteady, but her expression closing down into the professional mask he knew so well. “Shockwave tracked me quicker than I expected this time.” She hesitated, looking hard into the screen, optics dimmed with concern. “I’ll call back later. We’ll talk. Optimus… you’ll get through this. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The com line snapped closed. Her face faded from the viewscreen, and Optimus gazed at the darkened surface in silence, stunned by the image of his bond-mate - fighting on hostile Cybertron and running for her life from Shockwave’s forces - attempting to offer him such fierce and heartfelt comfort.
Beside him, Ironhide was venting hard, still staring at the screen, and shaking his head as if trying to force the unthinkable to settle in his processor. He didn’t need instruction this time when Prime climbed to his feet, but rather fell silently into step behind him.
Ratchet glanced up as the two big mechs walked into his Medbay, their expressions unreadable. Prime strode past the recharging twins and crossed the room to Bluestreak’s berth, taking one grey hand carefully in his large servos and glancing up at the medic.
“Bring him out of stasis.”
“But we’ve not worked out…” Ratchet’s protest died away in the face of a glare from Ironhide. He muttered an oath, moving to his patient’s side and activating a sequence in the berth’s controls. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Prime. He’s going to be pretty disoriented still, and we don’t know yet just what’s causing his delusion.”
Prime waved his friend into silence, tightening his grip on Bluestreak’s servos as the young mech’s frame began to vibrate a little harder, motors revving.
“Bluestreak,” he called gently when he saw the first glimmer of light in the blue optics.
“Bluestreak,” he repeated in a level voice, as those optics flared and Bluestreak jerked into panicked life. “I want you to tell me everything you can about Jazz and Prowl.”
Optimus - Gaps
Optimus Prime set aside another in the endless stream of datapads and vented a frustrated sigh. Logically, he must have had handled this data flow before the virus broke his routine. He just didn’t seem to remember how, or have any clear idea where he’d found time to do the paperwork for the entire ship. He gazed unenthusiastically at the still-vertiginous piles of schedules, inventories and reports, and reminded himself that it was his responsibility to read them - his duty to serve the crew who served him.
Even so, he found himself clinging to the forlorn hope that this information overload was just the backlog arising from their weeks of downtime. The more logical side of his processor, analysing the drifts of office work as if this were a battle, insisted that couldn’t be the case. There was easily work enough here for two or three mechs, if not more.
Shaking his head, Prime picked up the one report that did interest him - Red Alert’s analysis of the Decepticon incident they’d been forced to overlook. The humans nearby at the time had sounded rather panicked over the radio, convinced that a conflict between mechs implied Autobots in need of assistance. Given that not a single mech was off the Ark at the time, let alone as far away as southern Utah, Red Alert had been quick to conclude that the humans were witnessing yet another of the Decepticons’ endless internecine squabbles.
Reasonable, except… except Bluestreak insisted that Red’s initial assumption was fundamentally flawed. His assertion that there were indeed mechs missing - vital mechs unaccounted for - struck a worrying chord. The names that Bluestreak had called, cried out for over and again until Ratchet arrived to sedate him, were utterly unfamiliar. Optimus found himself repeating them quietly nonetheless.
Jazz. Prowl.
There was nothing tangible to accompany the names: no images, no memories, nothing to suggest that they had any meaning beyond creations of Bluestreak’s fever-wracked processor. Nonetheless, something deep inside Optimus Prime, perhaps as deep as his spark and the Matrix that pulsed in tune with it, insisted that there was something there - if not a memory, then perhaps the memory of a memory. A belief that some important recollection hovered just out of his reach.
Shaking his head, frustrated as even that hint slipped between his mental servos, Optimus glanced down at the ‘pad he still held. He’d not absorbed a single word of its contents in the breems he’d been staring at it. He dropped it back to the table with a mild oath, stopping to rub his tired optics in a pointless gesture he’d picked up from Spike.
“Prime to Ratchet.”
“Ratchet.” The medic’s acknowledgement crackled through Prime’s com without a moment’s delay. Ratchet was already in his office, just like his Prime, despite their late night. He didn’t bother to wait for the inevitable question. “His fever’s dropped. His systems actually stabilised pretty quickly once I got him down here, but I’m keeping him in stasis lock as a precaution.”
“He was… in considerable distress.”
“Going out of his processor more like,” Ratchet’s gruff voice stated flatly. “And I thought young Blue had gotten off light. Of all the mechs to take this ‘flu’ to a second phase, it had to be him! The last thing that mech needs is another trauma messing with his processor.”
“You’re sure it’s the virus?” Optimus heard doubt in his own voice. Ratchet had none.
“I told you when we first caught the infection that it looked like there were memory algorithms there. No one showed any sign of a memory problem I could see or test for, so I assumed they were dormant. Looks like I was wrong.” Ratchet vented, the noise coming over the com as a briefly staticky pause. “Optimus, this is worrying. As it is, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to wake Smokescreen from stasis to figure out what’s going on in Bluestreak’s processor, and won’t that be an interesting first conversation: ‘Hello. Yes, we know we were meant to wake you after a few orns, but it’s been a wee bit longer than that. Cybertron’s an empty husk. We’re sort of stuck here. Oh, and I know you and Bluestreak are the last two Praxians we know about, and you’re kind of fond of the kid, but he’s got more than a few cogs loose in that processor of his - mind taking a look?’”
Optimus winced. Ratchet’s sarcasm was born of weariness and frustration but it was no less cutting for that.
“But, Prime, the youngling isn’t the only one who might be affected by this. If we all start forgetting things or developing warped memories, this situation could get nasty. What if I forget how to treat damaged mechs? Or, I don’t know, Red Alert finally lets his paranoia overwhelm his senses and starts reacting to an infiltration that never happened?”
Neither was a welcome prospect. The tactical implications… well, they went beyond Prime’s ability to compute.
“The Decepticons have been quiet this last few weeks,” he noted hopefully, before hesitating as a new thought hit him. “You don’t think they’ve got a dose of this too?”
“Doubt it. I’m pretty sure the Seekers would be mostly immune anyway. Primus forbid anyone ever mention this to Bluestreak, or Smokey for that matter, but from a purely medical standpoint, the Praxian frame has more in common with Vosian Seekers than most ground mechs. I’m pretty sure that’s why he’s reacting so oddly.” This time Ratchet’s pause was longer. “Prime, the Seeker immunity might be more than freak chance. The more I see of this virus, the more I’m wondering if it might actually have been engineered. Primus knows we’ve been pretty low over this last orn, but what if the Decepticons are waiting for this second phase - for us to get even worse?”
Optimus felt his brow-plates fold into a frown. He couldn’t dismiss his medic’s speculation out of hand, nor could he entirely agree with it.
“It’s not like Megatron to wait orns for a tactic to play out.”
“Unless it’s already played out and we’ve just not spotted it yet.” Ratchet’s suggestion was more than a little unwelcome.
Shaking his head, Prime opened a fresh com-link about to ask for another opinion, only to realise he had no idea who to contact. Red Alert would no doubt seize upon Ratchet’s suggestion without question, and Trailbreaker - although a decent strategist when it came to operational logistics and predicting the next energon raid - lacked the experience and emotional detachment needed to get inside Megatron’s corrupt processor.
A frown creasing his brow, he dismissed the thought and let the extra link drop, answering Ratchet’s comment with the com-link equivalent of a shrug.
“How’re the rest of the crew, Ratchet?”
Optimus listened to the medic’s cautiously optimistic report and signed off with a vented sigh. Bluestreak’s physical improvement was doubtless a relief, but Optimus remained deeply worried, both for his crew’s most psychologically fragile member, and for the rest of them if Ratchet’s dire predictions came to pass.
His nagging anxiety refused to fade.
Prime was on his feet, pacing his office with another of the interminable datapads in hand, when Ironhide poked his head through the door mid-morning. The older mech took one look at his Prime and vented hard, stomping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him.
“Ratch told me ‘bout young Blue. Might’ve known I’d find y’here beating on yourself. Optimus, y’ can’t take it to spark ev’ry time a mech goes through a tough patch. He’ll be alright, anyway. Ratch has him in hand, and Bluestreak’s bounced back from worse than a few hallucinations, y’know.”
Optimus paused in his pacing, pinning Ironhide in place with an intent look.
“We took Bluestreak in as a youngling, correct, Ironhide?”
Ironhide’s exasperated expression faded into a sombre frown. He folded red-clad arms across his chest. “’Twas us or nothin’.” His usual relaxed drawl held an unhappy edge now. No one liked the idea of bringing up younglings as warriors. They hadn’t had a choice. “Y’know that, Prime. Just like with Bumblebee.”
“And Bumblebee does your guardianship and guidance great credit.” Prime smiled behind his mask and then paused, the humour draining from his expressive optics. “So who took responsibility for Bluestreak?”
Ironhide opened his mouth to answer and then let it fall closed, one hand rising to rub his helm-crest.
“I carried Bluestreak to Medbay last night, Ironhide, and I activated my com to call… someone. Someone who’d want to know sooner rather than later. And there was nobody. No one I could name who I would wake from recharge to sit by Bluestreak’s side.” He clenched his fists. “There should have been.”
Ironhide shrugged, a hint of guilt in his expression.
“We always did our best by the kid, Prime.”
Optimus Prime waved off the defensive assertion.
“Ratchet mentioned Smokescreen this morning, and I’ve been wondering if perhaps he was Bluestreak’s guardian, but Praxian or not, that doesn’t feel right. Smokescreen wasn’t even assigned to the unit full time until he volunteered for the auxiliary crew. But if it wasn’t him, then who raised the youngling? Did we really just let him bounce from mech to mech like some unwanted chore? And why can’t I remember one way or the other?”
He shook his head, sounding out the names again. “Prowl. Jazz.”
“Prime…” Ironhide started uneasily.
“No. Bluestreak was suffering from more than mere hallucinations. He was convinced these missing mechs exist. He didn’t just have designations for them - he knew their personalities, their likes and dislikes, even their supposed itineraries.”
“The mech’s got a good imagination.”
“True…” Prime’s voice faded to silence. He stood still for a few klicks, aware of Ironhide’s worried optics on him, before striding past his armoury officer, and out into the corridor. He stopped abruptly, turning to stare at the two doors that bracketed his.
“Why are there two empty offices on this corridor?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know there, Prime. Guess if we didn’t need them…”
“Ironhide, your office is a converted closet; Red Alert’s isn’t much better. The Special Ops team doesn’t even have one, as I recall. How does that make sense, with two rooms sitting here unclaimed?”
The glare Ironhide fixed on the door nearest him should have melted it there and then.
“Guess they might’ve been damaged in the crash?” he offered, clearly bothered by his inability to give a more definite answer. “Your room’s not quite all-square, Prime. Maybe the one next door…?”
“Let’s see.”
Prime tapped the room’s access panel without high expectations. Technically an unused room shouldn’t be sealed but Red Alert had taken to locking down more and more of the Ark’s empty spaces, both as a security precaution and as a deterrent to the crew’s significant prankster contingent. This particular door still carried the dents from Bluestreak’s attempts to gain entry, and Prime was reasonably sure that his gunner had the sense to try a button before a full on assault.
Venting behind his faceplate when his tap was met with a flat beep, Prime opened a com.
“Red Alert, could you please release the locks on the two offices alongside mine?”
There was an uncharacteristic pause before the Security Director’s response. When it came, it was frustrated, confused and more than a little concerned.
“Those aren’t my codes, Prime. Whoever locked those doors, I don’t have the authority to override them. I can only apologise.”
“Is that right?” Ironhide frowned, folding his arms across his chest.
Prime couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised. “Very well, Red Alert. Thank you for your time.”
“For what it was worth.” Red probably didn’t intend that comment to be overheard. Optimus exchanged looks with Ironhide, both mechs wincing a little at Red Alert’s discouraged tone. Few things bothered their insecure Security Director more than the thought that something was going on he didn’t have an explanation and security procedure in place for. It came as little surprise when the corridor’s security camera swivelled quietly on its mount to watch as Prime entered the longer, more complex override sequence that he alone was privy to.
Red’s startled gasp was clearly audible over the still-open channel, and even Prime’s optics flared, startled, when the door failed to spring open at his command. Instead, Prime’s override - the highest authority in the whole of the Autobot forces, was met by a single, strangely impertinent question.
“What is Elita One’s third favourite colour?” Ironhide read aloud. “What the Pit? How’s anyone meant to know that?”
“Anyone isn’t,” Prime noted. “The question appeared in response to codes unique to me. It’s seeking to confirm my identity.” Brow furrowed, he stared at the words. “And it was set by someone who knows me - or both Elita and I - very well indeed.”
He leaned forward, shielding the data pad slightly with his body while trying to keep the gesture subtle. Red Alert’s ego could be fragile, especially if he felt his discretion or trustworthiness was under question. This answer though was personal rather than professional.
“Pink?” The confused query from Ironhide came through on a private com. “But I thought that was…?”
Hesitating only for a moment, Prime flashed his old friend an image file. Ironhide’s optics flickered as he took in the vision of Elita One clad in the same deep blue and red as her mate.
“She’d have liked to keep it,” Prime whispered over the com, revelling in the stored memory file. “But first she thought it would scare me off, and then I was Prime and advertising our bond would paint too large a target on her back-plates. She indulges only when we are alone.”
Ironhide’s lip-plates twisted in the barest hint of an embarrassed smile. Prime chuckled at his occasionally prudish mentor.
“Pink suffices. And you can be assured that if Elita One’s preferences have never come up in conversation between you and I, there are precious few others I would willingly share them with.”
Ironhide nodded, intrigued by the mystery now although still looking more than a little sceptical. The door slid open, finally satisfied, and the two mechs stepped forward, looking around them with interest.
At first glance, it seemed Ironhide’s scepticism was justified. The room showed unmistakeable crash damage, its portside bulkhead crumpled and a jagged rent in the roof marking the origin of the distortion ripples visible in Optimus’s own office. There was a spill of datapads, a dozen or so of them, scattered across the desk and the floor beside it, and a couple of empty energon cubes - one resting on the skewed shelves behind the desk, and the second on the floor by its base. On the shelves and scattered between the datapads were a double handful of storage crystals. Picking one up and scanning it, Optimus was pleasantly surprised to discover a short music file from before the war. Scanning the datapad beside it, Prime’s brow ridges shot up to find it protected by security protocols he had neither the time nor inclination to work through right now.
He set it down, turning instead to inspect the locked equipment cabinet standing against the room’s straightest wall. The impressive array of Special Ops equipment - ranging from vision-enhancing visors through to electronic disruptors and simple explosives - at least explained why the room had been well secured, if not when or by whom. Given the layers of security Prime had seen so far, he wouldn’t be surprised to find this neglected room hid further secrets, less apparent to a casual visitor.
Running his fingers over the transparent metal door of the equipment cabinet, Prime gave a frustrated vent.
“Why would we leave all this unused? But there’s no sign anyone’s been in here since we crashed.”
“Ah, Prime?”
Optimus turned, surprised by the strained tone in his friend’s voice. Ironhide tossed him another of the data crystals and Prime scanned it. This data file was longer, containing not just one musical piece but two: One Cybertronian and one of human origin. Accompanying them, a third document laid out a joint analysis of the two, and Prime read it with fascination, intrigued by the similarities and differences, both technical and idiomatic, that the unsigned author highlighted.
Reaching the end of the analysis, Prime looked up at the red mech beside him, both of them recognising that the data crystal, and possibly others here, firmly placed the last use of this room in the Earth era.
“Who on th’crew would write that, even if they could?” Ironhide demanded gruffly, leaning back against the desk.
Prime looked around the room. “It would suit the quick mind of a Special Ops mech.” He raised a brow ridge. “One designated ‘Jazz’ perhaps?”
For a moment or two, Ironhide seemed to be wavering, then he cycled his optics and huffed the air out of his vents, shaking his head.
“It’ll take more than that to talk me into Bluestreak’s fantasy, Prime.” He glanced over the equipment. “Ops, yeah, but don’t y’ go tellin’ me Mirage couldn’t ha’ done this. Those Tower mechs all got musical training, right? And y’ said y’self Ops should have an office. Bee and Mirage have got nerve enough t’just take an empty one.” He snorted. “Probably got a thrill out’a sneaking in under our noses.”
It was logical. Far more logical, in fact, than the alternative - that they’d entirely forgotten a friend and fellow officer. Prime’s insistent spark though…
“Come with me.” He strode from the first room, past his own, and to the second, pausing only to repeat his override on the door.
“No quiz this time?” Ironhide queried.
“No explosives,” Prime noted, stepping in.
Where the first office had been rather chaotic, this one was perfectly, even obsessively, neat. Again, Prime’s thought at first glance was that this office must be disused. The shelves of datapads, each precisely aligned, stored in order and presumably carrying a back up of Teletraan One’s data, dominated the room and suggested it was some mysteriously forgotten library. The desk was empty, its chair - a low-backed seat of the sort preferred by mechs with back appendages of one kind or another - tucked neatly behind it. A second chair sat in front of the desk, while a third - set a little lower and with an independently tilting back - was off to one side. There was no hint of a personality in the room, but just as Prime had first assumed the disorder in the other office to result from the crash, now he wondered who had straightened this one out after their arrival, and kept it just so through the occasional tremor that ran through their volcanic home. He stepped further inside, allowing Ironhide to enter, and turned to speak to him, only to stop and stare in surprise.
There on the wall by the door, where it would be in direct line of sight for anyone seated at the desk, was an exquisite painting of long-destroyed Praxus, its crystal gardens glimmering and its towers aglow with internal light. In the sky above were the almost-forgotten ancient constellations of their home, from before the first wars that wrenched the planet out of her orbit. Twin moons shone in the darkness, reflecting light down to capture the beauty of a city that was now entirely lost. It would be a breathtaking sight anywhere on the Ark. Here, in a room so utterly devoid of any other hint of personality, it was thoroughly bewildering.
Ironhide broke away from their silent study of the painting first, shaking his head with a grunt and crossing the room to study the wall of datapads instead. Picking one at random, he scowled.
“Reports. Mostly tactical and Ops. Pre-Earth.” He replaced the file in its gap and moved along the shelves, squatting with a groan of protesting hip-servos, and plucked out another. “This is from last year. Remember the first time the Twins tried out their jet-judo?”
“Ratchet wasn’t impressed,” Optimus deadpanned, dragging his eyes away from the painting.
Ironhide’s expression darkened. “’Cording to this report, neither was someone else.”
Optimus’s optics brightened in surprise, but a new sound silenced him before he could ask his old friend to explain.
“That’s the external com.” Ironhide frowned, glancing at the desk and the now-brightened monitor that sat atop it.
“That’s the interstellar com,” Prime corrected, more confused still by the presence of a signal that, so far as he knew, was only accessible from his own office and from Teletraan One’s main interface on the command deck.
He slid behind the desk, touching the blank screen and feeling the slight tingle that meant it was scanning his servo-tips and reading the unique network of electrical currents flowing there. After a moment to confirm his identity and access rights, the screen lit up with a sight that lifted his spark even as it thoroughly perplexed him.
“Elita!”
“Optimus!” The pale pink femme seemed equally startled at the sight of his masked face, but recovered more quickly, her faceplates reshaping themselves into a warm smile. “How lovely to see you. I was going to call you after getting this out of the way.” She gave a bright, rueful laugh. “But business before pleasure, as always with us. I don’t have long before Shockwave tracks my location. Can you put Prowl on? I’ve got the energon-usage projections he’s been asking for.”
Optimus had to reboot his vocalisor before he could speak, his optics bright with confusion. “Prowl… is not here right now.”
“Not there…?” Elita One’s pretty face creased with a confusion that mirrored his. “But I thought he was due back from that school tour half an orn ago.” She paused, and then brightened, the humour returning. “Don’t tell me Jazz finally talked him into taking some of that downtime he’s been storing up. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see those pretty door-wings twitch their way through that argument.”
Her voice slowed down as she spoke. Her optics scanned Optimus’s carefully blank face, her smile fading.
“Optimus, what are you doing in Prowl’s office anyway?” She drew in a sharp vent. “He’s not hurt is he?” Again, she scanned the facemask, trying to read optics that couldn’t hide Optimus’s strong emotion, even if they did obscure its meaning. He honestly had no idea what to tell her. “How bad? How is Jazz taking it?”
Optimus blinked at that, his optics flickering, and Elita seemed to read the worst in his reaction and stiff posture. “Jazz too? Oh Primus, they’re not…? Please, tell me they’re not….” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, Optimus! I’m so, so sorry….”
Her vents stuttered and lubricant pooled in her optics, finally breaking through Optimus’s fascinated daze. This was getting out of hand.
“Elita…” he started, not quite knowing what to say, only to repeat the word more anxiously when his mate jumped and glanced behind her. “Elita!”
“I’ve got to go!” she snapped, her vents still unsteady, but her expression closing down into the professional mask he knew so well. “Shockwave tracked me quicker than I expected this time.” She hesitated, looking hard into the screen, optics dimmed with concern. “I’ll call back later. We’ll talk. Optimus… you’ll get through this. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The com line snapped closed. Her face faded from the viewscreen, and Optimus gazed at the darkened surface in silence, stunned by the image of his bond-mate - fighting on hostile Cybertron and running for her life from Shockwave’s forces - attempting to offer him such fierce and heartfelt comfort.
Beside him, Ironhide was venting hard, still staring at the screen, and shaking his head as if trying to force the unthinkable to settle in his processor. He didn’t need instruction this time when Prime climbed to his feet, but rather fell silently into step behind him.
Ratchet glanced up as the two big mechs walked into his Medbay, their expressions unreadable. Prime strode past the recharging twins and crossed the room to Bluestreak’s berth, taking one grey hand carefully in his large servos and glancing up at the medic.
“Bring him out of stasis.”
“But we’ve not worked out…” Ratchet’s protest died away in the face of a glare from Ironhide. He muttered an oath, moving to his patient’s side and activating a sequence in the berth’s controls. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Prime. He’s going to be pretty disoriented still, and we don’t know yet just what’s causing his delusion.”
Prime waved his friend into silence, tightening his grip on Bluestreak’s servos as the young mech’s frame began to vibrate a little harder, motors revving.
“Bluestreak,” he called gently when he saw the first glimmer of light in the blue optics.
“Bluestreak,” he repeated in a level voice, as those optics flared and Bluestreak jerked into panicked life. “I want you to tell me everything you can about Jazz and Prowl.”