Yellow Ribbon - Chapter 8 of 11
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5
Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7
Jazz - Stranger in a strange land
Jazz was not normally an uptight mech. He prided himself on keeping his cool in most situations, regardless of provocation or the behaviour of mechs around him.
One of the things that had bothered him most about his captivity - apart from the sight of Prowl’s beautiful door-wings torn to shreds - had been the gradual erosion of that calm outlook on life. Getting back into his normal rhythm, back into himself, had been pretty much his top priority after he and Prowl were released from Medbay that morning. Sure, he’d spent a few hours in his office, getting back up to speed with the latest intel from the ‘Cons and catching up on the human news and trends that he routinely monitored. As soon as the mid-morning break rolled around though, Jazz had rocked on down to the Rec Room, pretty much intending to see the day out there - at least until he could persuade Prowler to quit his office and do something more interesting.
He hadn’t expected to be stalking out of the Rec Room, metaphorical hackles flaring, less than an hour after he wandered in with a hip new track from one of his favourite groups blaring from his thigh speakers.
He’d put the weirdness he’d picked up from Ratchet and Bluestreak during the last week in Medbay down to the unusually serious injuries both he and Prowl had suffered. Bluestreak had a tendency to freak a little if either of them was hurt, and this time had been a doozy. He knew it was hard on the medic to treat his old friends too, and guessed he couldn’t blame Ratchet for trying to put a bit of distance between them. Given their slow recovery, it was almost certainly the medic who dictated the near-total lack of other visitors that left both him and Prowl wondering during their enforced bed-rest. Even Prime had been chased out after a few curiously awkward minutes of small talk.
Jazz had been looking forward to escaping Ratchet’s thrall. And looking forward for so, so long now to seeing his friends again and making a start on rebuilding his life. It looked like the rest of the crew didn’t share his anticipation.
Their injuries, and whatever freak-out Ratchet or maybe young Blue had scared the Ark with, couldn’t account for the dead silence that was his only greeting as he entered the Rec Room, the strange look he got from Mirage as he crossed to the energon dispenser, the uncomfortable shifting of Huffer and Brawn on the sofa by the supersized television screen, or the way Wheeljack wilted - subtly but noticeably - as Jazz approached, cube in hand.
The reaction took some of the bounce out of Jazz’s stride, but he didn’t let his expression falter. He dropped into the chair beside his friend and tilted it back, music still throbbing pleasantly though his frame.
“Hiya, ‘Jack.”
“Jazz.” Wheeljack had an inbuilt disadvantage when it came to hiding his moods. Jazz couldn’t imagine how cruel a creator would have to be to give a mech head-fins that flashed in a colourful display of emotion. Now he blinked at the engineer, startled by the purple-tinted grey that indicated deep discomfort mingled with more than a hint of embarrassment.
Something was wrong here, and it was Jazz’s job as the crew’s unofficial morale officer, not to mention amateur psychologist while Smokey remained in stasis, to deal with it. The thought perked him up a little, distracting him for a moment from his own problems. He pushed his chair back, throwing his ankles up on the table and cranking his music up a notch.
“Didn’t see you around in Medbay?” He was careful to keep the question casual. Wheeljack tensed even so.
“Ah, Ratchet still has me working on analysing the virus we’ve had around here.”
Well, that might explain why Perceptor and Skyfire had also been pretty noticeable in their absence over the last few days in Medbay. And as for Wheeljack - maybe he was still feeling ropey himself? It was a possibility. Jazz gave a sympathetic nod.
“Heard the ‘flu thing was pretty nasty. Still, guess the worst of it’s over and done with for now, yeah?”
“Ah…” Again that unusual hesitation from Wheeljack. “I… guess so.” The engineer rubbed his brow. “Look, Jazz, could you turn the volume down a bit?”
Jazz’s visor brightened in surprise, his ankles slipping from the table as he straightened in his chair. He was accustomed to the occasional complaint about his choice of music, and made a point of trying to match his tunes to the moods of everyone else in the room as much as his own. He’d changed tracks since sitting down in fact, sorting though the new releases for one he thought ‘Jack might like. The expression of discomfort and outright distaste on Wheeljack’s face was a shock. It was as if the last two years - all the effort he’d put into educating his friend about human music - had never happened.
“Sorry, ‘Jack. Didn’t realise it was botherin’ ya so much.”
Jazz dialled down his music with a slightly numb feeling, and then killed the speakers entirely, slumping back in his chair. It just wasn’t the same at half volume, and he couldn’t stand to do that to a sweet track. Wheeljack gave him a grateful nod, vented a sigh of relief and offered a flicker of a smile that seemed massively out of place.
“That’s better.” The engineer rubbed the back of his neck. He shifted in his chair. “So… are you getting back up to speed okay?”
He’d thought he was. He offered Wheeljack a non-committal shrug. “Sounds like not much happened while Prowler and I were away.”
Wheeljack hummed under his breath, sipping his energon. Jazz sat in silence beside him and Wheeljack seemed oblivious to the strangeness of that fact or the way the saboteur’s mind was struggling to adjust. No one - well no one other than Prowl - had ever seriously told him to turn his music down outside of the loudest parties. Anyone who knew him knew that rocking along to human tracks was just something he did. That it was just Jazz. Most of the crew, Wheeljack included, had been known to look at him with concern on the rare occasions he wasn’t accompanied by a throbbing beat.
“Well, I’d best get on.” Wheeljack stood abruptly, almost tripping over his own feet. Jazz moved to steady his friend with all the speed and grace of his Special Ops training. Wheeljack flinched, actually flinched, away from the hand on his back, looking unduly startled to see Jazz go from his casual slouch to standing so quickly.
Jazz let his hand fall away. He kept a relaxed smile on his face to mask his hurt as Wheeljack stuttered something about being needed in the lab and fled the room. The smile faded as he let his eyes sweep the room, only to find himself alone. Or almost so. The mini-bots had abandoned their seat by the television, but a disturbance in the air currents and the slight buzz of an electromagnetic field over his sensory horns told him Mirage had ‘left the room’ in the public sense only. Pursing his lips, confused and bothered that his friend had no desire to speak to him after all that had happened, Jazz did the other mech the courtesy of not noticing his presence. He stalked to the Rec Room door, trying hard to relax his posture and put a swagger back in his steps despite his confusion.
His footsteps echoed along the corridors, silence gathering around him, and a deepening frown on his face despite his efforts to calm himself.
It was actually something of a relief when the silence was broken - not by music but by the unmistakeable sound of gathered mechs and a confrontation in progress. Jazz quickened his pace, following the rumble of raised voices around a bend in the corridor and onto the forward crew-quarters corridor.
Vorns of experience with this crew made the situation plain in the first nanoklick. Hound and Trailbreaker looked to be there by accident, stumbling into this much like Jazz, and trying to play peacemaker. Bumblebee seemed uncomfortable, probably torn between clan loyalties and his more recently acquired responsibilities as a junior lieutenant. Judging by the aggressive postures of the other three mini-bots - Cliffjumper, Gears and Huffer - neither his efforts nor those of the two larger Autobots were doing much to calm the situation. Cliffjumper’s fists were clenched by his side, his body leaning forward as if any second now he’d leap at the gleaming yellow warrior in front of him. Sunstreaker looked dangerous, his body half-turned away from the mini-bots in a show of contempt, but his eyes following their every movement. Jazz’s optics narrowed behind their visor when he realised the frontliner’s shoulders were somewhat slumped, his posture not exactly screaming enthusiasm for the fight, even if his fierce expression did a good job of convincing the mini-bots otherwise. Behind him, Sideswipe leaned against the wall, making the position look casual as his dimmed optics tracked his brother.
“So,” Jazz slouched forward, hands relaxed by his side, head tilted to one side. “Tell me, mechs, is this really goin’ to be worth Ratchet handin’ ya your afts when ya end up in his Medbay?” His visor flared, startled, when every mech in the corridor jumped at the sound of his voice, turning on the spot where necessary to bring him into sight. He sent a quick command to polarise his visor, keeping its glow constant, and pasted an entirely false grin on his face. “What say we break this up now, before anythin’ nasty hasta happen?”
Hound and Trailbreaker hesitated only a moment before sketching a pair of awkward waves and slipping past Jazz down the corridor. The twins’ eyes swept over him with identical looks of open assessment, and Jazz felt his own body tense as Sunstreaker’s eyes slid to Sideswipe, head tilted in a silent question. The red twin slumped a little further against the wall, but the look he threw Jazz was frankly curious and his almost-shrug was obvious to the officer. Sunstreaker straightened, giving his arms a subtle shake to loosen the cables there. Jazz responded without even thinking about it, rocking back on the balls of his feet, bending his knees slightly and ramping up the input from his sensory horns as his entire body slipped into a state of dangerous relaxation.
“Let’s break this up, Sunstreaker.” Jazz’s voice was still calm but the note of good humour had faded. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this - bracing at battle readiness in the corridors of the Ark itself.
“These mini-bots need teaching a lesson.” Sunstreaker’s flat assertion was met with an outcry of protests from Cliffjumper and Gears. “If they can’t learn to look where they’re going…”
“Sunstreaker.” Now there couldn’t be any question that Jazz was standing in that corridor as anything but an officer. “I said, move along.”
Sunstreaker took a bold step forward, his optics gleaming. Behind him, Sideswipe finally pushed away from the wall, venting hard and using one hand to steady himself for a long moment before straightening up. Jazz faced them both, visor steady, faceplates set in a carefully neutral expression.
The mini-bots noticed Sideswipe’s movement first, and only then realised Sunstreaker was tensed to fight. They actually backed off a metre or two, their expressions startled and curious as they glanced from the twins to the black and white mech mid-corridor. No one but Bumblebee seemed to have noticed that Jazz, for all his casual posture and loose limbs, was just as ready if not more so. The small yellow ‘bot was looking distinctly worried, hesitating as if uncertain whether to intervene.
“You really want t’ do this, Sunstreaker?” Jazz asked quietly. With an adjustment so subtle that most mechs would miss it, he made his fighting stance just a little more obvious. He saw Sunstreaker’s eyes widen and met the frontliner’s growing scowl without flinching or backing down by so much as an inch.
“Sunny,” Bumblebee’s voice had a strangled note that drew all eyes to him. All but Jazz’s. “You really, really don’t want to do this. Trust me.”
Sunstreaker frowned. His eyes flicked, lightning fast, from Jazz to the younger Special Ops mech and back again. Suddenly looking less certain of himself, he looked harder at Jazz’s stance and at the total lack of fear in the officer’s steady gaze. Abruptly, fast enough that Jazz dropped into a deeper crouch and stilled his vents, ready for anything, Sunstreaker shook his head and took a step back, his body relaxing out of its aggressive posturing.
With a deep vent, Jazz relaxed too, although not so far as most of the mechs present would believe. He glared at Sunstreaker with undisguised irritation. “Damn it, Sunny! I thought we were well past that kinda slaggin’ crap from you. The only reason I’m not haulin’ ya down t’ the brig is ‘cause your bro looks like he’s gonna topple over any klick, you’re not that much better, and I’ve got better things t’ do than lug both your afts back t’ your room.”
Sunstreaker cycled his optics and then looked away, not exactly cowed in the face of Jazz’s rant, but not exactly challenging either. Jazz shook his head, baffled by the aggression. Sure Sunstreaker was more likely to test his bounds than just about anyone else in the crew, but he usually only tried it on new recruits, or occasionally on fellow crew who needed reminding that ‘Sunny’ was a force to be reckoned with. Jazz’s few orns out of circulation shouldn’t be near long enough for the frontliner to gather the nerve to try that on the Ark’s third in command, but that was the only explanation an increasingly frustrated Jazz could come up with.
He caught Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s optics, flicking his head along the corridor. “Go to your room and cool off, both of you.” They hesitated, and Jazz had had enough. His tone dropped from one of simple irritation to cold fury. “And I’m warnin’ ya now, even think of tryin’ that crap on Prowl and you’re on your own. I’m not even gonna help pick up the pieces.”
Sunstreaker’s optics brightened. He jerked a reluctant nod, moving to his brother’s side and steadying him with a hand on his back-plates. The two mechs were venting hard, their optics flickering slightly, and all at once, Jazz felt bad for the two. He cycled his optics, letting his anger drain away. Ratchet mentioned that the twins had been pretty bad, were the only mechs still off-duty, in fact. Perhaps he should have cut them a little slack and backed down? Even as the thought occurred to him, his instincts screamed that would have been the worst possible thing to do.
Making a mental note to ask Ratchet to check in on them later, he allowed the two to pass him. It took an effort of will not to tense as they did so and, even with his gaze on the lingering mini-bots, his sensor net followed them away.
Bumblebee had made himself scarce - smart bot. Huffer and Gears appeared to be frozen in place, wide-eyed. Cliffjumper, the most likely instigator of this whole business, was glaring after the twins, uncowed and with fists that opened and clenched by his side. A ping to Teletraan 1 for the duty roster, and Jazz vented a sigh.
“Gears, you should have been on the monitors a breem ago. Huffer, you’re late for patrol. Head out and ‘Jumper will catch up with you. Cliffjumper, walk with me a minute or two?”
He offered it as a suggestion, although it wasn’t close to that. Cliffjumper turned to him with a snarl, but then reconsidered, wary optics dimming. Jazz cursed inside to see it. He deliberately turned his back on the mech, sauntering away and not letting his relief show when a more rapid patter of footsteps fell in behind him.
“So, want to tell me what that was all about?”
Cliffjumper remained silent and Jazz glanced at him sidelong through the corner of his visor.
“Sunstreaker can be a bit of an aft, I’m not denyin’ it. And he was pretty slaggin’ pissy today. But he doesn’t go off like that without a push and I’m pretty sure ya knew that damn well when ya pushed him. I don’t want t’ get all hard core about this ‘Jumper, but we’ve talked about your anger thing. ‘Less ya start chillin’ an’ soon, I can’t keep cuttin’ ya this much slack.”
Cliffjumper was staring at Jazz as if he’d grown an extra head. Jazz vented hard, realising that he wasn’t going to make any progress today.
“Just try to chillax next time, mech. Leave Sunny alone and play ya’self some Santana. I know ya like a touch o’ the mellow sometimes.” He said that last with a smirk, and let a ripple of guitar music spill from his thigh speakers, trying to put his friend back at ease in the hope that his words might actually sink in. If anything, Cliffjumper got more tense still at the mention of his secret musical preference - confided late one night in the Rec Room. Jazz shook his head. “Best catch up with Huffer,” he suggested, trying not to take it personally when the mini-bot fled with no more than a jerky nod.
Alone in the empty corridor, Jazz dimmed his optics for a few moments, before rebooting them. Shaking his head again, swearing under his breath, he stalked the corridors of the Ark, thankful not to meet another bot on the way to his destination. He didn’t bother waiting for Prowl to admit him; the lock on his mate’s office door had long since been programmed to open for him without ceremony. He didn’t even stop to wonder just why Prowl was working with his door locked until he’d already slung himself into the chair set aside for him by Prowl’s desk and tilted it back, ankles resting on the edge of the desk. Only then did he take time to note the deliberately blank expression on his lover’s face and the irritable set of his still-sensitive door-wings.
Prowl looked him over, wings flicking, and concern brightened his optics as silence returned after Jazz’s dramatic entrance.
“You’re very… quiet.”
“For which read: slagging furious.”
“That too.”
Jazz tilted his head and refocused his visor on Prowl, before dimming it and letting his head thunk back against the seat rest. “And it looks like I’m not the only one havin’ a bad day. Tell me yours and I’ll tell ya mine.”
Prowl looked as if wanted to turn that question around, but Jazz had asked first, and in this mood he wouldn’t yield. Venting a concerned sigh, the tactician shook his head.
“Optimus Prime has tried three times today to encourage me to take a break, go get some energon, or otherwise neglect my allotted duty shift.”
Jazz onlined his optics, frowning. “Doesn’t sound all that unusual, mech.”
Prowl’s door-wings flared.
“To all appearances, he actually expected me to agree.” Prowl paused before going on, voice soft. “Jazz, he pulled Red Alert in on our meeting about duty rosters this morning, and had Trailbreaker cross-checking my tactical analyses until he went off shift.”
Jazz heard the hurt in the other mech’s voice, and saw it in his quivering wingtips. Prime hadn’t second-guessed his deputy, or needed a second opinion on routine matters, since their first few orns together. For Prowl, of all mechs, to face such unexplained doubt on his first day back on duty was a confidence-shattering blow.
“Red Alert has protested, delayed or double-checked every statement I’ve made today! Ironhide appears to be brimming over with sudden resentment for the loss of an authority he has never before wanted.”
Humming understanding and comfort under his breath, Jazz nodded. He drew a long breath in between his vents and held it for a moment before adding his oar in.
“Just found m’self toe to toe with Sunstreaker, scared half the mini-bots outta their frames. Oh, an’ found out ‘Jack hates me.”
Prowl raised a brow-ridge, distracted from his growing agitation as he studied Jazz’s exaggerated pout and saw past it to the genuine dismay beyond. Jazz worked long and hard to make the Autobots on the Ark forget just why he was their third in command, and precisely how dangerous he could be. Being forced to show his hand, in the corridors of the Ark itself, was more than just unsettling. The tactician frowned, focussing on the most outlandish of Jazz’s complaints.
“I very much doubt that Wheeljack has been hiding a deep-seated animosity all the vorns we’ve known him.”
“He told me to turn my music down!”
“Music doesn’t make the mech, Jazz.”
“Does if I say it does. Anyway, he couldn’t wait t’get away from me, Prowler. Wheeljack didn’t have a thing t’ say t’ me. Not seen him that uncomfortable since last time I dragged him to an oil bar in downtown Iacon. The mini-bots were gettin’ pretty jumpy when I got close too, and that was before I had Sunny tryin’ me out.”
Prowl nodded, his expression thoughtful. Jazz cycled down his optics, wracking his own processor for some explanation, but confident that Prowl’s battle computer would find the answer first. Jazz’s visor blazed back into vibrant life, his body tensing for action, when his mate suddenly jerked upright on his chair. The tactician’s expression was a picture of shocked and horrified realisation.
“Jazz, you said Sunstreaker was testing you - as if you were new to the crew? And Wheeljack was uncomfortable, he didn’t know what to say?”
“Yeah. I mean, guess small talk ‘bout the last few weeks ain’t gonna be easy, but still…”
Prowl shook his head, sharply, as if trying to dislodge a thought.
“Prowler?”
“Prowl?” The buzz of Prowl’s door intercom, distorting Optimus’s voice with a crackle of interference was far from welcome at that moment. Jazz watched his lover’s expression shut down, wings hitching to a respectful half-mast on his back. Prowl reached out for the switch that would admit his Prime, shooting Jazz a look so familiar it needed no words: follow my lead.
“Prowl.” Optimus paused in the threshold as the door slid open. “Have you seen…?” He stopped, blinking. “Ah, Jazz. I was looking for you.”
Jazz raised a curious brow-ridge, reaching up to tap his visor in an idle salute.
“Shoulda known where you’d find me, Prime.”
Optimus’s optics slid away from meeting his gaze. Their commander stared into nowhere for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.
“Of course. Ah… Jazz, Red Alert tells me you were involved in some sort of confrontation earlier? Has someone on the crew been…?”
“Jus’ Sunny being Sunny.” As annoyed and unsettled as Jazz was by the confrontation, it wasn’t worth landing the warrior in deep water for. “A few of the mechs still grouchin’ off the end of that flu-bug.” Jazz’s vocalisor stuttered. His visor flared with realisation and his quick look at Prowl was met with a sad nod.
Optimus, apparently fixated with a spot on the floor and another on the wall, shifting his gaze between them as he avoided his officers’ optics, didn’t appear to notice.
“I see… I’d like to be informed of any further… incidents.”
Jazz stood, the fluid movement startling Prime and forcing his optics up to meet Jazz’s through his visor.
“Prime, keepin’ order in the crew is my job.” He stressed the words, his assertion all the more vehement for his new-found suspicion. “And tellin’ tales ain’t. Bad enough that I’m an officer. Ya think any of the crew is goin’ t’ talk to me, if any conversation worth havin’ has gotta be reported back to you?”
This time Optimus had the grace to look embarrassed. Jazz shook his head, aware of Prowl pushing back his chair and standing beside him.
“Disciplinary issues amongst the crew have never been an issue for the Prime,” the tactician observed, voice perfectly neutral. “Unless you intend to revise the assessment scales for minor infractions?”
Scales that Prowl had written and Jazz had a habit of re-interpreting… creatively. Prime looked blank at the mention. He raised a hand to his facemask in a nervous gesture he’d picked up from Sparkplug.
“I just thought, given everything that’s happened…”
Prowl looked expectant; his vented sigh when Prime stuttered into silence was so faint that even Jazz barely heard it. There was a long, awkward pause before Prowl decided to rescue his Prime… or trap him.
“I believe that I might follow your advice, Optimus, and end this duty shift early. Jazz and I would be pleased if you’d join us in the Rec Room for energon.”
There was no graceful way for Prime to turn down the invitation. As uncomfortable as he looked, walking into the large room with the pair of black and white mechs at either shoulder, he showed no surprise at Prowl’s decision. The lull in conversation that followed their entry should, by rights, have been one of surprise at seeing Prowl out of his office before the end of the shift. Instead, it was something quite different. Just about every mech in the room - about half of the early morning shift - stole a covert glance at both Jazz and Prowl. The unusual presence of their Prime aroused far less interest.
Jazz was already on edge, tense and jumpy at the wrongness of it all, when Prowl began, calmly and in great detail, to discuss the popular music topping the human charts, and the personal lives of the celebrities behind it. Jazz took a few minutes to marvel in and appreciate his mate’s attention to his interests before meeting Prowl’s eyes. Stepping in without giving their Prime a chance to escape, he diverted the topic to ask Optimus if he’d had time to catch the latest chess tournament and expound for a while on human symbolic logic. Prime looked lost, trying to join in with the occasional rumbling comment, but unfamiliar with the topics rather than confused by which of his two officers had raised them.
They were still playing conversational ping-pong several breems later when Bluestreak walked through the Rec Room door and stopped, staring at them, door-wings twitching in astonishment.
“Prowl! What are you doing here so early? I mean, I know there’s no reason you shouldn’t be here if you want to be, but I was sort of surprised to see you on your first day and all. I thought you’d be busy for hours and hours yet. And why are you and Jazz talking like that? Are you guys okay? I hope nothing’s wrong, ‘cause its kind of weird, if you know what I mean, and I didn’t even know you knew all that about…”
“Bluestreak.” Prowl cut through his ramble, voice quiet but firm. “Thank you, but Jazz and I are perfectly well.”
“Ah. Right.” Bluestreak was still giving them a strange look “Well, I guess… I guess I ought to go get some energon.”
“Sounds like an idea, Blue,” Jazz agreed easily, not taking his eyes off Optimus Prime. Their leader slumped in his chair, his expression surprised, his posture defeated.
The three of them were silent for several second as Bluestreak backed off. It wasn’t until the young gunner turned away that Prowl allowed his door-wings to droop low against his back.
“The virus.” It wasn’t a question. Prime nodded a confirmation anyway.
“Is Blue the only one?” Jazz asked, feeling sick to the base of his tanks. “The only one t’ remember us?”
Optimus gazed at them with a painfully sincere pity, and not an ounce of recognition. “Ratchet is working as hard as he can on finding a solution, but our memories...? Changes are difficult… dangerous.” He vented a sigh. “Ratchet tells me it could take… a while.”
“A while as in days?” Jazz demanded, voice sharp. “Months? Years?”
Prime shifted in his seat, unable to answer the question. “Ratchet didn’t want you to feel you lacked support. I… I didn’t want you to feel in any way unwelcome.”
“Even though both those things are, on some level at least, true?” Prowl asked, his voice and faceplates devoid of expression.
Prime could only give them a helpless look. At least he did them the courtesy of not trying to deny it.
“We’ll find a way through this.”
Lying on his back, staring at the glow his visor cast on the ceiling of their darkened quarters, Jazz wondered who Prowl was trying to convince. He dimmed his visor, concentrating on the soft whir of his mate’s systems.
“Don’t go tellin’ me this’ll be okay, Prowler. Ya can’t tell me you’d be happy droppin’ a pair of senior officers into an established unit at the best’a times.”
Prowl sighed, his arm slipping around Jazz, pulling the stiff form against his side. “I wouldn’t be happy doing it to a unit that had been together a single vorn, let alone so long a time, and in such intense circumstance, as this one.”
The admission was strangely comforting. At least Jazz wasn’t alone in facing the problem.
“As far as the mechs aboard the Ark are concerned, they have been in a stable, even prosperous position for almost two years, with a close-knit team and no memory of our involvement. They can see no reason why the Ark would not continue to function without us.”
“I’d like t’ see them try gettin’ along without ya there to lay down th’ duty rosters.”
“They have managed to do so for much of the last month.”
Jazz snorted, amused to be discussing inanities rather than the bigger picture. “Ya left them schedules for the firs’ three weeks, and after two of them everyone got ill anyway. The way Blue tells it, half th’ shifts didn’t get covered, anyone well enough double-shifted off their own back-plates and neither Red nor Ratchet recharged for an orn.”
Prowl chuckled, the sound vibrating through his body and into Jazz’s. The saboteur took a moment to revel in the sensation and then sighed, reactivating his optics, before returning to their problem with a tentative whisper.
“Ratch will find a way t’ reverse the virus anyway, right? Sooner or later?”
“Indeed.” Prowl’s answer was about as confident as Jazz’s initial question.
Ratchet scowl had carried a mixture of guilt and frustration when they sought him out with the questions he’d avoided for more than a week. Neither mech allowed that to stop them getting answers. They just weren’t the ones either Jazz or Prowl had hoped for.
Turning the virus back on the Decepticons had involved straightforward firewall coding - basic, and well understood. Ratchet hadn’t risked touching the memory algorithms that piggybacked it. Despite his hard work since Bluestreak’s revelations, and the intense research effort from the Ark’s science team, the medic was reluctant to do so now.
Jazz couldn’t blame him. He vented a sigh, one hand reaching out to trail a finger down Prowl’s nearest doorwing. Starscream might be a slagger, but he was a competent scientist. Even with as much time as he needed to perfect his virus, the Seeker had limited it to a very specific criterion - any mention of Prowl and Jazz. Already that had skirted within a short step of catastrophe. Deleting any more from a processor could have left enough inconsistencies in the infected mech’s core programming to cause shutdowns, insanity, total personality breakdowns. Memory wasn’t a distinct and isolated system. It was integral to every system, written in their sparks and in their frames, part of how their processors interacted with the world. The knock-on effects of losing even so little were disconcerting and unsettling for half the Autobots aboard. Worse than that, cross-talk between personal and system memory had most likely been to blame for at least some of the physical symptoms the Ark crew had experienced.
Modifying Starscream’s code without understanding it risked worsening the effect, creating gaps in a memory cortex large enough to destabilise the whole system, spawning still more corrupt and mutated viruses along the way. No wonder Ratchet was nervous. Dealing with a mech’s processor was a precision task at the best of times. This was far from that.
“Maybe… maybe he shouldn’t try.” Jazz felt Prowl stiffen beside him, surprised and shocked at his suggestion. “Primus, Prowler, what if Ratch gets it wrong? What if…” Jazz’s voice trailed off in a shudder, and Prowl leaned down, nuzzling his sensory horns.
“I trust Ratchet. I trust Wheeljack.” Prowl’s soft voice carried total conviction. “I trust them to do their best for us. And I trust them not to risk the crew doing it.”
“Yeah.” As always, Prowl was the voice of reason, stating a truth than Jazz couldn’t argue with. The saboteur leaned into his mate’s touch, drawing as much comfort from Prowl’s quiet words as from the contact.
Doubtless, given enough time, Ratchet would find a cure - nerve-wracking as the process might be, neither mech questioned that. No, the question was whether it would come tomorrow, an orn from now, or vorns later. Even Ratch wasn’t sure the solution would be found in time to be anything but an academic feat.
“It could be worse,” Prowl tried after a few moments of silence between them. “Even if they don’t know us, we have intimate knowledge of every mech aboard. That should allow us to open a dialogue…”
Any other time and Jazz would have teased his lover for his technically correct but ambiguous language. He half-suspected Prowl of giving him the opening deliberately. Right now he couldn’t summon so much as a smile.
“Prowler… how would ya feel if a stranger walked up to ya - a mech you’ve never seen b’fore in your life - and started spoutin’ intimate knowledge ‘bout you?” He let loose a mirthless laugh. “No wonder the crew’re lookin’ at us like we’re one o’ Wheeljack’s booms-in-waitin’. They don’t know what we know, and they don’t know - they can’t really know - if they c’n trust us. There’s not a mech aboard who doesn’t have secrets they wanta keep. I’ve prob’ly already traumatised Cliffjumper for life by knowin’ about his secret Santana fetish.”
There was a moment of silence before Prowl spoke. “Really… Santana?”
This time Jazz’s attempt to laugh broke off into a sob. He felt Prowl’s arm tighten around him and shifted to lay his head on his mate’s chest-plate. “They were our friends, Prowl! More than that - family! I’d have trusted any mech on this crew with my life. More than that, I’d’ve trusted them with yours!”
“They’re still the mechs they always were.”
Jazz shook his head, not in denial but in despair. “The mechs they always were: soldiers, survivors, fiercely loyal, fiercely defensive o’ their own. But kinda more so. These last two years here on Earth - they’ve changed all o’ us, Prowl. They made this crew into somethin’ special, and we were a part o’ that. And now we’re not.” He shuddered, curling into his mate’s side. “They’ll fight wi’ us, sure, if they hafta, but it’ll take vorns ‘til they’re ready t’ let us guard their backs. And, ya know what scares me, Prowl? It’s knowin’ that in the heat’a battle, with a spark-beat t’ make the decision and no time for hesitatin’, you’d give ya life for any one of them. And there’s not a mech in the lotta them who can say the same for you.”
Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7
Jazz - Stranger in a strange land
Jazz was not normally an uptight mech. He prided himself on keeping his cool in most situations, regardless of provocation or the behaviour of mechs around him.
One of the things that had bothered him most about his captivity - apart from the sight of Prowl’s beautiful door-wings torn to shreds - had been the gradual erosion of that calm outlook on life. Getting back into his normal rhythm, back into himself, had been pretty much his top priority after he and Prowl were released from Medbay that morning. Sure, he’d spent a few hours in his office, getting back up to speed with the latest intel from the ‘Cons and catching up on the human news and trends that he routinely monitored. As soon as the mid-morning break rolled around though, Jazz had rocked on down to the Rec Room, pretty much intending to see the day out there - at least until he could persuade Prowler to quit his office and do something more interesting.
He hadn’t expected to be stalking out of the Rec Room, metaphorical hackles flaring, less than an hour after he wandered in with a hip new track from one of his favourite groups blaring from his thigh speakers.
He’d put the weirdness he’d picked up from Ratchet and Bluestreak during the last week in Medbay down to the unusually serious injuries both he and Prowl had suffered. Bluestreak had a tendency to freak a little if either of them was hurt, and this time had been a doozy. He knew it was hard on the medic to treat his old friends too, and guessed he couldn’t blame Ratchet for trying to put a bit of distance between them. Given their slow recovery, it was almost certainly the medic who dictated the near-total lack of other visitors that left both him and Prowl wondering during their enforced bed-rest. Even Prime had been chased out after a few curiously awkward minutes of small talk.
Jazz had been looking forward to escaping Ratchet’s thrall. And looking forward for so, so long now to seeing his friends again and making a start on rebuilding his life. It looked like the rest of the crew didn’t share his anticipation.
Their injuries, and whatever freak-out Ratchet or maybe young Blue had scared the Ark with, couldn’t account for the dead silence that was his only greeting as he entered the Rec Room, the strange look he got from Mirage as he crossed to the energon dispenser, the uncomfortable shifting of Huffer and Brawn on the sofa by the supersized television screen, or the way Wheeljack wilted - subtly but noticeably - as Jazz approached, cube in hand.
The reaction took some of the bounce out of Jazz’s stride, but he didn’t let his expression falter. He dropped into the chair beside his friend and tilted it back, music still throbbing pleasantly though his frame.
“Hiya, ‘Jack.”
“Jazz.” Wheeljack had an inbuilt disadvantage when it came to hiding his moods. Jazz couldn’t imagine how cruel a creator would have to be to give a mech head-fins that flashed in a colourful display of emotion. Now he blinked at the engineer, startled by the purple-tinted grey that indicated deep discomfort mingled with more than a hint of embarrassment.
Something was wrong here, and it was Jazz’s job as the crew’s unofficial morale officer, not to mention amateur psychologist while Smokey remained in stasis, to deal with it. The thought perked him up a little, distracting him for a moment from his own problems. He pushed his chair back, throwing his ankles up on the table and cranking his music up a notch.
“Didn’t see you around in Medbay?” He was careful to keep the question casual. Wheeljack tensed even so.
“Ah, Ratchet still has me working on analysing the virus we’ve had around here.”
Well, that might explain why Perceptor and Skyfire had also been pretty noticeable in their absence over the last few days in Medbay. And as for Wheeljack - maybe he was still feeling ropey himself? It was a possibility. Jazz gave a sympathetic nod.
“Heard the ‘flu thing was pretty nasty. Still, guess the worst of it’s over and done with for now, yeah?”
“Ah…” Again that unusual hesitation from Wheeljack. “I… guess so.” The engineer rubbed his brow. “Look, Jazz, could you turn the volume down a bit?”
Jazz’s visor brightened in surprise, his ankles slipping from the table as he straightened in his chair. He was accustomed to the occasional complaint about his choice of music, and made a point of trying to match his tunes to the moods of everyone else in the room as much as his own. He’d changed tracks since sitting down in fact, sorting though the new releases for one he thought ‘Jack might like. The expression of discomfort and outright distaste on Wheeljack’s face was a shock. It was as if the last two years - all the effort he’d put into educating his friend about human music - had never happened.
“Sorry, ‘Jack. Didn’t realise it was botherin’ ya so much.”
Jazz dialled down his music with a slightly numb feeling, and then killed the speakers entirely, slumping back in his chair. It just wasn’t the same at half volume, and he couldn’t stand to do that to a sweet track. Wheeljack gave him a grateful nod, vented a sigh of relief and offered a flicker of a smile that seemed massively out of place.
“That’s better.” The engineer rubbed the back of his neck. He shifted in his chair. “So… are you getting back up to speed okay?”
He’d thought he was. He offered Wheeljack a non-committal shrug. “Sounds like not much happened while Prowler and I were away.”
Wheeljack hummed under his breath, sipping his energon. Jazz sat in silence beside him and Wheeljack seemed oblivious to the strangeness of that fact or the way the saboteur’s mind was struggling to adjust. No one - well no one other than Prowl - had ever seriously told him to turn his music down outside of the loudest parties. Anyone who knew him knew that rocking along to human tracks was just something he did. That it was just Jazz. Most of the crew, Wheeljack included, had been known to look at him with concern on the rare occasions he wasn’t accompanied by a throbbing beat.
“Well, I’d best get on.” Wheeljack stood abruptly, almost tripping over his own feet. Jazz moved to steady his friend with all the speed and grace of his Special Ops training. Wheeljack flinched, actually flinched, away from the hand on his back, looking unduly startled to see Jazz go from his casual slouch to standing so quickly.
Jazz let his hand fall away. He kept a relaxed smile on his face to mask his hurt as Wheeljack stuttered something about being needed in the lab and fled the room. The smile faded as he let his eyes sweep the room, only to find himself alone. Or almost so. The mini-bots had abandoned their seat by the television, but a disturbance in the air currents and the slight buzz of an electromagnetic field over his sensory horns told him Mirage had ‘left the room’ in the public sense only. Pursing his lips, confused and bothered that his friend had no desire to speak to him after all that had happened, Jazz did the other mech the courtesy of not noticing his presence. He stalked to the Rec Room door, trying hard to relax his posture and put a swagger back in his steps despite his confusion.
His footsteps echoed along the corridors, silence gathering around him, and a deepening frown on his face despite his efforts to calm himself.
It was actually something of a relief when the silence was broken - not by music but by the unmistakeable sound of gathered mechs and a confrontation in progress. Jazz quickened his pace, following the rumble of raised voices around a bend in the corridor and onto the forward crew-quarters corridor.
Vorns of experience with this crew made the situation plain in the first nanoklick. Hound and Trailbreaker looked to be there by accident, stumbling into this much like Jazz, and trying to play peacemaker. Bumblebee seemed uncomfortable, probably torn between clan loyalties and his more recently acquired responsibilities as a junior lieutenant. Judging by the aggressive postures of the other three mini-bots - Cliffjumper, Gears and Huffer - neither his efforts nor those of the two larger Autobots were doing much to calm the situation. Cliffjumper’s fists were clenched by his side, his body leaning forward as if any second now he’d leap at the gleaming yellow warrior in front of him. Sunstreaker looked dangerous, his body half-turned away from the mini-bots in a show of contempt, but his eyes following their every movement. Jazz’s optics narrowed behind their visor when he realised the frontliner’s shoulders were somewhat slumped, his posture not exactly screaming enthusiasm for the fight, even if his fierce expression did a good job of convincing the mini-bots otherwise. Behind him, Sideswipe leaned against the wall, making the position look casual as his dimmed optics tracked his brother.
“So,” Jazz slouched forward, hands relaxed by his side, head tilted to one side. “Tell me, mechs, is this really goin’ to be worth Ratchet handin’ ya your afts when ya end up in his Medbay?” His visor flared, startled, when every mech in the corridor jumped at the sound of his voice, turning on the spot where necessary to bring him into sight. He sent a quick command to polarise his visor, keeping its glow constant, and pasted an entirely false grin on his face. “What say we break this up now, before anythin’ nasty hasta happen?”
Hound and Trailbreaker hesitated only a moment before sketching a pair of awkward waves and slipping past Jazz down the corridor. The twins’ eyes swept over him with identical looks of open assessment, and Jazz felt his own body tense as Sunstreaker’s eyes slid to Sideswipe, head tilted in a silent question. The red twin slumped a little further against the wall, but the look he threw Jazz was frankly curious and his almost-shrug was obvious to the officer. Sunstreaker straightened, giving his arms a subtle shake to loosen the cables there. Jazz responded without even thinking about it, rocking back on the balls of his feet, bending his knees slightly and ramping up the input from his sensory horns as his entire body slipped into a state of dangerous relaxation.
“Let’s break this up, Sunstreaker.” Jazz’s voice was still calm but the note of good humour had faded. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this - bracing at battle readiness in the corridors of the Ark itself.
“These mini-bots need teaching a lesson.” Sunstreaker’s flat assertion was met with an outcry of protests from Cliffjumper and Gears. “If they can’t learn to look where they’re going…”
“Sunstreaker.” Now there couldn’t be any question that Jazz was standing in that corridor as anything but an officer. “I said, move along.”
Sunstreaker took a bold step forward, his optics gleaming. Behind him, Sideswipe finally pushed away from the wall, venting hard and using one hand to steady himself for a long moment before straightening up. Jazz faced them both, visor steady, faceplates set in a carefully neutral expression.
The mini-bots noticed Sideswipe’s movement first, and only then realised Sunstreaker was tensed to fight. They actually backed off a metre or two, their expressions startled and curious as they glanced from the twins to the black and white mech mid-corridor. No one but Bumblebee seemed to have noticed that Jazz, for all his casual posture and loose limbs, was just as ready if not more so. The small yellow ‘bot was looking distinctly worried, hesitating as if uncertain whether to intervene.
“You really want t’ do this, Sunstreaker?” Jazz asked quietly. With an adjustment so subtle that most mechs would miss it, he made his fighting stance just a little more obvious. He saw Sunstreaker’s eyes widen and met the frontliner’s growing scowl without flinching or backing down by so much as an inch.
“Sunny,” Bumblebee’s voice had a strangled note that drew all eyes to him. All but Jazz’s. “You really, really don’t want to do this. Trust me.”
Sunstreaker frowned. His eyes flicked, lightning fast, from Jazz to the younger Special Ops mech and back again. Suddenly looking less certain of himself, he looked harder at Jazz’s stance and at the total lack of fear in the officer’s steady gaze. Abruptly, fast enough that Jazz dropped into a deeper crouch and stilled his vents, ready for anything, Sunstreaker shook his head and took a step back, his body relaxing out of its aggressive posturing.
With a deep vent, Jazz relaxed too, although not so far as most of the mechs present would believe. He glared at Sunstreaker with undisguised irritation. “Damn it, Sunny! I thought we were well past that kinda slaggin’ crap from you. The only reason I’m not haulin’ ya down t’ the brig is ‘cause your bro looks like he’s gonna topple over any klick, you’re not that much better, and I’ve got better things t’ do than lug both your afts back t’ your room.”
Sunstreaker cycled his optics and then looked away, not exactly cowed in the face of Jazz’s rant, but not exactly challenging either. Jazz shook his head, baffled by the aggression. Sure Sunstreaker was more likely to test his bounds than just about anyone else in the crew, but he usually only tried it on new recruits, or occasionally on fellow crew who needed reminding that ‘Sunny’ was a force to be reckoned with. Jazz’s few orns out of circulation shouldn’t be near long enough for the frontliner to gather the nerve to try that on the Ark’s third in command, but that was the only explanation an increasingly frustrated Jazz could come up with.
He caught Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s optics, flicking his head along the corridor. “Go to your room and cool off, both of you.” They hesitated, and Jazz had had enough. His tone dropped from one of simple irritation to cold fury. “And I’m warnin’ ya now, even think of tryin’ that crap on Prowl and you’re on your own. I’m not even gonna help pick up the pieces.”
Sunstreaker’s optics brightened. He jerked a reluctant nod, moving to his brother’s side and steadying him with a hand on his back-plates. The two mechs were venting hard, their optics flickering slightly, and all at once, Jazz felt bad for the two. He cycled his optics, letting his anger drain away. Ratchet mentioned that the twins had been pretty bad, were the only mechs still off-duty, in fact. Perhaps he should have cut them a little slack and backed down? Even as the thought occurred to him, his instincts screamed that would have been the worst possible thing to do.
Making a mental note to ask Ratchet to check in on them later, he allowed the two to pass him. It took an effort of will not to tense as they did so and, even with his gaze on the lingering mini-bots, his sensor net followed them away.
Bumblebee had made himself scarce - smart bot. Huffer and Gears appeared to be frozen in place, wide-eyed. Cliffjumper, the most likely instigator of this whole business, was glaring after the twins, uncowed and with fists that opened and clenched by his side. A ping to Teletraan 1 for the duty roster, and Jazz vented a sigh.
“Gears, you should have been on the monitors a breem ago. Huffer, you’re late for patrol. Head out and ‘Jumper will catch up with you. Cliffjumper, walk with me a minute or two?”
He offered it as a suggestion, although it wasn’t close to that. Cliffjumper turned to him with a snarl, but then reconsidered, wary optics dimming. Jazz cursed inside to see it. He deliberately turned his back on the mech, sauntering away and not letting his relief show when a more rapid patter of footsteps fell in behind him.
“So, want to tell me what that was all about?”
Cliffjumper remained silent and Jazz glanced at him sidelong through the corner of his visor.
“Sunstreaker can be a bit of an aft, I’m not denyin’ it. And he was pretty slaggin’ pissy today. But he doesn’t go off like that without a push and I’m pretty sure ya knew that damn well when ya pushed him. I don’t want t’ get all hard core about this ‘Jumper, but we’ve talked about your anger thing. ‘Less ya start chillin’ an’ soon, I can’t keep cuttin’ ya this much slack.”
Cliffjumper was staring at Jazz as if he’d grown an extra head. Jazz vented hard, realising that he wasn’t going to make any progress today.
“Just try to chillax next time, mech. Leave Sunny alone and play ya’self some Santana. I know ya like a touch o’ the mellow sometimes.” He said that last with a smirk, and let a ripple of guitar music spill from his thigh speakers, trying to put his friend back at ease in the hope that his words might actually sink in. If anything, Cliffjumper got more tense still at the mention of his secret musical preference - confided late one night in the Rec Room. Jazz shook his head. “Best catch up with Huffer,” he suggested, trying not to take it personally when the mini-bot fled with no more than a jerky nod.
Alone in the empty corridor, Jazz dimmed his optics for a few moments, before rebooting them. Shaking his head again, swearing under his breath, he stalked the corridors of the Ark, thankful not to meet another bot on the way to his destination. He didn’t bother waiting for Prowl to admit him; the lock on his mate’s office door had long since been programmed to open for him without ceremony. He didn’t even stop to wonder just why Prowl was working with his door locked until he’d already slung himself into the chair set aside for him by Prowl’s desk and tilted it back, ankles resting on the edge of the desk. Only then did he take time to note the deliberately blank expression on his lover’s face and the irritable set of his still-sensitive door-wings.
Prowl looked him over, wings flicking, and concern brightened his optics as silence returned after Jazz’s dramatic entrance.
“You’re very… quiet.”
“For which read: slagging furious.”
“That too.”
Jazz tilted his head and refocused his visor on Prowl, before dimming it and letting his head thunk back against the seat rest. “And it looks like I’m not the only one havin’ a bad day. Tell me yours and I’ll tell ya mine.”
Prowl looked as if wanted to turn that question around, but Jazz had asked first, and in this mood he wouldn’t yield. Venting a concerned sigh, the tactician shook his head.
“Optimus Prime has tried three times today to encourage me to take a break, go get some energon, or otherwise neglect my allotted duty shift.”
Jazz onlined his optics, frowning. “Doesn’t sound all that unusual, mech.”
Prowl’s door-wings flared.
“To all appearances, he actually expected me to agree.” Prowl paused before going on, voice soft. “Jazz, he pulled Red Alert in on our meeting about duty rosters this morning, and had Trailbreaker cross-checking my tactical analyses until he went off shift.”
Jazz heard the hurt in the other mech’s voice, and saw it in his quivering wingtips. Prime hadn’t second-guessed his deputy, or needed a second opinion on routine matters, since their first few orns together. For Prowl, of all mechs, to face such unexplained doubt on his first day back on duty was a confidence-shattering blow.
“Red Alert has protested, delayed or double-checked every statement I’ve made today! Ironhide appears to be brimming over with sudden resentment for the loss of an authority he has never before wanted.”
Humming understanding and comfort under his breath, Jazz nodded. He drew a long breath in between his vents and held it for a moment before adding his oar in.
“Just found m’self toe to toe with Sunstreaker, scared half the mini-bots outta their frames. Oh, an’ found out ‘Jack hates me.”
Prowl raised a brow-ridge, distracted from his growing agitation as he studied Jazz’s exaggerated pout and saw past it to the genuine dismay beyond. Jazz worked long and hard to make the Autobots on the Ark forget just why he was their third in command, and precisely how dangerous he could be. Being forced to show his hand, in the corridors of the Ark itself, was more than just unsettling. The tactician frowned, focussing on the most outlandish of Jazz’s complaints.
“I very much doubt that Wheeljack has been hiding a deep-seated animosity all the vorns we’ve known him.”
“He told me to turn my music down!”
“Music doesn’t make the mech, Jazz.”
“Does if I say it does. Anyway, he couldn’t wait t’get away from me, Prowler. Wheeljack didn’t have a thing t’ say t’ me. Not seen him that uncomfortable since last time I dragged him to an oil bar in downtown Iacon. The mini-bots were gettin’ pretty jumpy when I got close too, and that was before I had Sunny tryin’ me out.”
Prowl nodded, his expression thoughtful. Jazz cycled down his optics, wracking his own processor for some explanation, but confident that Prowl’s battle computer would find the answer first. Jazz’s visor blazed back into vibrant life, his body tensing for action, when his mate suddenly jerked upright on his chair. The tactician’s expression was a picture of shocked and horrified realisation.
“Jazz, you said Sunstreaker was testing you - as if you were new to the crew? And Wheeljack was uncomfortable, he didn’t know what to say?”
“Yeah. I mean, guess small talk ‘bout the last few weeks ain’t gonna be easy, but still…”
Prowl shook his head, sharply, as if trying to dislodge a thought.
“Prowler?”
“Prowl?” The buzz of Prowl’s door intercom, distorting Optimus’s voice with a crackle of interference was far from welcome at that moment. Jazz watched his lover’s expression shut down, wings hitching to a respectful half-mast on his back. Prowl reached out for the switch that would admit his Prime, shooting Jazz a look so familiar it needed no words: follow my lead.
“Prowl.” Optimus paused in the threshold as the door slid open. “Have you seen…?” He stopped, blinking. “Ah, Jazz. I was looking for you.”
Jazz raised a curious brow-ridge, reaching up to tap his visor in an idle salute.
“Shoulda known where you’d find me, Prime.”
Optimus’s optics slid away from meeting his gaze. Their commander stared into nowhere for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.
“Of course. Ah… Jazz, Red Alert tells me you were involved in some sort of confrontation earlier? Has someone on the crew been…?”
“Jus’ Sunny being Sunny.” As annoyed and unsettled as Jazz was by the confrontation, it wasn’t worth landing the warrior in deep water for. “A few of the mechs still grouchin’ off the end of that flu-bug.” Jazz’s vocalisor stuttered. His visor flared with realisation and his quick look at Prowl was met with a sad nod.
Optimus, apparently fixated with a spot on the floor and another on the wall, shifting his gaze between them as he avoided his officers’ optics, didn’t appear to notice.
“I see… I’d like to be informed of any further… incidents.”
Jazz stood, the fluid movement startling Prime and forcing his optics up to meet Jazz’s through his visor.
“Prime, keepin’ order in the crew is my job.” He stressed the words, his assertion all the more vehement for his new-found suspicion. “And tellin’ tales ain’t. Bad enough that I’m an officer. Ya think any of the crew is goin’ t’ talk to me, if any conversation worth havin’ has gotta be reported back to you?”
This time Optimus had the grace to look embarrassed. Jazz shook his head, aware of Prowl pushing back his chair and standing beside him.
“Disciplinary issues amongst the crew have never been an issue for the Prime,” the tactician observed, voice perfectly neutral. “Unless you intend to revise the assessment scales for minor infractions?”
Scales that Prowl had written and Jazz had a habit of re-interpreting… creatively. Prime looked blank at the mention. He raised a hand to his facemask in a nervous gesture he’d picked up from Sparkplug.
“I just thought, given everything that’s happened…”
Prowl looked expectant; his vented sigh when Prime stuttered into silence was so faint that even Jazz barely heard it. There was a long, awkward pause before Prowl decided to rescue his Prime… or trap him.
“I believe that I might follow your advice, Optimus, and end this duty shift early. Jazz and I would be pleased if you’d join us in the Rec Room for energon.”
There was no graceful way for Prime to turn down the invitation. As uncomfortable as he looked, walking into the large room with the pair of black and white mechs at either shoulder, he showed no surprise at Prowl’s decision. The lull in conversation that followed their entry should, by rights, have been one of surprise at seeing Prowl out of his office before the end of the shift. Instead, it was something quite different. Just about every mech in the room - about half of the early morning shift - stole a covert glance at both Jazz and Prowl. The unusual presence of their Prime aroused far less interest.
Jazz was already on edge, tense and jumpy at the wrongness of it all, when Prowl began, calmly and in great detail, to discuss the popular music topping the human charts, and the personal lives of the celebrities behind it. Jazz took a few minutes to marvel in and appreciate his mate’s attention to his interests before meeting Prowl’s eyes. Stepping in without giving their Prime a chance to escape, he diverted the topic to ask Optimus if he’d had time to catch the latest chess tournament and expound for a while on human symbolic logic. Prime looked lost, trying to join in with the occasional rumbling comment, but unfamiliar with the topics rather than confused by which of his two officers had raised them.
They were still playing conversational ping-pong several breems later when Bluestreak walked through the Rec Room door and stopped, staring at them, door-wings twitching in astonishment.
“Prowl! What are you doing here so early? I mean, I know there’s no reason you shouldn’t be here if you want to be, but I was sort of surprised to see you on your first day and all. I thought you’d be busy for hours and hours yet. And why are you and Jazz talking like that? Are you guys okay? I hope nothing’s wrong, ‘cause its kind of weird, if you know what I mean, and I didn’t even know you knew all that about…”
“Bluestreak.” Prowl cut through his ramble, voice quiet but firm. “Thank you, but Jazz and I are perfectly well.”
“Ah. Right.” Bluestreak was still giving them a strange look “Well, I guess… I guess I ought to go get some energon.”
“Sounds like an idea, Blue,” Jazz agreed easily, not taking his eyes off Optimus Prime. Their leader slumped in his chair, his expression surprised, his posture defeated.
The three of them were silent for several second as Bluestreak backed off. It wasn’t until the young gunner turned away that Prowl allowed his door-wings to droop low against his back.
“The virus.” It wasn’t a question. Prime nodded a confirmation anyway.
“Is Blue the only one?” Jazz asked, feeling sick to the base of his tanks. “The only one t’ remember us?”
Optimus gazed at them with a painfully sincere pity, and not an ounce of recognition. “Ratchet is working as hard as he can on finding a solution, but our memories...? Changes are difficult… dangerous.” He vented a sigh. “Ratchet tells me it could take… a while.”
“A while as in days?” Jazz demanded, voice sharp. “Months? Years?”
Prime shifted in his seat, unable to answer the question. “Ratchet didn’t want you to feel you lacked support. I… I didn’t want you to feel in any way unwelcome.”
“Even though both those things are, on some level at least, true?” Prowl asked, his voice and faceplates devoid of expression.
Prime could only give them a helpless look. At least he did them the courtesy of not trying to deny it.
“We’ll find a way through this.”
Lying on his back, staring at the glow his visor cast on the ceiling of their darkened quarters, Jazz wondered who Prowl was trying to convince. He dimmed his visor, concentrating on the soft whir of his mate’s systems.
“Don’t go tellin’ me this’ll be okay, Prowler. Ya can’t tell me you’d be happy droppin’ a pair of senior officers into an established unit at the best’a times.”
Prowl sighed, his arm slipping around Jazz, pulling the stiff form against his side. “I wouldn’t be happy doing it to a unit that had been together a single vorn, let alone so long a time, and in such intense circumstance, as this one.”
The admission was strangely comforting. At least Jazz wasn’t alone in facing the problem.
“As far as the mechs aboard the Ark are concerned, they have been in a stable, even prosperous position for almost two years, with a close-knit team and no memory of our involvement. They can see no reason why the Ark would not continue to function without us.”
“I’d like t’ see them try gettin’ along without ya there to lay down th’ duty rosters.”
“They have managed to do so for much of the last month.”
Jazz snorted, amused to be discussing inanities rather than the bigger picture. “Ya left them schedules for the firs’ three weeks, and after two of them everyone got ill anyway. The way Blue tells it, half th’ shifts didn’t get covered, anyone well enough double-shifted off their own back-plates and neither Red nor Ratchet recharged for an orn.”
Prowl chuckled, the sound vibrating through his body and into Jazz’s. The saboteur took a moment to revel in the sensation and then sighed, reactivating his optics, before returning to their problem with a tentative whisper.
“Ratch will find a way t’ reverse the virus anyway, right? Sooner or later?”
“Indeed.” Prowl’s answer was about as confident as Jazz’s initial question.
Ratchet scowl had carried a mixture of guilt and frustration when they sought him out with the questions he’d avoided for more than a week. Neither mech allowed that to stop them getting answers. They just weren’t the ones either Jazz or Prowl had hoped for.
Turning the virus back on the Decepticons had involved straightforward firewall coding - basic, and well understood. Ratchet hadn’t risked touching the memory algorithms that piggybacked it. Despite his hard work since Bluestreak’s revelations, and the intense research effort from the Ark’s science team, the medic was reluctant to do so now.
Jazz couldn’t blame him. He vented a sigh, one hand reaching out to trail a finger down Prowl’s nearest doorwing. Starscream might be a slagger, but he was a competent scientist. Even with as much time as he needed to perfect his virus, the Seeker had limited it to a very specific criterion - any mention of Prowl and Jazz. Already that had skirted within a short step of catastrophe. Deleting any more from a processor could have left enough inconsistencies in the infected mech’s core programming to cause shutdowns, insanity, total personality breakdowns. Memory wasn’t a distinct and isolated system. It was integral to every system, written in their sparks and in their frames, part of how their processors interacted with the world. The knock-on effects of losing even so little were disconcerting and unsettling for half the Autobots aboard. Worse than that, cross-talk between personal and system memory had most likely been to blame for at least some of the physical symptoms the Ark crew had experienced.
Modifying Starscream’s code without understanding it risked worsening the effect, creating gaps in a memory cortex large enough to destabilise the whole system, spawning still more corrupt and mutated viruses along the way. No wonder Ratchet was nervous. Dealing with a mech’s processor was a precision task at the best of times. This was far from that.
“Maybe… maybe he shouldn’t try.” Jazz felt Prowl stiffen beside him, surprised and shocked at his suggestion. “Primus, Prowler, what if Ratch gets it wrong? What if…” Jazz’s voice trailed off in a shudder, and Prowl leaned down, nuzzling his sensory horns.
“I trust Ratchet. I trust Wheeljack.” Prowl’s soft voice carried total conviction. “I trust them to do their best for us. And I trust them not to risk the crew doing it.”
“Yeah.” As always, Prowl was the voice of reason, stating a truth than Jazz couldn’t argue with. The saboteur leaned into his mate’s touch, drawing as much comfort from Prowl’s quiet words as from the contact.
Doubtless, given enough time, Ratchet would find a cure - nerve-wracking as the process might be, neither mech questioned that. No, the question was whether it would come tomorrow, an orn from now, or vorns later. Even Ratch wasn’t sure the solution would be found in time to be anything but an academic feat.
“It could be worse,” Prowl tried after a few moments of silence between them. “Even if they don’t know us, we have intimate knowledge of every mech aboard. That should allow us to open a dialogue…”
Any other time and Jazz would have teased his lover for his technically correct but ambiguous language. He half-suspected Prowl of giving him the opening deliberately. Right now he couldn’t summon so much as a smile.
“Prowler… how would ya feel if a stranger walked up to ya - a mech you’ve never seen b’fore in your life - and started spoutin’ intimate knowledge ‘bout you?” He let loose a mirthless laugh. “No wonder the crew’re lookin’ at us like we’re one o’ Wheeljack’s booms-in-waitin’. They don’t know what we know, and they don’t know - they can’t really know - if they c’n trust us. There’s not a mech aboard who doesn’t have secrets they wanta keep. I’ve prob’ly already traumatised Cliffjumper for life by knowin’ about his secret Santana fetish.”
There was a moment of silence before Prowl spoke. “Really… Santana?”
This time Jazz’s attempt to laugh broke off into a sob. He felt Prowl’s arm tighten around him and shifted to lay his head on his mate’s chest-plate. “They were our friends, Prowl! More than that - family! I’d have trusted any mech on this crew with my life. More than that, I’d’ve trusted them with yours!”
“They’re still the mechs they always were.”
Jazz shook his head, not in denial but in despair. “The mechs they always were: soldiers, survivors, fiercely loyal, fiercely defensive o’ their own. But kinda more so. These last two years here on Earth - they’ve changed all o’ us, Prowl. They made this crew into somethin’ special, and we were a part o’ that. And now we’re not.” He shuddered, curling into his mate’s side. “They’ll fight wi’ us, sure, if they hafta, but it’ll take vorns ‘til they’re ready t’ let us guard their backs. And, ya know what scares me, Prowl? It’s knowin’ that in the heat’a battle, with a spark-beat t’ make the decision and no time for hesitatin’, you’d give ya life for any one of them. And there’s not a mech in the lotta them who can say the same for you.”