Yellow Ribbon - Chapter 9 of 11
Apologies for posting late... LJ wouldn't let me in this morning!
Smokescreen - New World
Autobot Smokescreen: Reboot in progress... 70% complete... 80%... 90%...
The numbers scrolled past Smokescreen's heads-up display, accompanied by a vague sense of bemusement as the Autobot's sluggish processor gradually climbed out of stasis.
Processor reboot complete.
Updating alt-mode configuration options.
Uploading specifications, alt mode class designation: Datson.
Initiating motor controls... 20%...30%...
The information messages were coming faster now. Smokescreen leaned back in the stasis rack, content to leave his still-booting motor controls alone as the fog faded slowly from his mind. He had more than enough to worry about without testing stiff limbs and forcing unwilling joints. It was all his long-dormant processors could do to keep up with the data stream from Teletraan I.
Operational Status Update:
Primary Mission - goal: search for new energon resources
Primary Mission - status: suspended
Primary Mission - total duration: 5.24 orns
Primary Mission - reason for suspension: Decepticon attack/crash landing
Current location of Ark: Planetary surface/crash site - designation: Earth
Current crew complement: 32 active, 46 stasis-locked
Time elapsed since suspension of Primary Mission: 4.8 x 10^4 vorn
Smokescreen blinked, only realising as he did so that his optics had come online. He hadn't hesitated to sign up for the Ark's auxiliary crew, even knowing that he'd spend most of the journey in stasis rather than straining the Autobots' already inadequate energon reserves. There'd been no question that his unique blend of skills would be needed sooner or later. He'd expected to spend a few decaorns in medical stasis, maybe half a vorn at the outside. But... almost fifty kilovorn? The mere thought was enough to send him reeling, distracting him to the point where he scarcely managed to process the endless stream of Earth-native language, cultural and scientific referents that Teletraan I provided. He translated the timespan to local units on a whim, wondering if it would make any more sense that way. Fifty thousand vorn - more than four million orbits of this planet around its primary. Nope, the number was still beyond belief.
Time elapsed since reanimation of Primary Crew: 1.89 Earth years
Secondary Mission - goal: counter Decepticon aggression/protect Earth natives
Secondary Mission - allies: designation ‘humans’ (Earth natives, alliance status: tentative)
Secondary Mission - status: ongoing
That seemed to be the gist of things, and it was certainly more than enough to be going on with. Smokescreen blinked his way past the HUD, setting a flag for any information tagged as 'critical' and archiving the rest for perusal later. For the moment he was far more interested in the red and blue blur above him, and in persuading his uncooperative optics to focus on it.
"Prime!" His greeting was accompanied by a whir and a click, dropping half an octave in tone as his vocalisor recalibrated. He grinned, a little embarrassed to have his leader witness his reboot, but confident enough in Prime's presence to laugh at himself rather than attempt a futile apology. "Optimus, it's good to see you."
"Smokescreen." Prime's voice was a deep rumble that Smokescreen felt vibrate through his frame. It was a voice he'd followed across Cybertron, into battle and finally into the unforgiving depths of space. And right now it was warm and rich with understanding. "It is most welcome to have you active once again."
A slight movement, a shift in the shadows beyond Prime, resolved itself into a flash of black and white - no, into two slender frames. Standing a little to one side, out of Smokescreen's immediate line of sight, Jazz had just taken half a step towards Prowl, his shoulder brushing the tactician's left door-wing, their complementary colour schemes almost letting them fade into the dimly lit background. Only their optics made them stand out, Prowl's deep blue already fixed on Smokescreen, Jazz's visor jerking up in the same direction as he spoke, neither of them looking towards Optimus Prime.
"Prowl!" Smokescreen's post-stasis warmth had faded a little as he wondered what to say to Optimus - whether to ask after his leader’s health, thank him for being there or simply commiserate. Four million years, Decepticon assaults and only seventy-eight crew accounted for? If those were the highlights, neither Smokescreen's tactical processor nor the trained psychologist in him looked forward to the details. Now though, the diversionary tactician felt his cheek-plates pull up into a smile of genuine delight for his immediate commander and fellow Praxian, one that he was more than happy to share with an old friend and fellow card-player. "Jazz! How are you guys?"
Taking an awkward step forward, out of the stasis rack, Smokescreen shrugged his newly reconfigured sensory panels and tilted his head, taking in the body language of the three mechs in front of him. Prime backed off a little, giving Smokescreen room, but increasing the gap to his second and third, putting the newly-roused mech between himself and his two lieutenants. Prowl inclined his own head in greeting and edged forward, the movement both welcoming and oddly hesitant. Jazz moved with him, giving Smokescreen a lopsided grin, but close by his mate's side at all times.
Smokescreen gave a rueful shake of his head, working to hide his growing frown.
"So, are you two bonded yet, or still keeping everyone guessing?" It was a stab in the dark - a boldness Smokescreen only risked because he could blame post-stasis confusion for the indiscretion and because Jazz at least was aware of the high-stakes book Smokescreen kept on the answer. A recent bond might explain Jazz and Prowl's unusual closeness, and maybe even Prime's apparent distance and discomfort around the two of them. He wasn't expecting Prime to give the three of them a sad smile, backing up another step, the shudder of - what was that emotion? - that ran through the two black-and-white mechs, or the way they drew almost imperceptibly closer together.
Jazz managed a very-nearly-genuine snort of laughter. "Guess," he deadpanned.
Prime wasn't nearly as good at making his chuckle sound natural. "I'll leave you three to get reacquainted. Smokescreen, you should take this evening to find your feet and catch up with your crewmates. Report to Prowl and Ratchet for briefing in the morning."
Smokescreen blinked at his leader's retreating back-plates, and carefully filed the brusque instructions with a dozen other small clues, still working to build the full picture. He already had a guess at where he might find more pieces. He turned back to Jazz and Prowl, intrigued and a little concerned to catch a frustrated, almost angry, expression on Prowl’s faceplates before his superior rebuilt his stoic mask. Smokescreen summoned up a smile, flicking his stiff door-wings again and giving a full-body shudder to loosen some of the seized servos.
"Well, apparently it's been getting on for a megavorn since I re-energized, and I have to say, I'm feeling every orn of it. Rec Room?"
Prowl hesitated before nodding, not looking terribly keen at the prospect. More surprisingly, Jazz shrugged, as if he too held no particular enthusiasm for their destination.
"Rec Room," he agreed, leading the way to the door.
Smokescreen leaned back in his chair, angling himself to ease the pressure on his door-wings and humming under his breath. An evening in the Ark’s common room had been… informative, probably more so than any of the mechs there appreciated.
The room had actually been empty when they’d arrived, midway through the afternoon shift. Jazz and Prowl had claimed a wall-table for their own, both saboteur and tactician apparently content to spend their time talking about Cybertron memories and bringing Smokescreen up to speed on some of the more complex aspects of Earth culture. They steered clear of the current military situation and recent events, Prime’s instructions to relax in mind. There’d be time to discuss tactics tomorrow. For now Smokescreen was just glad to see his two friends relaxing somewhat. And more than a little worried to notice their renewed tension as the room filled up.
At first he’d missed it, distracted by the familiar mechs and the strangeness of his own situation. Picking up old friendships after two years, four million and no time at all from the point of view of his comrades, the Universe as a whole and Smokescreen himself required a bit of give and take, adjusting to shifts in the crew dynamics and providing context for anecdotes. Smokescreen’s easy charm and well-honed people skills smoothed the few awkward moments, and it was only breems before he was joking and laughing with the rest.
It wasn’t until he’d looked around after a lengthy chat with Hound and Trailbreaker that he realised Prowl and Jazz had slipped out of the room. And it was only then that he registered what he’d seen all along. While Smokescreen’s presence had been met with glad cries and as warm a welcome as he could ask for, not a single voice had called out a greeting to their second and third in command - not too far out of the ordinary for Prowl perhaps, but thoroughly baffling where Jazz was concerned. The few glances thrown in their direction seemed to hold more confusion and wariness than warmth. Ironhide had spared the two of them a nod when he came over to exchange a few words with Smokescreen. Mirage paused by their table long enough to drop an awkward comment about the weather of all things. Everyone else… Smokescreen had been called over to group after group, and hadn’t hesitated to go, but whenever he’d drifted back to that small table by the wall, he’d done so strictly alone.
The volume of chatter notched up a step with the two officers gone, an almost unnoticed tension ebbing from the crew. As much as Smokescreen wanted to attribute that to Prowl’s somewhat forbidding reputation, that was a reaction he’d expect from raw recruits, not from a crew that had lived with the mech long enough to see past his stuffy mask. And there was just no explanation at all for the sudden lull that accompanied Jazz’s solo return a decabreem or so later.
The mech’s hesitation in the doorway would pass unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know him well. Jazz’s dimly-lit visor swept the room, his shoulders rising and falling slightly as his vents cycled. The expression on Jazz’s face was carefully pleasant, only a certain set to his jaw and the rigidity in his frame betraying an anger Smokescreen was starting to recognise, but still struggling to understand.
The saboteur took his time crossing the room to the energon dispenser, lingering there and glancing around again as if wondering which of the many groups to join. Smokescreen raised a hand, the gesture faltering as he realised the mini-bots around him were quite deliberately not looking at their third in command. Jazz threw a sickly smile in Smokescreen’s direction, a wave of one hand dismissing the invitation with a mixture of thanks and understanding. Mirage and Bumblebee shifted in their seats, glancing at the empty places at their table and then exchanging tentative looks, their silent debate rendered irrelevant when Jazz glanced up toward the door and turned back to prepare a second energon cube.
Prowl’s hesitation before entering the Rec Room was more obvious. He paused for a long moment before stalking in, door-wings defiantly high, only to reach that same, isolated side table at the same moment as his partner. The contact - servo to door-wing, optics to visor - between them was brief enough even Smokescreen almost missed it. The tension that had Prowl’s door-wings quivering where they drooped behind him and Jazz shifting restlessly in his seat, visor sweeping the room, seemed to go entirely unnoticed as the buzz of conversation redoubled.
A large part of Smokescreen, the part that ached with concern for his friends, was just about ready to quit this game and ask what the Pit was going on. The rest, tactician and psychologist alike, kept insisting that the more unbiased evidence he gathered, the more his judgement remained uninfluenced by others, the better. Leaning back in his chair, letting Gears ramble on in some long and convoluted rant about Earth weather, Smokescreen tilted his door-wings forward and turned to watch with interest as Bluestreak entered, damp air steaming from off his patrol-warmed engine. The younger Praxian didn’t notice his reanimated compatriot sitting near the video screen. Blue’s optics scanned his crewmates, doorwings flaring in what Smokey was intrigued to recognise as frustrated anger. It faded as the gunner caught sight of the officers, and Smokescreen couldn’t help venting a sigh of relief to note that while Prowl’s young protégé was clearly worried, upset even, he didn’t share anything like the crew’s general ambivalence towards them.
The sudden tension that streamed off Jazz’s body as Bluestreak came up fast, circling the densest knot of tables to approach from behind him, was almost painful to watch. Only Prowl’s hand, reaching across the table to take Jazz’s arm, kept the Special Ops mech in his seat.
“Oh, Primus.” Smokescreen’s vents stalled mid cycle. Even a lifetime of training couldn’t keep the soft exclamation of dismay off his tongue.
In a flash, Jazz’s unaccustomed restlessness reshaped itself in Smokescreen’s processor. Jazz wasn’t just uncomfortable, or burning up an excess of energy. His constant shifting was a direct response to the ebb and flow of mechs in the rest of the Rec Room, his movements keeping his surroundings under constant surveillance, his body poised to meet any assault, and his path to the Rec Room door firmly visualised.
Consciously or otherwise, Jazz’s well-tuned and deadly instincts were registering the situation here not just as awkward or hurtful, but potentially hostile. Despite his stoic mask, the constant twitching of Prowl’s sensory panels told that same story for anyone who could read it.
In the heart of the only Autobot base on Earth, surrounded by mechs they’d worked with and come to call friends through hundreds of kilovorns of lethal battles, Optimus Prime’s second and third in command were uncertain of their own safety and each others’.
“Smokey?” Windcharger leaned forward a little, peering past Gears and interrupting his string of grumpy complaints.
Smokescreen stood, the servos in his legs whining just a little as they reminded him how long it had been since his last oil bath. “Later, guys, okay? I want to catch up with young Blue for a bit.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, striding across the room to Prowl and Jazz’s table, careful to approach along Jazz’s line of sight. A twitch of his door-wings, an old Praxian greeting, drew an automatic response from both Prowl and Bluestreak, and a brief, amused smile from Jazz. It was a start. Smokescreen grinned through Bluestreak’s rambled greeting, reaching out to snag an extra chair and pull it up. Bluestreak shuffled to one side, making space, and Smokescreen positioned himself carefully, his erect door-wings and Blue’s shielding their monochrome friends from most of the room.
Conversations with Blue were usually pretty easy. Even now, the loquacious young mech filled the silence neatly, rambling his way through a dozen Earth anecdotes and quizzing Smokescreen about the experience of stasis in laborious detail. It took time, but eventually Prowl, and finally Jazz too, relaxed enough to join the exchange, throwing in the occasional comment or wry observation. It was perhaps a couple of decabreem - a little under three Earth hours - before Smokescreen took a chance on pulling a pack of gaming cards from his subspace, raising his voice.
“Hey, Bee? Raj? How about joining us for a few hands?”
He reckoned it was a fifty-fifty bet that the two Special Ops mechs would wave off the invitation. He’d give two to one on that the officers would break up the party themselves, calling it a night rather than facing their curiously hesitant former friends. It was a long, long moment before Mirage and Bumblebee stood, pulling their chairs out to bring with them. It was still longer before Jazz relaxed his clenched fists, and Prowl’s door-wings eased down from high alert. Smokescreen could only hope his relief was a little less obvious than Bluestreak’s as he shuffled the cards and pulled his best poker-face into place.
“Alright, gentlemechs. Let’s get down to business.”
The Ark’s corridors were quiet, dimmed to respect the nocturnal phase of this world’s rotational period. Even so, the light spilling from Medbay came as small surprise.
Most of the Ark’s science team had been conspicuous by their absence since Smokescreen onlined. Ratchet, visibly tired, had stopped by the Rec Room precisely once during the evening, filling a couple of cubes on apparent autopilot. He’d paused only long enough to run a cursory scan over Smokescreen and throw Jazz and Prowl a puzzled, frustrated glance, before heading out again, a cube in each hand. Now, deep in the night, the medic was hunched in front of a computer terminal, cursing quietly as he studied streams of what looked like viral code. By his elbow, an untouched energon cube bore mute testimony to the intensity of his concentration. The second lay, empty, beside Wheeljack, consumed before the engineer slipped into recharge with his helm resting on folded arms.
For a few moments, Smokescreen paused on the threshold of Ratchet’s domain to weigh up his options. He might answer to Prowl on a daily basis, exercising his training in processor-analysis to confuse and mislead the Decepticons, but those same skills put him firmly on Ratchet’s staff when he needed to be. Right now he was unquestionably needed. He looked at his superior and considered all he’d seen. As much as he wanted to just tell the medic to get some rest, he knew from long experience that nothing would shift Ratch when he was chasing a problem this bad.
Besides, Smokescreen’s body was still buzzing with post-stasis restlessness. Even without the whole situation in the Rec Room, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. As it was… well, he had been ordered to report for briefing ‘in the morning’, and his chronometer informed him it was well past local midnight. Close enough.
“Hey, Doc.”
“Smokescreen.” Ratchet blinked blearily up at him, then blinked again, actually registering the mech. With a brusque gesture, Smokescreen was waved to a medical berth, scans running almost before he climbed up. “Any after-effects of stasis? Sensor defects? Error reports?”
“Nope.” Smokescreen shook his head, tolerating the examination before letting the smile slip from his face, and the frown he’d hidden through long hours in the Rec Room show. Ratchet saw it and stepped back from his monitors. The medic was too tired to put energy into witty banter. He vented hard and then raised an eyebrow, folding his arms and just waiting.
Smokescreen echoed his sigh, lying back on the med-berth and folding his arms behind his head.
“So…” he started matter-of-factly, “Prowl and Jazz are well on their way to total meltdown, Prime’s got less confidence in them than I’ve ever seen from him, Blue’s going to wear out his vocalisor, not to mention his nerves, and the rest of the crew are walking on eggshells and looking at our second and third in command like they’re something the turbo-puppy dragged in off the street. Or maybe like they expect them to snap… ‘go postal’ as these humans put it.” He shuddered, unsettled by how much frustration and anger he’d seen underlying his friends’ pain. “They might have a point. How am I doing so far, Doc?”
Ratchet stared at him, optics bright and unreadable. “Jazz and Prowl are that bad?”
The vague concern was that of any medic for a patient, Ratchet’s enquiry lacking the intensity and emotion that Smokescreen would expect from him for these patients in particular. It was the faint note of surprise, though, that had Smokescreen pushing up on his elbows. His optics dilated as they focussed, taking in Ratchet’s pensive and slightly guilty expression.
“You’ve known that pair longer than I’ve been sparked and you have to ask me? Okay, Ratch, that’s enough. What the slagging Pit is going on?”
Ratchet told him.
“Enter.”
Prowl’s response to his office door chime was even in tone, to all appearances perfectly calm and controlled. His expression matched the voice. Even his door-wings were held in a neutral poise, politely assertive without being aggressive.
“Smokescreen.”
“Heya, Smokey!”
Jazz, slouched in the chair beside his mate’s desk, looking casual. He put down the datapad he’d been reading and sketched a vague wave, head nodding along to the music that drifted softly from his thigh speakers.
Stepping through the door, his own door-wings held wide and friendly, Smokescreen tried not to look like he was evaluating them. Based on what he knew about these two, he was pretty sure he failed. They were almost certainly learning a lot more from him than he was from them. Last night they’d been demoralised, frustrated and not particularly interested in hiding it. Today they were being a good deal more assertive.
Contrary as it might seem, Smokescreen was glad the pair of them were so slagging much harder to read this morning. Even if it was just a reaction to his presence, to the threat of being analysed, it suggested they were at least making an effort to find themselves somewhere amidst the chaos. After all Ratchet had told him about what they’d been through, he’d half expected to walk in on a mental implosion, not a quiet, casual session of office work.
Of course, after their quarters this was probably the place on the Ark they felt most secure. It was telling that Jazz was working in here, not in his own, perfectly functional office a mere two doors away, and that neither officer was assigned a shift on the command deck for the foreseeable future. Unless the pair of them actually decided to open up a little though, that might be all Smokescreen would get told today.
Fortunately, he had another pretext for being here. He waved a hand in something that might just be interpreted as a salute.
“Autobot Diversionary Tactician Smokescreen, reporting for briefing as ordered.”
Jazz raised a cynical brow-ridge, Prowl merely nodded.
“I take it Ratchet has already briefed you on the events of the last few orns?” The senior tactician didn’t give Smokescreen a chance to answer, or to shift the conversation towards more personal areas, moving on as if the question was purely rhetorical. “Very well then, to place that information in the larger context…”
Three hours later, he spared a thought for regret that he hadn’t just bit the bullet and asked Jazz and Prowl how they were feeling. Prowl’s briefing regarding their human allies, the strengths and weaknesses of the Autobots and the number, identities and skills of the Decepticons on Earth was nothing if not exhaustive. Jazz chipped in from time to time, adding emphasis to some of the more emotive issues that Prowl noted but didn’t expand upon beyond their tactical impact. Most of the briefing was in general terms, giving Smokescreen a tactical overview of the situation ‘before recent events’.
It wasn’t until well past noon that Prowl shifted to more sensitive areas.
“The Decepticons are currently experiencing the same viral infection that reduced the Ark’s efficiency by more than seventy-nine percent during an initial four day period and continues to have a twelve percent impact on operations and crew alertness some four weeks later. However, while the Autobots have been content to avoid confrontation during that period unless forced, I’d have to project that within the next seven to ten days, as the infection eases, physical discomfort is more likely to translate to aggression amongst Decepticons - particularly amongst the Seekers who were least severely affected. Megatron is likely to take advantage of that to act upon his own anger and seek to draw the Autobots into confrontation. By now he will inevitably have been informed of the circumstances surrounding the capture and rescue of Jazz and I, and will rightly consider this a violation of his processor and an insult against his power. It is not in his nature to leave such unavenged.”
Smokescreen nodded, huffing a breath of air out through his vents. It didn’t take a genius - or a psychologist - to realise that Megatron had to be furious beyond measure, and an angry Megatron was a terrifying one.
Prowl’s door-wings twitched, vibrating slightly as a subtle tension crept over him.
“I calculate an eight percent probability that Starscream has been permanently deactivated - either from Jazz’s efforts, or from Megatron’s punishment in the wake of our escape. However, there is a better than forty percent chance that Starscream’s vocal criticism of Megatron and rebellious behaviour will show a notable increase over the next few months, and that the resulting disciplinary issues and discord between the Seeker and non-Seeker populations will impact negatively on Decepticon efficiency as regards both energy raids and long term projects.”
The senior tactician’s voice remained level, but his body language was anything but neutral now. Smokescreen blinked at his superior, trying to put that last point in the context of the background Jazz and Prowl had provided and failing. It looked like he wasn’t the only one. Jazz had gone from slouching in his chair to sitting upright, a slight frown creasing his brow above the visor as he studied his mate.
“Why would Starscream turn rebellious all of a sudden?” Smokescreen asked blankly.
“Starscream has always been rebellious. I am merely predicting an escalation in his established behaviour.”
“Question still stands, Prowler.” It was the first time in a while that Jazz had spoken. He leaned forward in his chair, expression intent. “Why?”
The twitching of Prowl’s wings had gone from a subtle tremor to an outright flinch. He didn’t meet Jazz’s visor, looking down at his notes. “It became clear to me during our captivity that Starscream is still significantly conflicted regarding his role in the early stages of the war, and that he was in considerable discomfort at being forced to face that conflict after a lengthy period of denial. The experience is likely to have a lingering effect on his thought processes.”
Jazz tilted his head one side, one hand twitching in Prowl’s direction before he remembered their company and suppressed the reaction. Smokescreen wasn’t so good at hiding his discomfort. According to Ratchet, Starscream had effectively shredded Prowl’s door-wings, coming within moments of killing him outright. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what lay behind such spark-deep hatred, or the dull blankness that reached all the way to Prowl’s optics when he thought about it.
As troubling as that was, Smokescreen was well accustomed to his immediate superior being something of a mystery to him. One thing here bothered him far more.
“You two haven’t talked about what happened?” Smokescreen leaned forward and frowned at them both. “Not even to each other?”
Jazz darted a glance in his direction that was at the same time annoyed and resigned. He shrugged.
“We’re talkin’. There’s just a lot t’talk about. Pretty sure this hasn’t come up.”
Prowl’s expression, if anything, became colder. The look he gave his mate was far from encouraging.
“And there’s no need for it to do so now. Smokescreen, I appreciate that your psychology training is often an asset when it comes to planning diversions, but I expect you to leave personal matters until you’re off-duty… unless ordered otherwise.”
That last was a concession, an acknowledgement that his authority over Smokescreen wasn’t absolute and that both Prime and Ratchet were capable of giving Smokescreen other orders. And most likely already had.
“I believe that covers the majority of recent developments. Now are you clear on the tactical situation? You’ll need to summarise it for Prime, of course…”
This time is was Smokescreen who reacted with overt surprise, his door-wings flicking out and downwards. “Wait… you’ve not told Prime all this?”
“Most of it has been in my briefings, and Jazz’s. However, I suspect that Prime will seek confirmation once you’ve had time to review the situation, and there is no doubt the information will have more impact coming from an individual he knows and trusts.”
The statement was far too matter-of-fact.
Smokescreen shifted in his seat, door-wings twitching. “Prowl…”
“We’re not blind, Smokey,” Jazz cut him off bluntly, slumping back in his chair and not even trying to hide his frustration.
“I am well aware that Prime does not precisely dis-trust my recommendations, Smokescreen.” Prowl’s voice was softer, but the echo of his mate’s irritation was clear. “However, his sudden decision to reactivate the crew’s auxiliary tactician to ‘help me out’ is not the strongest endorsement I have ever received.”
The lingering resentment and anger he was picking up from both officers was unsurprising, but it cut deep to see even a part of it directed towards the Autobots and their Prime rather than the Decepticons to blame for this whole mess. Smokescreen sighed, not even trying to pretend the situation was a good one.
“I take it you weren’t consulted?”
Jazz snorted. “Mech, we didn’t even know where we were going yesterday until Optimus led us into the stasis bay to rouse you.”
Prowl rubbed tiredly at the base of his scarlet chevron. “Smokescreen, it’s pointless to pretend that we do not understand that you have two roles here. Jazz and I are grateful for your support. Last night, in the Rec Room, was… pleasant. The crew will welcome your presence, and I’m sure Bluestreak also appreciates your company. The strain of being our liaison to the Autobots aboard has noticeably affected him. We are only sorry to be the cause of such tension aboard the Ark. Anything you can do to minimise the effect of this awkwardness on the crew’s efficiency will be welcome and I will do all I can to facilitate any suggestions you might have to offer. However, do not assume that I will tolerate laxness in your tactical duties, nor that either of us intends to shirk our own roles - insofar as they remain practicable. We are well aware of our duty to the Autobots on this crew. We have not forgotten.”
The tactician held Smokescreen’s surprised gaze for a long second. Then he broke the optic-to-optic contact, looking down at his datapad and hitching his wings in a clear dismissal. Jazz took a few moments longer to look away, letting Smokescreen see his agreement and determination to do his best for the friends who no longer remembered him, despite the awkwardness.
Frowning, Smokescreen considered commenting and then thought better of it, standing and letting himself out of the room. He smoothed the frown away as he walked into the Rec Room, intending to grab a quick cube before getting back to work. Instead he ended up drawn into conversation, first with one group and then with another. Too many old friends wanted to know all about his long meeting with the arrogant, stuck-in-the-mud tactician and his dangerous, mysterious, saboteur lover.
“It’s not that Jazz isn’t likeable.” Smokescreen wasn’t even sure who said it, it might have been Wheeljack or Ironhide or any of half a dozen others. “It’s that you just get talking to him, start getting to know him, and then he mentions something he thinks you did together, or something you’d swear he couldn’t know, or you just look up and see the way Bumblebee and the twins look at him like he’s dangerous just sitting there, and you remember that everything you’re telling him, he already knows. That it’s all built on a lie.”
That was the phrase that came up most often - ‘living a lie’, as if Prowl and Jazz could help that they still held a lifetime of memories and knowledge others would rather they forgot.
He left the room after far longer than he intended, his processor already working hard on a tactical analysis for Prime, a medical one for Ratchet, the first inklings of a plan to distract the crew, and another, far more careful, approach for reintegrating Jazz and Prowl.
He knew he didn’t have a lot of time. Already there was a barrier of rumour-driven suspicion, broken trust and mutual frustration growing up between the crew and their second and third. Even without taking Prowl’s projections for imminent Decepticon attacks into account, he’d have to work fast to stop the situation souring still farther. Seeing Prowl and Jazz for the dangerous mechs they were through the eyes of strangers was unsettling, all the more so when he was talking to friends - both of him and of their officers - who’d been on the command crew for hundreds of vorns.
And through it all he couldn’t help wondering whether Prowl realised that as many times as he’d mentioned ‘the Autobots’ during their hours-long briefing, he’d never once included himself in their number.
Smokescreen - New World
Autobot Smokescreen: Reboot in progress... 70% complete... 80%... 90%...
The numbers scrolled past Smokescreen's heads-up display, accompanied by a vague sense of bemusement as the Autobot's sluggish processor gradually climbed out of stasis.
Processor reboot complete.
Updating alt-mode configuration options.
Uploading specifications, alt mode class designation: Datson.
Initiating motor controls... 20%...30%...
The information messages were coming faster now. Smokescreen leaned back in the stasis rack, content to leave his still-booting motor controls alone as the fog faded slowly from his mind. He had more than enough to worry about without testing stiff limbs and forcing unwilling joints. It was all his long-dormant processors could do to keep up with the data stream from Teletraan I.
Operational Status Update:
Primary Mission - goal: search for new energon resources
Primary Mission - status: suspended
Primary Mission - total duration: 5.24 orns
Primary Mission - reason for suspension: Decepticon attack/crash landing
Current location of Ark: Planetary surface/crash site - designation: Earth
Current crew complement: 32 active, 46 stasis-locked
Time elapsed since suspension of Primary Mission: 4.8 x 10^4 vorn
Smokescreen blinked, only realising as he did so that his optics had come online. He hadn't hesitated to sign up for the Ark's auxiliary crew, even knowing that he'd spend most of the journey in stasis rather than straining the Autobots' already inadequate energon reserves. There'd been no question that his unique blend of skills would be needed sooner or later. He'd expected to spend a few decaorns in medical stasis, maybe half a vorn at the outside. But... almost fifty kilovorn? The mere thought was enough to send him reeling, distracting him to the point where he scarcely managed to process the endless stream of Earth-native language, cultural and scientific referents that Teletraan I provided. He translated the timespan to local units on a whim, wondering if it would make any more sense that way. Fifty thousand vorn - more than four million orbits of this planet around its primary. Nope, the number was still beyond belief.
Time elapsed since reanimation of Primary Crew: 1.89 Earth years
Secondary Mission - goal: counter Decepticon aggression/protect Earth natives
Secondary Mission - allies: designation ‘humans’ (Earth natives, alliance status: tentative)
Secondary Mission - status: ongoing
That seemed to be the gist of things, and it was certainly more than enough to be going on with. Smokescreen blinked his way past the HUD, setting a flag for any information tagged as 'critical' and archiving the rest for perusal later. For the moment he was far more interested in the red and blue blur above him, and in persuading his uncooperative optics to focus on it.
"Prime!" His greeting was accompanied by a whir and a click, dropping half an octave in tone as his vocalisor recalibrated. He grinned, a little embarrassed to have his leader witness his reboot, but confident enough in Prime's presence to laugh at himself rather than attempt a futile apology. "Optimus, it's good to see you."
"Smokescreen." Prime's voice was a deep rumble that Smokescreen felt vibrate through his frame. It was a voice he'd followed across Cybertron, into battle and finally into the unforgiving depths of space. And right now it was warm and rich with understanding. "It is most welcome to have you active once again."
A slight movement, a shift in the shadows beyond Prime, resolved itself into a flash of black and white - no, into two slender frames. Standing a little to one side, out of Smokescreen's immediate line of sight, Jazz had just taken half a step towards Prowl, his shoulder brushing the tactician's left door-wing, their complementary colour schemes almost letting them fade into the dimly lit background. Only their optics made them stand out, Prowl's deep blue already fixed on Smokescreen, Jazz's visor jerking up in the same direction as he spoke, neither of them looking towards Optimus Prime.
"Prowl!" Smokescreen's post-stasis warmth had faded a little as he wondered what to say to Optimus - whether to ask after his leader’s health, thank him for being there or simply commiserate. Four million years, Decepticon assaults and only seventy-eight crew accounted for? If those were the highlights, neither Smokescreen's tactical processor nor the trained psychologist in him looked forward to the details. Now though, the diversionary tactician felt his cheek-plates pull up into a smile of genuine delight for his immediate commander and fellow Praxian, one that he was more than happy to share with an old friend and fellow card-player. "Jazz! How are you guys?"
Taking an awkward step forward, out of the stasis rack, Smokescreen shrugged his newly reconfigured sensory panels and tilted his head, taking in the body language of the three mechs in front of him. Prime backed off a little, giving Smokescreen room, but increasing the gap to his second and third, putting the newly-roused mech between himself and his two lieutenants. Prowl inclined his own head in greeting and edged forward, the movement both welcoming and oddly hesitant. Jazz moved with him, giving Smokescreen a lopsided grin, but close by his mate's side at all times.
Smokescreen gave a rueful shake of his head, working to hide his growing frown.
"So, are you two bonded yet, or still keeping everyone guessing?" It was a stab in the dark - a boldness Smokescreen only risked because he could blame post-stasis confusion for the indiscretion and because Jazz at least was aware of the high-stakes book Smokescreen kept on the answer. A recent bond might explain Jazz and Prowl's unusual closeness, and maybe even Prime's apparent distance and discomfort around the two of them. He wasn't expecting Prime to give the three of them a sad smile, backing up another step, the shudder of - what was that emotion? - that ran through the two black-and-white mechs, or the way they drew almost imperceptibly closer together.
Jazz managed a very-nearly-genuine snort of laughter. "Guess," he deadpanned.
Prime wasn't nearly as good at making his chuckle sound natural. "I'll leave you three to get reacquainted. Smokescreen, you should take this evening to find your feet and catch up with your crewmates. Report to Prowl and Ratchet for briefing in the morning."
Smokescreen blinked at his leader's retreating back-plates, and carefully filed the brusque instructions with a dozen other small clues, still working to build the full picture. He already had a guess at where he might find more pieces. He turned back to Jazz and Prowl, intrigued and a little concerned to catch a frustrated, almost angry, expression on Prowl’s faceplates before his superior rebuilt his stoic mask. Smokescreen summoned up a smile, flicking his stiff door-wings again and giving a full-body shudder to loosen some of the seized servos.
"Well, apparently it's been getting on for a megavorn since I re-energized, and I have to say, I'm feeling every orn of it. Rec Room?"
Prowl hesitated before nodding, not looking terribly keen at the prospect. More surprisingly, Jazz shrugged, as if he too held no particular enthusiasm for their destination.
"Rec Room," he agreed, leading the way to the door.
Smokescreen leaned back in his chair, angling himself to ease the pressure on his door-wings and humming under his breath. An evening in the Ark’s common room had been… informative, probably more so than any of the mechs there appreciated.
The room had actually been empty when they’d arrived, midway through the afternoon shift. Jazz and Prowl had claimed a wall-table for their own, both saboteur and tactician apparently content to spend their time talking about Cybertron memories and bringing Smokescreen up to speed on some of the more complex aspects of Earth culture. They steered clear of the current military situation and recent events, Prime’s instructions to relax in mind. There’d be time to discuss tactics tomorrow. For now Smokescreen was just glad to see his two friends relaxing somewhat. And more than a little worried to notice their renewed tension as the room filled up.
At first he’d missed it, distracted by the familiar mechs and the strangeness of his own situation. Picking up old friendships after two years, four million and no time at all from the point of view of his comrades, the Universe as a whole and Smokescreen himself required a bit of give and take, adjusting to shifts in the crew dynamics and providing context for anecdotes. Smokescreen’s easy charm and well-honed people skills smoothed the few awkward moments, and it was only breems before he was joking and laughing with the rest.
It wasn’t until he’d looked around after a lengthy chat with Hound and Trailbreaker that he realised Prowl and Jazz had slipped out of the room. And it was only then that he registered what he’d seen all along. While Smokescreen’s presence had been met with glad cries and as warm a welcome as he could ask for, not a single voice had called out a greeting to their second and third in command - not too far out of the ordinary for Prowl perhaps, but thoroughly baffling where Jazz was concerned. The few glances thrown in their direction seemed to hold more confusion and wariness than warmth. Ironhide had spared the two of them a nod when he came over to exchange a few words with Smokescreen. Mirage paused by their table long enough to drop an awkward comment about the weather of all things. Everyone else… Smokescreen had been called over to group after group, and hadn’t hesitated to go, but whenever he’d drifted back to that small table by the wall, he’d done so strictly alone.
The volume of chatter notched up a step with the two officers gone, an almost unnoticed tension ebbing from the crew. As much as Smokescreen wanted to attribute that to Prowl’s somewhat forbidding reputation, that was a reaction he’d expect from raw recruits, not from a crew that had lived with the mech long enough to see past his stuffy mask. And there was just no explanation at all for the sudden lull that accompanied Jazz’s solo return a decabreem or so later.
The mech’s hesitation in the doorway would pass unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know him well. Jazz’s dimly-lit visor swept the room, his shoulders rising and falling slightly as his vents cycled. The expression on Jazz’s face was carefully pleasant, only a certain set to his jaw and the rigidity in his frame betraying an anger Smokescreen was starting to recognise, but still struggling to understand.
The saboteur took his time crossing the room to the energon dispenser, lingering there and glancing around again as if wondering which of the many groups to join. Smokescreen raised a hand, the gesture faltering as he realised the mini-bots around him were quite deliberately not looking at their third in command. Jazz threw a sickly smile in Smokescreen’s direction, a wave of one hand dismissing the invitation with a mixture of thanks and understanding. Mirage and Bumblebee shifted in their seats, glancing at the empty places at their table and then exchanging tentative looks, their silent debate rendered irrelevant when Jazz glanced up toward the door and turned back to prepare a second energon cube.
Prowl’s hesitation before entering the Rec Room was more obvious. He paused for a long moment before stalking in, door-wings defiantly high, only to reach that same, isolated side table at the same moment as his partner. The contact - servo to door-wing, optics to visor - between them was brief enough even Smokescreen almost missed it. The tension that had Prowl’s door-wings quivering where they drooped behind him and Jazz shifting restlessly in his seat, visor sweeping the room, seemed to go entirely unnoticed as the buzz of conversation redoubled.
A large part of Smokescreen, the part that ached with concern for his friends, was just about ready to quit this game and ask what the Pit was going on. The rest, tactician and psychologist alike, kept insisting that the more unbiased evidence he gathered, the more his judgement remained uninfluenced by others, the better. Leaning back in his chair, letting Gears ramble on in some long and convoluted rant about Earth weather, Smokescreen tilted his door-wings forward and turned to watch with interest as Bluestreak entered, damp air steaming from off his patrol-warmed engine. The younger Praxian didn’t notice his reanimated compatriot sitting near the video screen. Blue’s optics scanned his crewmates, doorwings flaring in what Smokey was intrigued to recognise as frustrated anger. It faded as the gunner caught sight of the officers, and Smokescreen couldn’t help venting a sigh of relief to note that while Prowl’s young protégé was clearly worried, upset even, he didn’t share anything like the crew’s general ambivalence towards them.
The sudden tension that streamed off Jazz’s body as Bluestreak came up fast, circling the densest knot of tables to approach from behind him, was almost painful to watch. Only Prowl’s hand, reaching across the table to take Jazz’s arm, kept the Special Ops mech in his seat.
“Oh, Primus.” Smokescreen’s vents stalled mid cycle. Even a lifetime of training couldn’t keep the soft exclamation of dismay off his tongue.
In a flash, Jazz’s unaccustomed restlessness reshaped itself in Smokescreen’s processor. Jazz wasn’t just uncomfortable, or burning up an excess of energy. His constant shifting was a direct response to the ebb and flow of mechs in the rest of the Rec Room, his movements keeping his surroundings under constant surveillance, his body poised to meet any assault, and his path to the Rec Room door firmly visualised.
Consciously or otherwise, Jazz’s well-tuned and deadly instincts were registering the situation here not just as awkward or hurtful, but potentially hostile. Despite his stoic mask, the constant twitching of Prowl’s sensory panels told that same story for anyone who could read it.
In the heart of the only Autobot base on Earth, surrounded by mechs they’d worked with and come to call friends through hundreds of kilovorns of lethal battles, Optimus Prime’s second and third in command were uncertain of their own safety and each others’.
“Smokey?” Windcharger leaned forward a little, peering past Gears and interrupting his string of grumpy complaints.
Smokescreen stood, the servos in his legs whining just a little as they reminded him how long it had been since his last oil bath. “Later, guys, okay? I want to catch up with young Blue for a bit.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, striding across the room to Prowl and Jazz’s table, careful to approach along Jazz’s line of sight. A twitch of his door-wings, an old Praxian greeting, drew an automatic response from both Prowl and Bluestreak, and a brief, amused smile from Jazz. It was a start. Smokescreen grinned through Bluestreak’s rambled greeting, reaching out to snag an extra chair and pull it up. Bluestreak shuffled to one side, making space, and Smokescreen positioned himself carefully, his erect door-wings and Blue’s shielding their monochrome friends from most of the room.
Conversations with Blue were usually pretty easy. Even now, the loquacious young mech filled the silence neatly, rambling his way through a dozen Earth anecdotes and quizzing Smokescreen about the experience of stasis in laborious detail. It took time, but eventually Prowl, and finally Jazz too, relaxed enough to join the exchange, throwing in the occasional comment or wry observation. It was perhaps a couple of decabreem - a little under three Earth hours - before Smokescreen took a chance on pulling a pack of gaming cards from his subspace, raising his voice.
“Hey, Bee? Raj? How about joining us for a few hands?”
He reckoned it was a fifty-fifty bet that the two Special Ops mechs would wave off the invitation. He’d give two to one on that the officers would break up the party themselves, calling it a night rather than facing their curiously hesitant former friends. It was a long, long moment before Mirage and Bumblebee stood, pulling their chairs out to bring with them. It was still longer before Jazz relaxed his clenched fists, and Prowl’s door-wings eased down from high alert. Smokescreen could only hope his relief was a little less obvious than Bluestreak’s as he shuffled the cards and pulled his best poker-face into place.
“Alright, gentlemechs. Let’s get down to business.”
The Ark’s corridors were quiet, dimmed to respect the nocturnal phase of this world’s rotational period. Even so, the light spilling from Medbay came as small surprise.
Most of the Ark’s science team had been conspicuous by their absence since Smokescreen onlined. Ratchet, visibly tired, had stopped by the Rec Room precisely once during the evening, filling a couple of cubes on apparent autopilot. He’d paused only long enough to run a cursory scan over Smokescreen and throw Jazz and Prowl a puzzled, frustrated glance, before heading out again, a cube in each hand. Now, deep in the night, the medic was hunched in front of a computer terminal, cursing quietly as he studied streams of what looked like viral code. By his elbow, an untouched energon cube bore mute testimony to the intensity of his concentration. The second lay, empty, beside Wheeljack, consumed before the engineer slipped into recharge with his helm resting on folded arms.
For a few moments, Smokescreen paused on the threshold of Ratchet’s domain to weigh up his options. He might answer to Prowl on a daily basis, exercising his training in processor-analysis to confuse and mislead the Decepticons, but those same skills put him firmly on Ratchet’s staff when he needed to be. Right now he was unquestionably needed. He looked at his superior and considered all he’d seen. As much as he wanted to just tell the medic to get some rest, he knew from long experience that nothing would shift Ratch when he was chasing a problem this bad.
Besides, Smokescreen’s body was still buzzing with post-stasis restlessness. Even without the whole situation in the Rec Room, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. As it was… well, he had been ordered to report for briefing ‘in the morning’, and his chronometer informed him it was well past local midnight. Close enough.
“Hey, Doc.”
“Smokescreen.” Ratchet blinked blearily up at him, then blinked again, actually registering the mech. With a brusque gesture, Smokescreen was waved to a medical berth, scans running almost before he climbed up. “Any after-effects of stasis? Sensor defects? Error reports?”
“Nope.” Smokescreen shook his head, tolerating the examination before letting the smile slip from his face, and the frown he’d hidden through long hours in the Rec Room show. Ratchet saw it and stepped back from his monitors. The medic was too tired to put energy into witty banter. He vented hard and then raised an eyebrow, folding his arms and just waiting.
Smokescreen echoed his sigh, lying back on the med-berth and folding his arms behind his head.
“So…” he started matter-of-factly, “Prowl and Jazz are well on their way to total meltdown, Prime’s got less confidence in them than I’ve ever seen from him, Blue’s going to wear out his vocalisor, not to mention his nerves, and the rest of the crew are walking on eggshells and looking at our second and third in command like they’re something the turbo-puppy dragged in off the street. Or maybe like they expect them to snap… ‘go postal’ as these humans put it.” He shuddered, unsettled by how much frustration and anger he’d seen underlying his friends’ pain. “They might have a point. How am I doing so far, Doc?”
Ratchet stared at him, optics bright and unreadable. “Jazz and Prowl are that bad?”
The vague concern was that of any medic for a patient, Ratchet’s enquiry lacking the intensity and emotion that Smokescreen would expect from him for these patients in particular. It was the faint note of surprise, though, that had Smokescreen pushing up on his elbows. His optics dilated as they focussed, taking in Ratchet’s pensive and slightly guilty expression.
“You’ve known that pair longer than I’ve been sparked and you have to ask me? Okay, Ratch, that’s enough. What the slagging Pit is going on?”
Ratchet told him.
“Enter.”
Prowl’s response to his office door chime was even in tone, to all appearances perfectly calm and controlled. His expression matched the voice. Even his door-wings were held in a neutral poise, politely assertive without being aggressive.
“Smokescreen.”
“Heya, Smokey!”
Jazz, slouched in the chair beside his mate’s desk, looking casual. He put down the datapad he’d been reading and sketched a vague wave, head nodding along to the music that drifted softly from his thigh speakers.
Stepping through the door, his own door-wings held wide and friendly, Smokescreen tried not to look like he was evaluating them. Based on what he knew about these two, he was pretty sure he failed. They were almost certainly learning a lot more from him than he was from them. Last night they’d been demoralised, frustrated and not particularly interested in hiding it. Today they were being a good deal more assertive.
Contrary as it might seem, Smokescreen was glad the pair of them were so slagging much harder to read this morning. Even if it was just a reaction to his presence, to the threat of being analysed, it suggested they were at least making an effort to find themselves somewhere amidst the chaos. After all Ratchet had told him about what they’d been through, he’d half expected to walk in on a mental implosion, not a quiet, casual session of office work.
Of course, after their quarters this was probably the place on the Ark they felt most secure. It was telling that Jazz was working in here, not in his own, perfectly functional office a mere two doors away, and that neither officer was assigned a shift on the command deck for the foreseeable future. Unless the pair of them actually decided to open up a little though, that might be all Smokescreen would get told today.
Fortunately, he had another pretext for being here. He waved a hand in something that might just be interpreted as a salute.
“Autobot Diversionary Tactician Smokescreen, reporting for briefing as ordered.”
Jazz raised a cynical brow-ridge, Prowl merely nodded.
“I take it Ratchet has already briefed you on the events of the last few orns?” The senior tactician didn’t give Smokescreen a chance to answer, or to shift the conversation towards more personal areas, moving on as if the question was purely rhetorical. “Very well then, to place that information in the larger context…”
Three hours later, he spared a thought for regret that he hadn’t just bit the bullet and asked Jazz and Prowl how they were feeling. Prowl’s briefing regarding their human allies, the strengths and weaknesses of the Autobots and the number, identities and skills of the Decepticons on Earth was nothing if not exhaustive. Jazz chipped in from time to time, adding emphasis to some of the more emotive issues that Prowl noted but didn’t expand upon beyond their tactical impact. Most of the briefing was in general terms, giving Smokescreen a tactical overview of the situation ‘before recent events’.
It wasn’t until well past noon that Prowl shifted to more sensitive areas.
“The Decepticons are currently experiencing the same viral infection that reduced the Ark’s efficiency by more than seventy-nine percent during an initial four day period and continues to have a twelve percent impact on operations and crew alertness some four weeks later. However, while the Autobots have been content to avoid confrontation during that period unless forced, I’d have to project that within the next seven to ten days, as the infection eases, physical discomfort is more likely to translate to aggression amongst Decepticons - particularly amongst the Seekers who were least severely affected. Megatron is likely to take advantage of that to act upon his own anger and seek to draw the Autobots into confrontation. By now he will inevitably have been informed of the circumstances surrounding the capture and rescue of Jazz and I, and will rightly consider this a violation of his processor and an insult against his power. It is not in his nature to leave such unavenged.”
Smokescreen nodded, huffing a breath of air out through his vents. It didn’t take a genius - or a psychologist - to realise that Megatron had to be furious beyond measure, and an angry Megatron was a terrifying one.
Prowl’s door-wings twitched, vibrating slightly as a subtle tension crept over him.
“I calculate an eight percent probability that Starscream has been permanently deactivated - either from Jazz’s efforts, or from Megatron’s punishment in the wake of our escape. However, there is a better than forty percent chance that Starscream’s vocal criticism of Megatron and rebellious behaviour will show a notable increase over the next few months, and that the resulting disciplinary issues and discord between the Seeker and non-Seeker populations will impact negatively on Decepticon efficiency as regards both energy raids and long term projects.”
The senior tactician’s voice remained level, but his body language was anything but neutral now. Smokescreen blinked at his superior, trying to put that last point in the context of the background Jazz and Prowl had provided and failing. It looked like he wasn’t the only one. Jazz had gone from slouching in his chair to sitting upright, a slight frown creasing his brow above the visor as he studied his mate.
“Why would Starscream turn rebellious all of a sudden?” Smokescreen asked blankly.
“Starscream has always been rebellious. I am merely predicting an escalation in his established behaviour.”
“Question still stands, Prowler.” It was the first time in a while that Jazz had spoken. He leaned forward in his chair, expression intent. “Why?”
The twitching of Prowl’s wings had gone from a subtle tremor to an outright flinch. He didn’t meet Jazz’s visor, looking down at his notes. “It became clear to me during our captivity that Starscream is still significantly conflicted regarding his role in the early stages of the war, and that he was in considerable discomfort at being forced to face that conflict after a lengthy period of denial. The experience is likely to have a lingering effect on his thought processes.”
Jazz tilted his head one side, one hand twitching in Prowl’s direction before he remembered their company and suppressed the reaction. Smokescreen wasn’t so good at hiding his discomfort. According to Ratchet, Starscream had effectively shredded Prowl’s door-wings, coming within moments of killing him outright. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what lay behind such spark-deep hatred, or the dull blankness that reached all the way to Prowl’s optics when he thought about it.
As troubling as that was, Smokescreen was well accustomed to his immediate superior being something of a mystery to him. One thing here bothered him far more.
“You two haven’t talked about what happened?” Smokescreen leaned forward and frowned at them both. “Not even to each other?”
Jazz darted a glance in his direction that was at the same time annoyed and resigned. He shrugged.
“We’re talkin’. There’s just a lot t’talk about. Pretty sure this hasn’t come up.”
Prowl’s expression, if anything, became colder. The look he gave his mate was far from encouraging.
“And there’s no need for it to do so now. Smokescreen, I appreciate that your psychology training is often an asset when it comes to planning diversions, but I expect you to leave personal matters until you’re off-duty… unless ordered otherwise.”
That last was a concession, an acknowledgement that his authority over Smokescreen wasn’t absolute and that both Prime and Ratchet were capable of giving Smokescreen other orders. And most likely already had.
“I believe that covers the majority of recent developments. Now are you clear on the tactical situation? You’ll need to summarise it for Prime, of course…”
This time is was Smokescreen who reacted with overt surprise, his door-wings flicking out and downwards. “Wait… you’ve not told Prime all this?”
“Most of it has been in my briefings, and Jazz’s. However, I suspect that Prime will seek confirmation once you’ve had time to review the situation, and there is no doubt the information will have more impact coming from an individual he knows and trusts.”
The statement was far too matter-of-fact.
Smokescreen shifted in his seat, door-wings twitching. “Prowl…”
“We’re not blind, Smokey,” Jazz cut him off bluntly, slumping back in his chair and not even trying to hide his frustration.
“I am well aware that Prime does not precisely dis-trust my recommendations, Smokescreen.” Prowl’s voice was softer, but the echo of his mate’s irritation was clear. “However, his sudden decision to reactivate the crew’s auxiliary tactician to ‘help me out’ is not the strongest endorsement I have ever received.”
The lingering resentment and anger he was picking up from both officers was unsurprising, but it cut deep to see even a part of it directed towards the Autobots and their Prime rather than the Decepticons to blame for this whole mess. Smokescreen sighed, not even trying to pretend the situation was a good one.
“I take it you weren’t consulted?”
Jazz snorted. “Mech, we didn’t even know where we were going yesterday until Optimus led us into the stasis bay to rouse you.”
Prowl rubbed tiredly at the base of his scarlet chevron. “Smokescreen, it’s pointless to pretend that we do not understand that you have two roles here. Jazz and I are grateful for your support. Last night, in the Rec Room, was… pleasant. The crew will welcome your presence, and I’m sure Bluestreak also appreciates your company. The strain of being our liaison to the Autobots aboard has noticeably affected him. We are only sorry to be the cause of such tension aboard the Ark. Anything you can do to minimise the effect of this awkwardness on the crew’s efficiency will be welcome and I will do all I can to facilitate any suggestions you might have to offer. However, do not assume that I will tolerate laxness in your tactical duties, nor that either of us intends to shirk our own roles - insofar as they remain practicable. We are well aware of our duty to the Autobots on this crew. We have not forgotten.”
The tactician held Smokescreen’s surprised gaze for a long second. Then he broke the optic-to-optic contact, looking down at his datapad and hitching his wings in a clear dismissal. Jazz took a few moments longer to look away, letting Smokescreen see his agreement and determination to do his best for the friends who no longer remembered him, despite the awkwardness.
Frowning, Smokescreen considered commenting and then thought better of it, standing and letting himself out of the room. He smoothed the frown away as he walked into the Rec Room, intending to grab a quick cube before getting back to work. Instead he ended up drawn into conversation, first with one group and then with another. Too many old friends wanted to know all about his long meeting with the arrogant, stuck-in-the-mud tactician and his dangerous, mysterious, saboteur lover.
“It’s not that Jazz isn’t likeable.” Smokescreen wasn’t even sure who said it, it might have been Wheeljack or Ironhide or any of half a dozen others. “It’s that you just get talking to him, start getting to know him, and then he mentions something he thinks you did together, or something you’d swear he couldn’t know, or you just look up and see the way Bumblebee and the twins look at him like he’s dangerous just sitting there, and you remember that everything you’re telling him, he already knows. That it’s all built on a lie.”
That was the phrase that came up most often - ‘living a lie’, as if Prowl and Jazz could help that they still held a lifetime of memories and knowledge others would rather they forgot.
He left the room after far longer than he intended, his processor already working hard on a tactical analysis for Prime, a medical one for Ratchet, the first inklings of a plan to distract the crew, and another, far more careful, approach for reintegrating Jazz and Prowl.
He knew he didn’t have a lot of time. Already there was a barrier of rumour-driven suspicion, broken trust and mutual frustration growing up between the crew and their second and third. Even without taking Prowl’s projections for imminent Decepticon attacks into account, he’d have to work fast to stop the situation souring still farther. Seeing Prowl and Jazz for the dangerous mechs they were through the eyes of strangers was unsettling, all the more so when he was talking to friends - both of him and of their officers - who’d been on the command crew for hundreds of vorns.
And through it all he couldn’t help wondering whether Prowl realised that as many times as he’d mentioned ‘the Autobots’ during their hours-long briefing, he’d never once included himself in their number.