Never Give Up - Part 2 of 12
Chapter 2 (See Chapter 1 for headers)
"Prime! What in th' Pit is goin' on?" Ironhide waited outside the hatch of the Ark, a broad swathe of disturbed earth marking the limits of his restless pacing. The elder mech was armed, his expressive face creased in a worried frown. He crossed his arms as Optimus slowed, a silent Ratchet close on the truck's tailgate. "Ah've got Blaster on monitor duty, but ah can't get a peep out o' Prowl - or Jazz either fer that matter."
"Ironhide…" The last of his senior officers… his third in command now, although the mech couldn't know that. Prime shuddered, painfully aware of the cold frame in his trailer. Ratchet carried Prowl, the tactician needing the medic's care where their saboteur did not. "No… not here."
He braked to a halt despite his statement, watching Ironhide's frown deepen as Ratchet passed them without a word and Optimus himself failed to transform. The old soldier folded his arms across his bumper. His familiar drawl came over Prime's com, recognising the need for discretion even if not understanding it. "Where's Prowl? He di'nt sound too good."
"Prowl's safe." Prime whispered the words over the com, not trusting his vocaliser, not able to give voice to the other side of the equation. "Tell Blaster to recall the patrols… Bumblebee, Blue… anyone else who's out. No one else leaves the Ark. I'll address the crew when everyone's gathered." News would spread fast when it leaked, and no one should be alone for this. His crew would learn the truth together- as much of it as he could bear to tell - but Prime couldn't make Ironhide wait the hours a full recall would take. He rolled back into motion, trusting his lieutenant to pass on the order despite the other mech's confused expression. "Come with me."
The doors to Ratchet's repair bay slid open without ceremony, the vast room wide enough to take a transformed mech of Prime's size between the unoccupied berths. Prime disengaged his trailer with a sigh, concentrating hard to leave it unaffected as he resumed his root mode. Ironhide had locked the medbay doors in the few klicks it took Prime to omit the extra mass from his transformation sequence. The older mech took one look at the Prime's masked faceplates and his already wary expression became hard. His optics slid to the sealed trailer in grim anticipation.
"What happened, Prime?"
There was no putting it off, and no softening the blow. The trailer opened on Prime's signal. Its sides folded down in a ripple of noise and motion, the vibrant, living sound a painful contrast to the empty shell it revealed. Ironhide's vents stalled and restarted, harsh and angry. The mech stood rigid, optics bright with shock, power whining through his weapons systems.
"Jazz." The designation fell from Ironhide's lips in something that was part curse, part plea and part pained moan. Optimus watched in silence as the old weapons mech stepped forward, gathering the grey form in his arms with the same pointless gentleness Prime himself had shown minutes before.
Ironhide lifted the smaller frame onto a berth. His servos ghosted over the dark visor and then moved lower, to hover over the blast damage on Jazz's torso. His fist clenched and Ironhide spun on the spot, striking out at the metal berth beside Jazz's with a cry of rage.
"Who did this? Let me at 'em, Prime." His fist struck again, this time against the palm of his other hand. "When ah'm done there won't even be enough to smelt! Ah swear…"
A faint susurration from the door stopped his tirade in full flow. Both mechs turned, alarmed, before relaxing. Ratchet slipped into the room before the door was more than half open, sealing it behind him with the same medical overrides he'd used to get in. The medic looked weary; his shock mirrored Ironhide's and Prime's own. He ran a hand over tired faceplates, and when he spoke his expression and tone were bleak.
"I broke the logic loops and put him in a forced recharge for a couple of joors. He's in his quarters, with Teletraan keeping an eye on him. I want to be there when he wakes - it's going to take an expert to stop him looping again and it'll be easier when he's fully charged. But I think he'll be alright… physically."
"Prowl?" Ironhide demanded, looking from one mech to the other.
Ratchet's nod was scarcely necessary. "There were memory engrams so tangled I had to cut right through them just to get him to power down. The mech was already running a dozen tactical scenarios in parallel when he went looking for Jazz. When he found him… the cognitive dissonance sent his logic core into a near-total meltdown. His processor couldn't cope with what he was seeing." Ratchet paused, both voice and shoulders heavy. His optics slid past Ironhide to the berth behind him, and a thin keen escaped the medic's vocaliser. "I can't blame it."
"He saw who did this? What did he say? Who…?"
"Ironhide." Prime spoke aloud for the first time since their return, his voice soft. "Jazz offlined by his own hand."
He might as well have struck the warrior. Ironhide stared at him, poleaxed, his own logic processor refusing the input and demanding more data.
"That's what it looks like." Ratchet was too drained for emotion, his voice and expression blank. "Several hours before Prowl found him, judging by the blast decay."
Anger was gathering on Ironhide's faceplates now, mingled with blank disbelief. There was nothing for it. Optimus shielded and encrypted his signal, dialling down his transmitter to the minimum possible range, before sending Ironhide the image that would haunt all three of them to their final vorn.
Ironhide's knees buckled and he gripped the berth behind him hard enough to leave dents. He blinked away the sight of the blaster beneath Jazz's limp servo, and the point-blank wound that could only be self-inflicted. His helm shook from side to side, trying to refuse the evidence of Prime's optics. "No…"
"He was Special Ops…"
...Pre-selected for atypical personality types, exposed to more trauma than any normal mech could take, and trained to suppress and hide their reactions. Optimus didn't have to finish the thought aloud. The Prime vented slowly and evenly, concentrating on the control his mechs both needed and expected from him. Even so, he sank onto a med-berth, shoulders slumped as he stared down at his servos.
"It happened more than you think." Ratchet spoke in a low tone, voice sombre. "Some medics reckoned sixty percent of Ops losses in the field were not unintentional. Tactical knew it too. Every new Decepticon offensive had Ops tagged 'at risk'. The lulls before them left our mechs too much time to process what their servos had done, and what they'd have to do again. When they had to face it…" Ratchet's keen broke through again and he coughed to clear his vents, struggling for control. "I thought our three were coping with this phoney war we've stumbled into. Bumblebee's diverted his attention to Spike. Jazz… Jazz seemed to be enjoying these humans' culture." The medic barked a short, mirthless laugh. "I thought it was Mirage I needed to watch."
Optimus Prime knew nothing would ever relieve his own guilt. He made the effort to relieve Ratchet's nonetheless.
"We all missed this, even Prowl. Jazz… did not readily share his pain."
"Ah don't care," Ironhide grated. He glared at Optimus and Ratchet both, his optics bright with denial. "Ah don't care what Jazz was. Ah don't care what yer think yer saw. This ain't what it looks like."
The red mech scowled around the room. Optimus's optics and Ratchet's slid away from meeting his gaze.
"I wish I could believe that, old friend."
"Jazz wouldn't do this to himself. He wouldn't do it to us." Ironhide folded his arms, a firm nod underlining his words as if that could make them true. "And yer know what makes this worth about as much as a load of the Unmaker's cast-off circuits? Ah've known the mech half the length of this slaggin' war, Prime. Ah've seen bad times as well as good, and ah ain't gonna pretend Jazz was all sunshine and petrobunnies."
He grimaced, expression gathering into a deep frown.
"But if there's one thing ah'm slaggin' sure of, it's that the mech would stand in front of Unicron himself and throw static in his face rather than do this to Prowl."
"Hey 'Bee." Sideswipe eased into place beside the yellow scout, careful to keep his hail casual and friendly.
That didn't stop Bumblebee giving him a sharp look that pretty much confirmed Sideswipe's suspicions about the young spy's mood. He'd seen the mech's frown from across the crowded monitor room. At first, he'd assumed it was simple irritation with being recalled on his off-shift. It was only as the wait went on that he started to wonder if 'Bee might be more unsettled than annoyed.
"Hey Sides. Sunstreaker not around?" Bee's frown vanished behind a carefree grin and his left optic winked on and off.
"He's lurking over there..." Sides chuckled, nodding across the room to his sulking twin and taking comfort in the familiar question.
He suspected - and would have something to say to the mech if he ever found proof - that it was Jazz who first pointed out that Sideswipe and 'Bee could often be seen together, or Sunny and Sides, but never than the three hanging out at once. At first the jokes about Sides finding a cuddlier substitute for his Sunshine had worried him. Even he hadn't been certain why Sunny went out of his way to avoid Bumblebee, and the last thing he needed was a jealous twin. Then a thoughtful 'Bee had cornered Sunstreaker for the conversation everyone else avoided. Sides had found 'Bee laughing in a mixture of relief and understanding.
It was pure fluke that the only minibot Sideswipe had any time for was very nearly the same yellow as his brother. That 'very nearly' explained pretty much everything about why Sideswipe's vain twin wasn't interested in being seen anywhere near 'Bee in public.
Now Sideswipe raised his optics to the ceiling and gave a theatrical vent as he finished the thought. "...Looking for 'bots he doesn't clash with."
Bumblebee's chuckles echoed his own. The smaller mech stretched a little, the better to see over the crowd, and the chuckle faded. Bumblebee's frown returned, just for a few klicks, as he watched Sunstreaker quiz Blaster in a low voice. He turned back to find Sideswipe studying him.
"Here to interrogate me too, Sides?"
Sideswipe shrugged. "Nah, we figure Prime's not told the junior officers anything. Blaster's not got a clue why we're here, and Wheeljack's more interested in fiddling with something that he probably shouldn't in a room this full. Red Alert's not been on shift since yesterday, and I'm pretty sure he's going to glitch if he's not allowed back to his monitors soon. And if they haven't been told, you're probably as much in the dark as the rest of us cannon-fodder too."
Bumblebee looked around the room, his optics flicking across the mechs Sideswipe had named as if confirming the red mech's analysis. Most of Sides' crewmates forgot that the sheer lunacy of his pranks were balanced by an eye for detail, and a sharp mind for planning and execution. The young Ops mech knew him too well for that. 'Bee hummed, neither denying or confirming the speculation, and folded his arms across his bumper. At first, Sideswipe thought that was all the response he'd get.
That was disappointing. Bumblebee could be a fun mech to be around, his playful side all the more obvious now he spent so much time with the human youngling, but he was Ops, after all. And he was worried.
"Optimus asked Spike to go to the humans' room," the mech volunteered. "He said something about calling Sparkplug to take him home."
Sideswipe whistled under his breath. "So something NSFH?" He grinned at the baffled look 'Bee send his way. "Not suitable for humans," he clarified. "Must be pretty big, considering the messes Prime's let Spike get himself into."
"Yeah," Bumblebee agreed. "I thought it was odd."
"Odd doesn't really cut it." Sideswipe's grin faded. "'Cause ya see, it's been almost a joor since Blaster called the patrols in, half a joor since folks decided the command deck was the place to hang out, and an hour since Prime told everyone to be here. By now we should have Jazz around to keep folks from getting restless," he rolled his optics, "or at least to amuse himself spreading unlikely rumours. We should have Prowl doing a headcount, and stopping Cliffjumper from riling up Mirage."
Bumblebee winced, glancing over at the pair and the circle of interested spectators gathering around them. The minibot looked uncertain for a few moments, wondering if his rank as junior lieutenant meant he should intervene, given the unusual lack of senior officers. Blaster seemed to read his processor, leaving Sunstreaker and ambling over to see what he could do before things got out of hand.
Bumblebee shrugged, leaning back against a handy stalagmite and giving Sideswipe a sidelong look.
"I honestly don't know," he admitted, freed up to speculate by his own total ignorance. "Optimus and Prowl were looking for Jazz this morning. Maybe he finally heard something about the 'Cons?"
It was a theory that made about as much sense as any Sideswipe had heard, and more than most. A quick check with Sunstreaker suggested Blaster couldn't add much to Bee's speculation - only that Jazz had been out of touch for a while halfway through first watch, and that the Ark's senior officers had been acting strangely just about as long.
"Autobots."
Prime's voice wasn't loud. If anything it was softer than normal. Even so, the grave tone cut through the rising conversation. Every mech fell silent. Every optic turned towards the sound, Bumblebee's and Sideswipe's amongst them.
Prime stood framed by the hatch that led deeper into the ship, Ironhide in his shadow. Sideswipe watched with a frown as they moved towards Teletraan's terminal, the crowd parting in front of them. The significant lack of Prime's second and third in command concerned him; what kind of new intel required both the Chief Tactical Officer's and Head of Special Operations' full attention? Even setting that worrisome question aside, Ratchet's continued absence was just plain confusing.
Prime stood facing Teletraan-1 for a long moment before turning. His shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep vent, but his faceplates were impassive as he raised a hand to still a wave of questions. His first words only confirmed what half the mechs watching him were starting to suspect.
"Autobots, I have something… difficult to tell you." Optimus paused, and Sideswipe wished he was better at reading his Prime's optics. With the battlemask in place, those dim blue glows were all the clues he had. They couldn't prepare him for what was coming. "I am deeply sorry to inform you that our Third in Command and Head of Special Operations, Jazz, has returned to the Matrix."
Shock froze Sideswipe's limbs and silenced his vocaliser. Others in the crowd shared his reaction, standing like statues amidst the rising chaos. Between them, voices cried out, some in denial, others in a keening wail and still others in anger. Sideswipe couldn't process the input. None of this made sense. It couldn't possibly be real.
But Optimus Prime stood, tall and blank-faced, in front of Teletraan-1, and their Prime had never lied to them. He never would lie, not about this. Not about a loss that could tear them all apart. Ironhide moved to the Prime's side, and the expression on the old warrior's face banished the last of Sideswipe's desperate disbelief. Ironhide was grim, cold, every inch the professional soldier, and his fists were clenched tightly enough to damage their servos.
"I understand that this has come as a shock to us all." Optimus spoke over the grief-stricken chorus, and the waver in his voice - slight, but there to be heard - lent his words the ring of truth. The large mech paused before going on in an even, matter-of-fact tone.
"The next three duty shifts will be staffed on a voluntary basis." Sideswipe let the arrangements sweep past him. He couldn't think of working right now, wasn't even rational enough to crave the oblivion of high grade. There'd be some who'd head that way, others who needed the comfort of routine to handle their grief. "Those wishing to participate should report to - " Prime half-turned towards Ironhide and then paused, giving his security director a long look as the entire room heard Red Alert's com ping. Finally, Prime nodded. " - should report to Red Alert for assignment. Autobots, I am truly sorry. Jazz's loss lessens every spark amongst us. Until all are one."
The tall mech bowed his helm, and the room fell silent, every Autobot following their Prime's example. Beside Sideswipe, Bumblebee trembled, the mech's optics bright with shock and his vents coming in ragged pants. Sideswipe took a step towards his smaller friend, servos raised to touch his shoulder, before he remembered Bumblebee's seldom-displayed Ops training and thought better than to startle him.
The thought brought him circling back to Jazz and there was no hiding the whine that spilled from his vocaliser. Prime looked in his direction and past him to 'Bee, compassion in his optics, before murmuring 'dismissed' almost too softly to hear.
Sideswipe let his helm drop into his servos, shutting out the world. He couldn't shut out the roiling emotions that swept out from his own spark. His helm rose, almost against his will, his optics already locked on his twin brother from across the room.
Sunstreaker stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. If the way the Autobots near him edged away was any indication, even they could see the waves of sheer, ice-cold fury that roiled off the mech. Sunstreaker's faceplates were harsh with anger, no room on them for grief or dismay.
"Is that it?"
A few mechs had started to drift towards the doors. Sunstreaker's furious demand stopped them in their tracks. Prime turned towards the front-liner with apparent calm, one hand spread behind him to still Ironhide's response to such aggression.
"Sunstreaker."
"Is that it?" Sunny repeated. "Jazz is gone. Take a day off. That's all." He shook his helm, stalking forward until he stood within Prime's reach. "Like frag that's all! What the Pit happened, Prime? How… when… who… why?!"
"Sunstreaker." This time Prime put a stern note in his voice. "I know you have questions. Everyone here has." The powerful engine rumbled, and Sideswipe was sure he'd never heard his Prime so weary. Shaking himself, the red front-liner pushed through the crowd, not sure whether he planned to restrain his brother or back his protest. Prime gave them both a grave look. "I am asking you to trust that I'm telling you all I can at this time. When we have a fuller understanding of events - "
Sunstreaker scowled, looking around the room. His blue optics flashed bright, the mech too angry to see reason. "This isn't Cybertron. We're not just going to nod and go on and convince ourselves it's just war. This crew… We have a right to know, Prime. Where's Ratchet? Where's Prowl?"
There was no ignoring the angry growl of Ironhide's engine, and not even Prime's warning look could still his new third officer.
"If you bother the mech right now, ah swear…"
"Enough!"
Silence fell, and this time Sideswipe reached out to take Sunny's arm. The limb vibrated in his grip and he could feel Sunstreaker's grief-fuelled anger still burning, but not even the front-liner would challenge a Prime who sounded like that.
"Enough," Prime repeated, only a fraction less vehemently. "Sunstreaker, Sideswipe… all of you. As I was trying to say: you will be informed when we have concrete facts to share. Wild speculation is both dangerous and discourteous, and I will not tolerate such disrespect to the memory of a mech I will never stop grieving." He shook his helm. "Officers are under orders not to discuss this situation. To that end, the repair bay, senior officers' quarters and command corridor will be off-limits with immediate effect. Any mech found speculating without foundation, pressing for additional information, or causing undue disruption will be confined to the brig."
For several seconds, no one dared move. Sideswipe's grip on his brother's arm was tight enough now to dent the plating, but Sunstreaker didn't react. He stood, frozen, his optics locked with Prime's.
"Jazz's loss will require significant adjustments. Of necessity, much of the burden will fall on our second-in-command." Prime paused before continuing, although it was doubtful anyone on this crew could miss the layers of complexity to that statement. Sideswipe found himself surprisingly grateful for the simple indication that Prowl was functioning and able to do the adjusting. He couldn't dispute Prime's next sentiment: "Jazz would not thank anyone who added to it."
Optimus looked around the silent room, sharing grief with the dimmed optics that met his and noting those, like Sideswipe's, that shied away. Nodding once, the Prime strode towards the door.
"That will be all," he said, and this time nobody argued.
The room was quiet, lights low, air still. Prowl came to himself lying on his side. His door-wings were spread behind him, Ratchet standing beside his berth. The traces of a forced recharge algorithm lingered on the edge of his processor, and Jazz was offline.
The knowledge hung in his memory cache like a truth of nature. The Sun rose every morning, Optimus was his Prime, and Jazz was offline.
Keening softly, Prowl searched his processor for more, reaching for some way to understand the bare words. There was an image, he knew. He remembered crying out, and falling to his knees, stricken by the sight in front of him. The memory was there, but the imagery itself was inaccessible, locked behind medic-grade firewalls.
"I'm sorry." Ratchet spoke before he could. The voice sounded slurred in Prowl's audios and he realised belatedly that sedative programming was affecting his inputs. "I'm sorry, Prowl, but I need you to process the basic facts before you try to analyse them."
Jazz was offline.
The saboteur had greeted his friend, joked with him, offered to watch a movie with him, and then gone out into the bright dawn light and destroyed his own spark chamber.
"Damn it, Prowl," Ratchet grumbled wearily, and Prowl felt the alien firewalls in his processor expand, forcibly breaking both the logic loop that refused to make sense of that thought and the tactical programming that searched the memory for some sign of what was to come.
Jazz was offline by his own hand, and Prowl knew instinctively that he'd never understand why.
"I failed him."
The words escaped him before he could censor them. Ratchet startled, the movement sending a cool breeze across Prowl's upper door-wing. The Praxian felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.
"We all did. But he was good at what he did. Hiding was second nature to him."
Not from Prowl. Not this. Unbidden, memories returned of Jazz sprawled on Prowl's couch, talking for hours, letting the smiling façade drop as he never would in front of others. Prowl had no clear idea of just when he'd become his best friend's confidante, just as he couldn't remember when Jazz had become his. He'd listened to Jazz's concerns for his Ops team, for the crew and the Autobot cause in general. He'd comforted the mech when Jazz wondered about his own place in the Cybertron they hoped to reclaim. He'd shared Jazz's well-founded fears that neither of them would live long enough to see that day. He'd seen his friend's determination to defy the long odds, and his confidence in his own skill. And he knew, with a certainty that surpassed words, that Jazz would never give up. The mech he knew would never abandon his crewmates - not here, not now, not with so much still at stake and the enemy still threatening them all.
Jazz had offlined himself: that was fact. Jazz was incapable of doing any such thing, and that was fact too, as incontrovertible as the first.
"Don't do this, Prowl." With infinite patience, Ratchet broke the logic process trying to reconcile the conflict. The medic left his memories intact, watching as the entire process started again.
Jazz was offline. Prowl had seen many mechs offline during the long war. He'd grieved them all, friend and stranger alike, feeling each death more acutely than most would believe. Losing Jazz was like tearing a hole in his own spark, but there was no denial in his processor. He couldn't pretend not to know, not with the data ringing through his memory banks and Ratchet hovering over him.
Jazz dead on the battlefield or, worse still, hanging from the walls of a Decepticon cell… the images pained him, but he'd seen them all too often in disturbed recharge cycles, or when planning his friend's next mission. He'd long since accepted the possibility, even discussed it with the mech himself.
Jazz was offline and all of Prowl's tactical skill could do nothing to change that fact.
He felt Ratchet watching his thoughts, the hardline connection between them strangely lacking in intimacy. Now though, the medic's reaction was strong enough to leak through. A new image spilled into Prowl's processor, of a greyed-out frame on a brushed-steel berth, far beyond medical aid. The image flickered and vanished, its details locked behind that same firewall.
"Show me." Prowl spoke softly, stirring for the first time and reaching out to catch Ratchet's wrist. The medic stared down at him, and slowly, unwillingly, nodded.
The memory returned. Jazz's familiar visor was dark, his faceplates blank and expressionless. He lay still, as he'd never been still in all his functioning, black and white plating faded to almost-unrecognisable grey. The actual damage was slight, insignificant compared with injuries both tactician and medic had seen the Ops mech survive. The hole was no larger than Prowl's clenched first, its edges curled with heat. A single shot, angled upwards through his chest plating and destroying the spark chamber behind.
It was a quick death. Clean, if suicide could ever be called that. Prowl keened for his friend, knowing he'd miss him until the day all became one.
He couldn't deny Jazz was gone. Nor could he deny that the wound was consistent with being self-inflicted. If he couldn't rationalise Jazz choosing this path for himself, then Prowl must be missing data.
The logic conflicts faded, tension easing from Prowl's muscle cables. The tactician still languished in the haze of sedatives, his processor under-clocking until he could think no better than a normal mech, but he had a conclusion he could live with, and an objective to work towards.
Prowl would find out what had forced Jazz's hand in this, if it was the last thing he did. Something, somewhere, had left the mech no better option than self-destruction. Whether that pressure was Decepticon in origin, human, Autobot, or even some unintended blow from Prowl himself, he would discover it and see justice done for his friend.
Ratchet hummed. The medic's uncertainty echoed between them, but Prowl felt him withdraw nonetheless. Prowl was processing smoothly now; Ratchet might not like the path his thoughts took, but he had no excuse for eavesdropping further. The sedative programming he left in place, but both it and the firewall around Prowl's memories were set to decay over the next few hours, giving the tactician a chance to adjust.
"You're off-duty for at least another shift. That sedative will keep most of your tactical algorithms off-line, so don't even think of trying to override it, understand?" Ratchet sighed, patting his patient's shoulder before reaching up to rub his own grey chevron. "Now, I'm going to sit here, catch up with some reading, and you are going to damn well rest, Prowl. That processor of yours already shook itself out of recharge half a joor before it was meant to. Tire yourself out and you're going to start looping again. I don't need the work."
"Understood."
Prowl relaxed back against his berth, aware of Ratchet moving across the room, picking up a datapad and settling into a chair with a vented sigh. He couldn't blame the weary medic for not wanting to face what awaited him in the medbay. Nor for wanting Prowl himself monitored.
The tactician did his friend the courtesy of remaining still until Ratchet's own vents settled, his systems powering down into an unintended recharge. Only then did he slip from his berth, pausing to ease the datapad from Ratchet's hand and the medic himself into a more comfortable position.
Quietly, but burning with determination, Prowl left his quarters. He had work to do.
Something was wrong.
There was no clear thought behind the knowledge, only pure feeling and well-honed instinct. Memories hovered tantalisingly close, just out of reach. He should be reaching for them, trying to understand, but even that much was beyond him right now.
That didn't make this any less wrong. His spark vibrated, tense and uncertain.
A weird sensation swept through him. Something was prodding him, teasing him, edging him in a certain direction, towards something he couldn't quite perceive.
He had no reason to resist, not really. Nothing but instinctual discomfort, and the sheer contrariness that was intrinsic to his very being. He pushed back, the mischievous impulse he'd been sparked with in one accord with the darker shadow that had long since become part of him.
Jazz had never been a cooperative mech, in all the vorns since his spark first kindled.
He wasn't about to start now.