Never Give Up - Part 3 of 12
Chapter 3
(see chapter 1 for headers)
The box sat on Starscream's lab desk with all the sparkly temptation of a tin of energon goodies or a seekerlet's toy chest. Skywarp's finger-servos twitched, reaching towards it of their own accord.
They stopped short, and not just because his processor was still ringing with Shockwave's more-than-usually graphic threats. The Seeker hadn't understood more than half the mono-opticed mech's warnings against touching the thing. He didn't need to. Even if the box wasn't exuding the most jarringly wrong energy field he'd ever felt, he'd seen what Shockwave did to the Autobot. Skywarp wasn't above his fair share of 'bot-bashing, but it had been all he could do not to purge on the spot, or warp away and leave the insane scientist to his own entertainment.
He felt like purging again now. Shuffling uncomfortably from ped to ped, he tucked his servos behind his wings and listened to Megatron's voice echo through the hull of the Nemesis. Lord Megatron seemed to be taking it in turns to berate his underlings lately, displeased by how long it had been since any of them proposed a workable offensive against the 'bots. Starscream had been his first target, as always, but now Soundwave, Shockwave and the special team leaders were learning to regret the Seeker's absence. Megatron's wrath, undeflected, was a frightening thing.
Shockwave's voice rose in obsequious agreement, and Skywarp shuddered. Why couldn't the mech have stayed on Cybertron, given them Starscream back, and left 'Warp himself well out of it? At the very least he could knock it off with the creepy not-quite-seen smiles and fawning over their war-leader.
Skywarp might have aided and abetted the interloper's latest project, but he couldn't help wondering whether even Megatron really condoned his lieutenant's methods or knew all the details. He'd have had no part of this himself, if he had any choice in the matter. It was fear, rather than duty, that stopped the Seeker from running, back in the clearing.
His optics slid away from the box with another shudder and he started to pace, unable to stop his subconscious drawing him back towards the workbench, time and again. He found himself reaching out once more and jerked his hand back with a muttered profanity. If he ruined Shockwave's experiment now, Megatron would be more than just a little annoyed. The thought was a frightening one. Starscream wasn't here, and Shockwave could hardly be counted on to shield him. Skywarp was as vulnerable as the Combaticons had been when Megatron's indulgent smiles turned to scowls. He'd always thought the rumours of what happened to them after that were so much sump oil. Now…
He didn't plan on giving his new boss the slightest hint of a reason to turn the same calculating gaze on him and T.C. that he had on the Autobot. If that meant sitting here while Shockwave was off listening to another of their leader's rants, well, Skywarp had learned when to grit his denta and just nod.
He just couldn't help wishing the Cybertronian lieutenant could find something less, well, dull for him to do. Seekers weren't made for confinement in such a small space. It made him restless… jittery. Simple guard duty should be left to the grounders, and usually was, if Starscream had his way. This time though… Skywarp honestly wasn't sure if he was here because Shockwave really wanted the box-thing protected, or because he didn't want Skywarp anywhere near Soundwave and his cassettes until he'd made more progress. If the orn-long, long-range patrol Thundercracker just landed was anything to go by, he was willing to bet on the latter.
Not, Skywarp reminded himself firmly, optics drawn inexorably back to the vibrating box, that he really wanted to know.
"Get away from that!"
"Wasn't touching!" He was jumping away before Shockwave got more than half way through the command. He backed up against the wall, servos raised in front of him as if he could ward off his commander's anger like a physical blow.
Shockwave fumed visibly as he strode across the room. His plating was scratched, dented where he'd been thrown against something. A crack in his faceplate suggested that even the sycophantic Cybertronian hadn't been spared his leader's wrath.
"Ah… I thought everything was going kinda okay. Why's Lord Megatron in such a mood?"
A servo twitched, Shockwave dismissing his questions without a thought. The Decepticon-purple mech hunched over the box, inspected it minutely. He hardly seemed to register Skywarp's vague concern
"Lord Megatron is not tolerant of delays." It was as close as Shockwave would ever get to criticism. "The Autobot will yield. I merely require a little patience, and our Lord will not be well served if his… strong leadership… leads to a cessation of this experiment before I've learnt the mech's secrets."
If he ever did… if you could still call this a mech…
Skywarp shivered, plating rattling on his wings. He watched his new superior prod the handful of cloudy white crystals seated at one end of the box-like device, adjusting them minutely before turning his attention instead to the power supply. Shockwave frowned, seating himself at the work-bench and setting several monitors going. Only then did he send a surge of current arcing from the power supply to the small, sealed chamber mounted beside it.
Shockwave's systems growled his frustration. Skywarp felt vaguely ill as he watched the spark signature on the monitors fluctuate, steady and then dance again, never quite stabilising for long enough to decrypt the personality components and memory banks coded to it. It resisted each burst of energy, each attempt to sync and then read the Autobots' passwords, plans and tactical information from the memory crystals. He couldn't help noticing that it burned a little fainter every time.
"Ah… sir?"
"I have no time for distractions," Shockwave grunted, waving a dismissive hand over one shoulder. "Find Thundercracker. Join him on patrol. Report straight to me when ordered." He paused, twisting his helm until his single scarlet optic caught Skywarp, chilling him to the spark. "Tell no one."
Give him orns, vorns, a lifetime and a return trip to the Matrix, and it would still be too soon for Skywarp to want to talk about this. He left without a word.
He could have done without the cassettes lurking just outside Starscream's lab. Frenzy felt the force of his angst, shoved aside with more violence than strictly necessary. Skywarp stood over the downed cassette and then turned to leave, shooting a glare at Rumble for good measure.
The pile-driving cassette scowled, running a few steps forward to catch hold of a wingtip. "Hey, hold up."
"What do you want, cretin?"
Frenzy rolled his eyes, pushing himself back to his pedes and following. "Says the pot to the kettle," he muttered before raising his voice. "Hey, 'Warp, the Boss wants to know what ol' Shocker's up to."
'"Sure he does." Fat surprise there. Skywarp didn't let the cassettes slow him down. "Not telling."
"There's high grade in it, and Frenzy an' I'll let you in on what we're planning against the 'Structies…"
It was a tempting offer. Skywarp would usually jump at it. From the way Rumble let his voice trail off into enticing silence, it seemed he knew that too.
Not tempting enough.
All it took was one flashback to Shockwave leaning over a black and white frame as it faded, one memory of purple servos fiddling with that accursed box, and the temptation fled.
"I'm saying nothing." Skywarp repeated with more vehemence. He forced a vicious grin onto his face to cover the fearful grimace. "But, Pit… believe me, Soundwave's never going to top this one."
He warped before they could question him further. Comming Thundercracker for a location reference, Skywarp ignited his thrusters and spiralled into the skies above the Nemesis, wanting nothing more than to feel sunlight on his wings and fresh air in his vents.
"Over here."
Mirage's quiet voice emerged from a shadow cast by the curve of the corridor. Bumblebee slipped from the vent, brushing Earth-dust from his plating even as he ducked to avoid one of the omni-present security cameras. He slipped into the shadow and felt a familiar energy field brush his own. A moment later, he shivered, and knew that he was concealed by more than simple shadow.
"Well?" For all his polite demeanour, there was an impatient snap in Mirage's vocaliser. Bumblebee reached out, not needing sight to pat familiar blue plating with a reassurance his words couldn't justify.
"No go. Vents are locked tight. Guess there's been one too many of us breaking in over the years." He sighed. "It's got to be the door or nothing."
Mirage accepted the murmured report in thoughtful silence. Going in through the door meant hacking the lock, and both Ops mechs knew that the task might well be beyond them. It had been programmed by an expert after all, and neither would ever rival Jazz's skills at computer espionage.
A cautious half-breem passed before the two started forward, Mirage to the door controls, Bumblebee to loop the camera watching it. Both worked quickly, all too aware that they could be caught at any moment, and how much trouble they'd be in if they did.
Going up against the security system directly would get them nowhere. Knowing whose programmes they were working against, it didn't surprise either mech when it took the efforts of both, and more than an hour of careful work, to circumvent it instead; one to distract the subroutines probing their identity, the other searching for the safety overrides that had to be there.
The door slid open with a quiet hum. Bumblebee let go a vent of relief, but Jazz had trained him too well to let down his guard just because he'd overcome the first hurdle. He slipped inside, wary as he scanned the room. It wasn't until Mirage faded into view, nodding to confirm that the side office was also empty, that Bumblebee let some of his tension go.
Not all of it, by any means.
He steadied himself against a polished steel berth, feeling the chill of it sink into his frame. A single sweep of his optics had been enough to tell him their objective wasn't on any of the other berths around him. That left only one place it could be.
Mirage was first to approach the closed door next door to the office. Bumblebee hurried after him. His didn't touch his fellow Ops mech, only stood in silent support as they studied the metal barrier. Their inaction didn't last long. They'd come too far to stop now, and they wouldn't have even attempted this had it not been necessary.
"Open it," Mirage whispered.
Bumblebee nodded, clearing his vents and bracing himself before stabbing at the control panel with a lone finger-servo.
The door slid open. Lights came up.
Venting hard, Bumblebee took a step out of the repair bay proper and into the private room that Ratchet usually used for long-term treatments. He wouldn't be treating Jazz - there was no medical aid that could return a dissipated spark to its frame.
Jazz's shell lay drab and dull under the fluorescents. It didn't react as Mirage and Bumblebee moved to flank its berth. There was no flicker in the grey visor, and even the Ops-trained systems of the two visitors were loud after the silence that had gone before.
Bumblebee studied his commander's shell, grim-faced. Somewhere in the back of his processor, his emotional subroutines were screaming at him. He ignored them. He'd seen too much death to let one offline frame break his concentration. Not just the enemy. Not just strangers. He'd seen friends offlined on the battlefield, and sat through too many debriefings for missions that cost his fellow Ops mechs their sparks. He'd suffer for it later, but he could look at the frame of his friend and mentor and assess it with a cold and experienced optic.
He didn't like what he saw.
Mirage's fine finger-servos spread above the wound on Jazz's chest, measuring it and letting his most sensitive scanners play across it. The spy drew his hand back with a blank expression that mirrored Bumblebee's own. Their optics met, both steady but dark with knowledge.
"So it's true." The words sounded all the more final in Mirage's Towers accent. Bumblebee nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
"It's not like we didn't suspect."
"No."
'Bee blinked. There was no waver in Mirage's stoic façade, only the flat denial.
"No, Bumblebee." Mirage folded his arms across his chest. "Not like this. Jazz taking himself off on some kind of suicide mission, that…" The spy shook his helm. "Like this? No."
Mirage's doubt planted a seed in his own processor. The two of them had discussed the options. Neither had truly believed their friend and commander could fall to the same dark thoughts that stole so many of their peers. After two joors of watching their senior officers they'd been forced to concede the possibility nonetheless. Even then, they'd expected to find Jazz's frame torn up, showing evidence for a vain assault against some Decepticon stronghold, or even missing entirely, unrecoverable.
That wasn't what they'd found. Bumblebee didn't need scanners or an analytic programme to reconstruct the trajectory of the blast that killed Jazz, or to recognise the distinctive signatures of the mech's own blaster. There couldn't be clearer evidence of self-destruction.
On paper, it was the same thing. In their world, there couldn't be more difference.
"Not like this," Bumblebee agreed. "Jazz killing himself to rid us of a Decepticon threat, or assigning himself a mission too far… okay." His fists clenched by his side. He wouldn't like it, but… okay. "This… no."
There was a beat or two of silence. Bumblebee could hear his own sparkbeat. He fixed his optics on the ragged metal of Jazz's wound, not letting them stray up to the familiar faceplates.
"So what are we saying? That Jazz stood still and let someone shoot him?"
Mirage tilted his helm, studying the frame. "There's not another scratch on him."
Slowly, carefully, Bumblebee reached out. Jazz's hand was cold in his. Limp finger-servos spread under his gentle touch and both Mirage and Bumblebee himself bent over them inspecting them closely.
The marks they were half-dreading, half-hoping to see, were there sure enough. Scarcely-visible striations in the now-grey plating on Jazz's fingers marked where they'd curled around his blaster, a minor dent left by the trigger as it recoiled. Both mechs frowned as Bumblebee turned the hand over. Mirage scowled, reaching out himself to stroke the marks on the outside of Jazz's fist with the lightest of touches.
He gave Bumblebee a questioning look, and the minibot could only shrug in return. It wasn't evidence. Not meaningful information they could act upon. Jazz could easily have got these dents and scratches shaking hands with an enthusiastic larger mech - Ironhide, Inferno, a dinobot even. Anyone could have squeezed his hand, anytime in the last couple of days. There was no reason to suppose that pressure was in any way suspicious, that the hand had been forced, or that another fist had closed around Jazz's in those last crucial moments.
No real reason…
"The gun was lying beside him."
Neither Ops mech jumped. Bumblebee laid down his friend's servos with as much careful precision as he'd lifted it. Even so, he had to take a couple of klicks to power down his defensive systems after the shock, and could feel Mirage doing the same.
Prowl blocked the way back into Medbay. The tactician looked tired. His door-wings hung limp behind him, and his dim optics suggested he was running twenty percent charge at the most. Even so, Bumblebee had to admit to a certain amount of relief just seeing him. Prowl had put in a few appearances on the command deck, stoic and blank-faced. Otherwise, he'd spent the whole day locked into either his quarters or his office, and Bumblebee hadn't got a good look at the mech that whole time. He'd caught only the briefest of glimpses when Ratchet marched through the command deck and yanked open the second-in-command's office door to shout at him for a while.
Now Prowl's servos clenched at his sides. His optics lingered on Jazz's faceplates and Bumblebee was grateful he and Mirage were blocking Prowl's view of the mech's wounded torso. Prowl shook his head, letting his gaze drop to the metal floor.
"It fell out of his hand, when…"
"Who put it there?" The question escaped before Bumblebee could rethink it. Prowl's optics snapped up, meeting his for a few sparkbeats before falling away again.
"I wish I knew."
The pause that followed was deeply awkward. There had been dark things in Prowl's harsh whisper, things Bumblebee wasn't comfortable hearing from the reserved officer. Mirage vented softly before taking a half-step forward.
"Prowl…"
"Go." Prowl turned away, stepping back so he no longer blocked the route out through the repair bay.
"Uh…"
"The two of you had a right to know. There's a ninety-five percent probability you'd guessed the truth regardless. And Jazz wouldn't want to see you brigged for this. So, go."
Bumblebee hesitated, not liking the tension that vibrated through Prowl's door-wings and lent a sharp edge to his voice. He could feel Mirage hesitate beside him. Prowl glanced back at them with a scowl, the wings flaring a little.
"Mirage, I believe Hound has already contacted Red Alert looking for you. Bumblebee, you should be aware that you're also under observation. Long absences will no doubt cause comment and concern." His voice never rose above a steady cadence. Even so the threat was clear. "I'm impressed that you managed to get into medbay undetected, I know Jazz worked long and hard on those protocols. However, in thirty klicks I am going to reactivate the security alerts set specifically on this room. I will not override them a second time."
He strode away without a second look, and there was a hiss as medbay's doors opened for him and closed behind. Bumblebee and Mirage exchanged a long glance before following, careful to be clear of both the side room and the repair bay proper before Prowl's deadline passed. They separated at the corridor, no more than a brush of energy fields acknowledging their parting.
Now wasn't the time to press this further. That didn't mean either mech was about to drop their pursuit of the truth.
They owed Jazz, Prowl and their own grieving sparks better than that.
The console felt warm beneath Red Alert's finger servos. He could name every mech within a hundred yards of him, knew where each was and what they were doing. Even so, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to check over his shoulder before hitting the enter key on his search algorithm.
He was under no illusions about what he was doing. Brig time was almost a certainty if he were caught. As unthinkable as that was, the prospect of Optimus Prime's disappointment and Prowl's blank silence troubled him more. It was almost enough to stop him.
Not quite.
He'd given Prime an Earth day to brief him. Red Alert had waited four full joor-long shifts for their leader to get past his initial shock and bring his security officer up to speed. Even then, the memo he'd sent to Optimus, bypassing Prowl's office entirely, had been cautiously couched. His request to talk to his Prime regarding "security implications of the current situation" had met with a simple acknowledgement and nothing resembling an answer. He had to suppose he'd gotten off luckily; he'd skirted close enough to Prime's prohibition that he'd half expected a visit from Ironhide before his shift finished.
Now he was going further.
The security files had been locked. Hardly surprising. And hardly a problem. Red Alert had back doors into most of the Ark's security systems, and while Jazz, and even Prowl at a push, was capable of keeping him out, neither had programmed this. It was almost too easy to track back through the Ark's camera records, familiar data streaming past and dancing as his fingers played across the console.
He couldn't let this go on. He needed to know. Whatever had taken their third-in-command from them, he needed to assess and evaluate the risk. Jazz held more confidential data in his secure files than anyone short of Prowl. If even the least of that had been compromised, then every mech on the Ark and every human they protected could be at risk.
Others might accuse him of paranoia for even thinking that way. As turbulent as emotions were on the Ark right now, there were mechs who might send him to medbay for even suggesting Jazz might have betrayed such crucial information. Red Alert knew better than most that no mech was infallible. He wouldn't be doing his job, or able to live with any consequences, if he didn't at least investigate the possibility. He only wished that knowledge could make this easier.
Jazz grinned at him from the monitors, idly molesting Prowl as their second took his place at the monitor desk. It hurt to see him there, tired after a long shift, but relaxed and smiling. He should scroll past, he knew, out of common decency if nothing else. Usually he would. He left the spying to Mirage and the rest of Ops, sticking to a code of conduct he held as dear as the Autobot code itself.
But… this was it. This was last time anyone on the Ark had seen Jazz, so far as he'd been able to discover. If he was going to trace the saboteur's movements, he had to start here. Rubbing his helm horns to ease the charge there, Red Alert watched that morning's events unfold with a steely optic.
A long time passed before the screens went dark, and longer still before the security director realised he was no longer alone.
"Red Alert."
"Prime," Red Alert acknowledged quietly. He swivelled his chair, meeting his leader's optics without shame or regret. "I should have been told."
"Indeed." Prime vented heavily, taking a step forward. "My apologies."
Red Alert nodded. His processor was still spinning, trying to process what he'd seen and the implications. There'd be time for emotion later. For the moment he needed to remain calm.
"What's being done?"
"We will hold a memorial. When Ratchet has completed his report, we must honour - "
Red Alert blinked at him, his optics cycling through a reboot.
"No, Prime," he interrupted. "I've seen the recordings. I've checked the timings." He hadn't felt good, checking for any delay between Prowl arriving at the sensor blind patch and the other officers' reaction to his call. Even the few moments of doubt and suspicion before he eliminated that possibility left his tanks churning. "Jazz entered a region of almost ten thousand square yards completely surrounded by cameras, but not itself under active surveillance. There is no sign of further movement on the peripheral sensors until Prowl discovered him, offline. There is only one logical conclusion."
"I know."
Red nodded firmly. He looked up at his Prime with a confident expression.
"So what's being done to evaluate the threat?"
This time it was Optimus Prime's turn to blink. "Red Alert… What threat?"
"Was there any sign Jazz was hacked?" Red persisted. His fists clenched by his sides, his professional mask unable to hide his scowl. "What's being done about Skywarp?"
Concern mingling with confusion, Red Alert met his Prime's blank look with one of his own. Optimus Prime simply stared.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Prowl let his optics cycle down to darkness. His folded arms rested on the desk in front of him and now he let his helm drop down too, door-wings rising instinctively to shield him from the world around him.
It did little good. Even here in his office, he was aware of the rumble of movement elsewhere in the Ark. His locked door did nothing to spare him the weight of concern and expectations that strained his back-struts.
A gratifying number of Autobots had insisted on working through their shock. Sporadic patrol reports were landing in Prowl's inbox, together with occasional complaints from the human military. Red Alert must have hacked every human camera network within three hundred miles of the Ark to extend their security zone, sinking his own grief into the task of covering for his distracted crewmates.
Despite those heroic efforts, Prowl knew the Autobots were shaken to their sparks. His occasional forays into the Ark's security system had shown him Ironhide keeping an eye on the Rec Room, drinking with those who needed the comfort of high grade, sharing gruff words with those who needed to talk. Ratchet had spelled him at least once, dishing out more than a few over-charge antidotes and dragging the twins into a rough embrace when the volatile front-liners looked ready to storm the Nemesis single-handed.
Prime was working in the control room, coordinating the skeleton crew, after dismissing Red Alert for a few breems of recharge. The tall mech stood unbowed. His voice was calm and strong as he responded to each report, reminding the crew that one loss would not break them.
Prowl's place should be by his side. He knew that, and had taken the time to put in short shifts in the control room. The crew needed to see that he was alive and well. They needed to hear his even voice and understand that he meant to complete the work his closest friend had left unfinished. Those short spells, the covert and overt inspection and constant stream of mechs passing through the control room to check on him, had been enough. The crew needed to see him, yes. But Prowl needed his own time and space more.
His office had become his haven, a shelter in which he could work at the project that consumed every glimmer of his spark.
And now… now it seemed all his work had been for nothing.
Prowl shuddered, his chevron digging into his arm plates. He'd traced every minute of Jazz's last half-orn, made a note of where he'd been and to whom he'd spoken. He'd considered every Autobot Jazz associated with, examined the saboteur's demeanour whenever the mech lingered in a public area, and after every non-routine conversation. He'd got at least two levels into Jazz's personal files, searching for any hint that something might be troubling the Ops mech.
And after all that, he was left with the inescapable truth. Jazz had no problem with the other Autobots. The only time he appeared visibly distressed, even to his closest friend, was three days before his death, returning to his quarters after he and Prowl had argued long into the off-shift. The discussion, about the morality of bringing their war to Earth, was one they'd had before. It was one Prowl always assumed they'd have again.
He knew the human losses, and perhaps more so the way they'd warped human culture by their mere presence, troubled Jazz. It troubled them both.
Had that discussion been the tipping point? Had it been the cog that finally jammed the gears in Jazz's processor? Was all this Prowl's fault?
No. Prowl's thought processes looped for the dozenth time, barely under his control. There was no logic in that conclusion.
The sheer futility of Jazz's suicide would make no difference to humanity's fate, and if there was one thing Jazz had done with his life it was make a difference. Prowl couldn't imagine his friend would chose any different in the manner of his death.
Unless… unless the statement Jazz was making with his actions hadn't been intended for human kind, but rather for his own. For the Autobots? If so… Jazz had spent more time in Prowl's company than any other in the week before his death. How could the message be meant for anyone but him?
Did Jazz mean him to show him the nature of futility? To drive him to despair? Prowl keened softly, his faith in the Autobot cause and their ultimate victory shaken in defiance of all logic. What could Jazz have known that conflicted with all Prowl's tactical projections and every hint of moral programming? Memory files played through Prowl's processor, of their last conversation and Jazz's brilliant smile. Even now he could see no hint of what was going through the mech's mind, and no sign Jazz would rather face deactivation than endure the life they led.
Had he really failed his friend so badly?
He forced himself to raise his helm, arms on the table still supporting his frame. He still couldn't make sense of this, and he would, he was sure, if the saboteur had intended him to. Jazz knew better than anyone how Prowl's processor worked.
A message for the Decepticons then? They'd take nothing from this other than pleasure and renewed hope.
Not for the first time, Prowl was driven back to his initial conclusion. There had to be more data he was still missing, data that would somehow untangle this whole senseless mess, and if it wasn't to be found on the Ark, then… the Nemesis?
The infiltration plan Prowl had been working on when… when Prime came looking, had never been more than half-formed. He pulled it from his memory banks now and set to work, processor set on getting in to Megatron's sunken battlecruiser.
Either the Decepticons knew what had driven Jazz to his death, or Prowl would discover that the failure was his alone. Either way he'd know the truth. Either way he wasn't much interested in what happened next.
"Prowl?" He looked up in his surprise, startled to see Prime at his door and to realise how long he'd been working. Prime's optics were steady, non-judgemental, but Prowl read concern in his leader's stance. "I believe your shift ended some time ago."
Prowl's door-wings slumped against his back, low charge dimming his optics. Even so, he felt a shiver of satisfaction. He checked his probability matrix once more, before disconnecting from the datapad he held and offering it to his Prime.
"Sir, I have a proposal for you."