Never Give Up - Part 11 of 12
Title: Never Give Up
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Chapter 11
"Thundercracker." Megatron's long grey finger-servos drummed against the arms of his throne. The blue Seeker looked up, and so did his red and white trine-leader - one nervous, the other with a whine of anger from his thrusters. The warlord leaned forward in his seat. "Attend me."
There was a stillness in the dank air of the Nemesis. Decepticons held their vents, their red optics downcast, but angled so they could watch sidelong. It wasn't a secret to anyone that Thundercracker had spent the last orn and a half off the duty rosters, holed up in his trine-mates' quarters. Most of the crew assumed that Megatron had been consulted and approved the absence. Starscream and his master knew better.
"My Lord?"
Thundercracker's optics stayed low as he approached, unaware of the warlord's close scrutiny. The Seeker's movements were smooth, his armour clean and his colour good. The contrast between the healthy mech in front of him and the wreck in Hook's initial report could hardly be greater.
The Seeker dropped onto one knee, his wings folding down to their narrowest setting. Megatron let his minion wait, his faceplates set into a neutral expression. Thundercracker's thrusters whined, his tension growing as the klicks stretched out. Behind him, Starscream stepped forward, his arms ready at his sides, and the glare on his face-plates skirting the bare limits of what Megatron would tolerate.
The warlord let a cruel smile play on his lips. He let his helm rest against the throne-back, lifted a datapad in the servos of one hand, and extended it towards the Seeker.
"Take this to Soundwave. Then take Skywarp on patrol."
Thundercracker tool the datapad automatically. The Seeker looked up at him, his optics cycling through a reboot. The tension in his frame peaked and then was replaced by an expression of sheer bewilderment.
"Lord Megatron?"
Megatron leaned forward, his optics blazing under his armoured helm. Thundercracker flinched, helm hunkering down protectively between his shoulder-vents. Starscream took another step forward. Skywarp appeared in the doorway, the quick duck of his helm not quite enough to distract from his sudden entry. Megatron raised a brow-ridge. He steepled his finger-servos in front of him, voice even. "You have your orders, Thundercracker." He raised his optics to Skywarp, giving the third Seeker a glare for good measure. "I've had enough of you two shirking."
Thundercracker scrambled to his feet, his wings trembling a little as he backed out of the room, collecting Skywarp as he went.
Starscream watched his trine-mates go, his arms folding across his cockpit. Megatron chose not to mention the power draining from his second-in-command's null-rays… just as he had chosen not to mention Starscream absconding to the Ark three weeks ago, and the actions of his trine-mates both before and since. He studied his most infuriating, most intriguing and, unfortunately, least dispensable Seeker thoughtfully.
"Starscream."
The acknowledgement brought the Seeker's helm up. Starscream glared, suspicion written on his face-plates. The Decepticon second-in-command had been waiting three weeks for the fall-out to settle. Megatron had caught the Air Commander glancing his master's way even as the Seeker exchanged barbs with the Autobots' Praxian tactician on the battlefield the day before, and had held his silence while Astrotrain mused aloud on the fact that the Ops mech Jazz still seemed to be absent from their skirmishes. It tickled the warlord's dark humour that he'd kept his second on edge this long. It amused him more that he had no intention of ever letting Starscream off the hook by bringing matters into the open.
Starscream waited a beat, helm cocked in inquiry, before scowling and turning on his heel.
"Going somewhere, Starscream?" Megatron's snarl was low and dangerous.
Starscream sneered, covering his jittery nerves with arrogance. "Since you ask so nicely, my Lord - " Megatron's generator growled at the sarcasm and Starscream's wings retracted unconsciously. His helm hunched down between his shoulder-vents and the edge in his voice became less strident. The Seeker could only be cowed so far though. He folded his arms, sniffing at the indignity of being questioned. "If you need me, Lord Megatron, I will be joining Thundercracker and Skywarp on patrol. If they are to fly with me, I must be sure they're kept up to my standard."
Megatron waved a hand, dismissing the Seeker with deliberate indifference. Starscream bridled, his muttered imprecations - hovering carefully below the threshold of comprehension - following him from the room.
The warlord smiled again, hard and cold, as his second-in-command left on the patrol he had quite carefully not been ordered upon. He relaxed in his throne, his optics resting on nothing and giving no hint that he was watching the monitor that showed three bright-winged Seekers spiralling into Earth's deep blue skies.
He'd expected Shockwave's scheme to end in disaster and had been profoundly unsurprised when it did so. His initial anger had faded into the same resigned post-mortem analysis to which he subjected every failed plan. That didn't make it a total waste of his time.
Shockwave was back on Cybertron, cowed and re-educated in the nature of his master's wrath. His snide comments, the hints that he'd deal with the Earth-bound Autobots within orns, his respectful but insistent requests for more energon raids... Megatron looked forward to a respite from them all, and from his lieutenant's insufferable arrogance most of all.
Soundwave too was quieter than normal. His cassettes were reporting for duty on time, and their host wary and respectful. It didn't hurt to remind the telepath that his lord and master was more ruthless and less predictable than he sometimes assumed.
And Starscream? Starscream was angry and frustrated, hurt by the hurt to his trine-mates and furious that Megatron had permitted it. The Seeker had spent the first week after his return brooding over Thundercracker and Skywarp. He'd spent the week after that reordering his laboratory, terrorising the Nemesis crew and demanding supply raids and equipment to replace what Shockwave had 'wasted'. Now, he was almost back to his usual snarky self, the fire relit beneath his afterburners. It might take another few orns, but Starscream was recovering his equilibrium, vicious in his thirst for vengeance, and determined to lash out at the Autobots and Decepticons both.
Megatron had already upgraded his own defensive security. Now the Decepticon leader sat back and waited, anticipation building slowly behind his scowl. Yes, this debacle might be best set behind them, but the inconveniences hadn't been without their benefits. It had been far too long since he'd seen his second at his sly and scheming best.
~Heads up~ Sunstreaker's voice whispered along the bond and into his twin brother's spark. ~Coming your way~
Sideswipe vented a sigh, swirling the remnants in his energon cube before laying it down on the table in front of him. He was sitting back in his chair, his semi-relaxed frame ready to either stand or remain seated as the situation demanded, when Prowl appeared in the doorway to the Rec Room.
The noise picked up, the crew's conversation a little too loud as they overcompensated. More than one mech stole sidelong glances, their furtive optics following their second-in-command slowly across the room towards the energon dispenser.
Trailbreaker leapt to his feet as Prowl turned around, cube in hand. Cliffjumper - of all mechs - was nanoklicks behind, both offering the Praxian a chair in the crowded room. Bluestreak went further, hurrying over to Prowl's side and trying to persuade him to join his table.
Sideswipe watched without surprise. He was equally unsurprised when Prowl declined in his soft, even voice.
The crew knew that their tactician was still not quite right. They'd been worried for Prowl even before the battle where he was 'injured'. His frequent trips to the medbay since his release from repairs were no secret, although the reason for them was the subject of worried speculation rather than general knowledge. Sideswipe thought about the black and white frame lying amidst the monitors in Ratchet's back room, still and silent for almost two orns now, and wished he shared that ignorance.
Prowl was already heading back to the door, the darting glances of his optics - to the left and down a little, as if he could see through the walls and deck between him and his target - betraying his destination. Sideswipe vented again, pushing to his pedes and grinning at his table-mates with a casual wave as he excused himself.
There was no particular hurry. He might have the current watching brief, but it wouldn't hurt to let Prowl out of their sights for a few minutes, and neither twin had any doubt as to where he was headed.
~Three and a half joors. That's the current record, isn't it?~
~Yeah~ The red-clad warrior nodded, his agreement carried over the bond to his distant twin. Ahead of him, about to turn out of sight at the end of the corridor, Prowl's door-wings twitched in a constant stress display. His glances towards the distant repair bay had become more frequent, and his servos kept clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp something out of reach. ~But it's showing~
Sunstreaker's sigh reached him over the bond - the sigh and the grim emotion that accompanied it. Truthfully, Prowl was doing better than Ratchet had warned them to expect. He was certainly a lot better than he had been in the first few days, when it was rare for an Earth-hour to pass without the tactician making some excuse to stop by medbay. He could go a full shift now, without his spark compelling him to return to Jazz's side. As he'd proved just the day before, he could even pull a double shift… much to Ratchet's vehement disgust. He was managing to recharge in his quarters almost as often as in medbay. Even so the compulsion was there. The thread that bound Prowl to his unresponsive friend, still so raw and new, was stronger than it had any right to be, and it wasn't getting any weaker, even if the tactician was learning to cope with its effects.
Prowl was out of sight now, around the bend of the corridor and far enough ahead that Sideswipe had lost track even of the rattle of his pedes on the metal deck. The front-liner picked up his pace, a niggle of concern playing in his processor, despite the unseen roll of his brother's optics.
He was going at a fair speed when he rounded the corner Prowl had passed. Certainly he hit the wall fast enough to feel the air rush from his vents, his arm caught in skilled servos and his momentum used against him.
Resetting fritzing optics, Sideswipe blinked up at the figure looming above him. It wasn't until a burst of angry urgency flooded his spark that it occurred to him to reassure Sunstreaker, and share the image in front of him with his twin.
Prowl stood over the front-liner with arms folded across his bumper, door-wings held high and wide, and a deep scowl on his faceplates. The tactician huffed air through his vents and raised a brow-ridge.
"You may inform Ratchet that, if he wishes to monitor my condition, he should recruit more able spies."
Denial was instinctive. Sideswipe shook his helm, his expression becoming one of injured innocence.
"I was just finishing off my cube…"
Prowl raised an unimpressed brow-ridge, one pede tapping on the ground beside the downed warrior.
"And Sunstreaker was 'just' passing through the command centre when he suggested I was overdue to refuel?"
The tactician's scowl spoke eloquently of his disbelief. His twitchy door-wings swayed suddenly to the left, and he looked in that direction, expression utterly lacking in surprise when Sideswipe's yellow-clad twin rounded the corridor junction.
"The two of you have been alternating a watch on me since I left the repair bay. While it was understandable in the initial stages of my recuperation, it is growing distinctly trying." He raised a brow-ridge, one servo coming up to rub his chevron in an unconscious gesture. "I very much doubt that your sense of commitment to your assignment as my bodyguards has persisted through more than two orns, or even past the initial post-battle debrief."
"Then maybe you should think again." Sunstreaker leaned against the corridor wall, one hand reaching out to tug Sideswipe to his pedes, even as his optics stayed on the jittery Praxian in front of them. Prowl fidgeted, his glances towards medbay frequent enough that he couldn't hold optic-contact with either twin.
"That would seem an unlikely scenario."
Sideswipe sighed, glancing at his brother's frown. The red twin threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Okay. So maybe Ratch mentioned something about keeping an optic open, but that's not why we're here." He took a step forward, his optics watching the tactician for unpredictable reactions. "Prowl, we know how difficult it is to be apart. And this is all new to you. We want to help you both."
The corridor was deserted, and Sideswipe had spent too long perfecting his pranking skills not to listen for approaching mechs. Even so, Prowl shot him a sharp look and glanced to either side. His door-wings flared as they scanned for any of the crew who might overhear.
Jazz's continued existence was still very much a secret. That had been Prime's decision and neither Prowl nor the twins were ready to argue. The crew had already been told the saboteur was one with the Matrix. Telling them the truth at this stage could hardly help, or mitigate the grief that surfaced erratically in even the most matter-of-fact mechs. It would be far easier for the crew to come to terms with the loss they already knew about than to learn of the saboteur's ordeal and stasis-locked state.
It wasn't until Prowl was sure that they were alone that he leaned forward, speaking in a quiet hiss.
"Nothing can help. I brought this on myself. I chose this." His door-wings drooped, twitching violently where they hung against his back. "My actions might have been fruitless, but I must abide by their consequences."
"Not fruitless." Sunstreaker pushed away from the wall. He took a step forward, giving Prowl's shoulder a shove, forgetting for the moment that he was a warrior speaking to an officer, remembering only that he was a worried mech speaking to valued crew-mate. "Slag it, Prowl. Jazz is out of that torture box, because of you. His spark is still burning, because of you. He could wake up tomorrow for all Ratchet knows. He has a chance, because you wouldn't let him go."
Prowl glared at the yellow twin, his optics and door-wings sweeping their surroundings once more for eavesdroppers. Sideswipe shook his helm. He pushed his way between the two bridling mechs, a hand on his brother's chest-plate and his optics on his commander.
"Look, we're not saying you should find this easy. Frag, no. But you can't ignore it. Prowl, we're just saying we want to help. Teach you some tricks, maybe. Primus knows I'd go nuts with Sunstreaker glowering in my spark, if I didn't know how to block him sometimes."
"You'd go nuts?"
Sideswipe ignored his brother's snark, his expression intent. "You need to listen, Prowl. It might not be a full-strength, two-way thing like ours, but you are bonded, and there aren't many mechs on this crew who know how that feels."
Prowl wrapped his arms around his frame, his optics flicking between the twins and some inner vision that they couldn't share. His door-wings had gone from jerking to a constant, sharp tremor. His pedes were unsteady and he blinked at them, not entirely seeing the corridor in front of him.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe exchanged looks before moving to either side of the tactician, turning him around with gentle servos. This was only the second time, to their knowledge, that Prowl had pushed his control too far, leaving his regular check on Jazz too long. The difference was that, this time, it was their fault.
"Come on," Sideswipe said gently. "Lets get you to the repair bay." He vented a sigh. "But tomorrow, we're gonna talk."
He came online quietly. Automatic routines sunk deep into his base code maintained his engine note and dimmed his visor. Others reached out through his sensor field before his first conscious thought, overriding the monitors around him and preventing any evidence of his awakening from escaping.
Jazz lay still, his muscle cables limp and his frame showing no signs of life. Behind the facade, his passive sensors strained and his powerful processor analysed his situation with crystal sharp precision. He wasn't where he had been when his conscious memory files ended. He wasn't when he should be either.
There was a void in his system records - not just an inexplicable six week period of maintenance, repair and spark support log entries, but almost an orn before that in which there was simply nothing recorded. That was more than just unsettling. It was fragging impossible.
Jazz's spark throbbed. Suspicion, and anxiety, and the shadows of a deep pain that he couldn't quite remember, all tickled the back of a processor that lacked any explanation for them. Fear fought to tighten his cables and bring his weapons online. He kept them suppressed now with a conscious effort that supplanted his autonomous defensive routines. The saboteur trusted his instincts far more than he trusted even his supposedly-unhackable log systems, or the sensors that suggested there was no immediate threat.
Whatever the frag had happened, despite the clean status reports from his frame, Jazz hurt, and Jazz was frightened, and Jazz was dangerous.
The passive sensors picked up minute electric fields, currents in air and temperature, echoes of even the slightest sounds, developing a picture few mechs could rival with their optics.
Ratchet's repair bay?
It made sense. It didn't do anything to relieve Jazz's deep sense of suspicion and unease.
The act was entirely conscious as he reached out to fry the monitors around him, hacking Teletraan-1's outer autonomous processes to prevent the destruction from being reported. Only then did the saboteur reach out with tightly-focussed and well-disguised active sensors. The side room he occupied and the repair bay beyond were empty. The lights were dimmed. Night time then. His chronometer was correct about that, at least, even if the date it reported was wildly at odds with his expectation.
Jazz's visor lit, still polarised to dampen the glare. He surveyed the room with a quick sweep of his hidden optics, double and triple checking the reports of his sensor systems.
Empty. Good.
He rolled off the berth and into a crouch, the metal platform between him and the door. Monitor fibres snapped out his ports, the slight sting an irrelevance as he assessed his frame. It was perfect, every system report faultless. Even his black, white and blue paintwork had been touched up and shined to a smooth glossy finish. His frame had been tuned not only to factory specs, or the higher standard Ratchet insisted upon for the Ark's crew, but to something approximating his own usual standard of maintenance.
For anyone else, it would be enough.
For Jazz, the discontinuity between his perception of his own condition, just subjective moments before, and its current reality was obvious and jarring. Ratchet could fiddle with his systems for a decaorn and never replicate the degree of fine-tuning Jazz had learnt in years of training and dangerous fieldwork. The sheer number of systems now deviating from optimum sent a shiver down Jazz's back-struts and a hiccup through his dampened engine vibrations. Still squatting, hidden from view of anyone entering the dimly-lit room, the saboteur flexed arms and legs, trying to loosen muscle cables that had tightened during his incapacity, albeit negligibly by most standards.
His sensors told him he was home. Every indication was that he was secure and fully repaired. His spark still sang with anxiety and unease, unable to reconcile that security with the sense of anxiety and danger that it couldn't explain. Was this a trick? Some attempt to lure him off his guard? Or was this unease a legacy of something he couldn't remember - which, according to his logs and memory banks, had never actually happened?
There were no answers to be found in the quiet, night-darkened med-bay. Jazz's visored optics kept getting pulled to his left, as if he could see through the walls and deck and into the officers' corridor.
Prowl was there. He didn't question the knowledge or wonder how he'd come to possess it.
Prowl was there, and he'd have answers to all Jazz's very many questions. Either that or someone would pay - both for Jazz's distress and for whatever was keeping his friend in the dark. There was no fragging way that a Prowl in full command of his faculties and the situation at hand could not know what had happened to his closest friend and colleague.
Moving with all the stealth at his disposal, compensating for the minuscule deficiencies of his frame, Jazz crept into the main area of the repair bay, easing his way past the medic's office, and Ratchet's quarters beyond. He backed away from the door too, heading instead for the maintenance and ventilation duct he knew ran along the back wall. A swipe of his hand, a pulse from the magnetic generator in his servos, and a panel popped loose, letting him slip silently into the confined space beyond. Another surge of his magnets and the panel was replaced as if it had never been touched. Nodding to himself, the saboteur set off in his stealthy quest for explanations.
Until Jazz knew what was going on, until Prowl had confirmed he was safe, no one - Ratchet included - was going to know he was awake.
The maintenance shafts were easy for a mech of Jazz's skills to navigate. The traps and barriers set for cassetticons opened to his codes, and he hacked each one as they did so, preventing their logs from registering the activity or reporting it to the ever-vigilant Red Alert.
For a few clicks, he paused at a junction, pondering a detour to glance into the Rec Room. Part of him wanted to check on the crew he cared for as family. It unsettled him that a larger part, the core of his instincts - his spark even - insisted that getting to Prowl was more important. Shaking his helm sharply, he turned back onto the straight course, his processor rationalising that - given the time of night - the room would be virtually empty in any case.
Prowl's office was almost as dark as the rest of the ship. A single lamp, angled down onto the tactician's desk, mingled with the glow of his blue optics. His own visor deliberately dim, Jazz studied his friend from behind the concealing grill of a vent, a frown on his face.
It was a long time since he'd seen Prowl this jittery. The Praxian's door-wings twitched, his frame shifting in its seat and his entire aspect uneasy. It was enough to give Jazz pause. He stilled his own frame, checking his stealth routines were in place to keep his presence concealed even from his friend's extensive wing-mounted sensor suite. Cautiously, Jazz analysed his passive sensors, determined to assess any potential threat before he made himself known.
Prowl's finger-servo played across a data-pad on the desk in front of him, scrolling backwards and forwards through the same section several times before he abandoned the attempt. Jazz watched as his friend sat back in his chair, optics dimming and finger-servos coming up to rest on his chevron. Prowl's vents slowed in concentration, his jitters stilled, and, just for a few klicks, Jazz felt some of the tension ease from own his frame. Then his spark rebelled, insisting that he wasn't safe and that nothing could be trusted on face value.
Prowl's relaxed face-plates tightened in a slight frown. He shook his helm as if to clear it, vented a sigh and tapped the com panel on his desk.
"Teletraan-1, please report status of medical monitors alpha nine through fourteen."
There was a musical lilt detectable to Jazz's sensitive audio receptors - a rhythm, as if Prowl had repeated the words often enough for them to develop into a routine. The tactician's helm was bowed, weariness written in his posture as he waited for an equally routine response.
"Medical monitors alpha nine through fourteen inactive."
Whatever answer Prowl had been expecting, it obviously wasn't that. He jerked to his feet, his upset chair clattering to the ground behind him. His optics flared, his door-wings wide and high in alarm.
"Inact…?" Prowl sounded not far off panic, and Jazz found himself mirroring the emotion, an energon blade slipping from its sheath and into his servos. "But the alarms…? Explain!"
The pause from Teletraan-1 was several micro-klicks longer than it should have been. "No explanation possible."
"Put me through to Ratchet!"
"Chief Medical Officer Ratchet is currently in recharge in his quarters."
"Not in the repair bay?" Prowl demanded. He was leaning forward, his servo-tips pressed to the desk in front of him as if to steady him. He cycled his optics, leaving them dim. His vents faltered and his voice was very quiet when he went on. "Teletraan, please scan med-bay. Report on condition of Autobot Jazz."
Teletraan-1's vocaliser cycled, the whir audible over the open com. "No active spark resonances detected in the repair bay."
"No!" Prowl trembled, his door-wings wavering up and down. "No, I don't believe it." His optics flared bright and then dimmed again, the finger-servos of one hand coming up to brush his chestplate.
Jazz had frozen, still and silent in the vent, shocked by the intensity of emotion Prowl displayed, and by the way his own spark pulsed in sympathy for the sight in front of him.
"I don't… I know…" Prowl's vocaliser stuttered into silence, his helm tilted as if listening. And then Prowl turned to face the covered vent, the expression of hope and disbelief on his face almost painful to see.
"Jazz?"
"Jazz?"
For a moment, only silence met his inquiry. Then his door-wings registered a magnetic flux. The grill opened. Jazz stepped into the room.
Prowl had fantasized about this moment. He'd woken from recharge with false memories of it, and his tactical processor had provided a dozen variants on the scenario.
None of them had involved a silent black-and-white frame slipping into Prowl's darkened office like a spectre from his darkest dreams.
Jazz's frame was taut and wary, his visor lit but polarised to dampen its glow. He stood in a half-crouch, ready for anything and as far from relaxed as Prowl had ever seen his companion. For all that, the tactician felt his spark sing, and a weight that he'd carried for almost three orns lift.
"Jazz," he repeated softly.
"What's going on, Prowl?" The use of his proper name was a clue, the flat, unmusical tone another. Prowl hadn't moved from his initial position, shock freezing him in place. Now he held still deliberately, not even lifting his hands from the desk surface. An armed and able Ops specialist in full defensive mode was not a mech to startle or alarm.
"Jazz," Prowl met his friend's optics, his voice grave and a pause adding weight to each statement. "You're home. I'm here." He let the smallest smile quirk one corner of his mouth. "You're safe."
The final words might have thrown a switch. Jazz sagged, tension draining from his frame in a flood. An energon blade that Prowl hadn't even noticed slipped from suddenly limp finger-servos to clatter against the floor. The saboteur's visor brightened and his energy field expanded, his stealth algorithms releasing their hold on his systems.
Jazz blinked up at Prowl, and the tactician had never seen his friend so tired, so afraid or so bewildered.
"You're safe," Prowl repeated, letting his own tension go.
The tactician's spark throbbed in his chest. He didn't recall moving to take the other mech in his arms. The realisation that he had was startling. Prowl had never embraced Jazz before. A comforting arm around his friend's shoulder, yes. Many long joors had been spent sitting by the saboteur's side, talking him through his troubles, sharing his own or simply listening. Jazz had slipped into recharge with his helm resting on Prowl's shoulder often enough that the tactician had stopped counting.
The Ops mech had never stood in the circle of Prowl's arms, chest-plate to chest-plate, and leaned into Prowl of his own volition.
Jazz shuddered, and Prowl could feel the panic and tension still spilling in waves from his spark - damped by Prowl's presence, but not entirely eradicated. His own spark wanted to curl up in sympathy. He vented slowly instead, focusing on calm thoughts. Jazz would retain no conscious memory of his ordeal. The deep sensory impressions burned into his spark instead would be all the more trying without a context to rationalise them.
It might have been a few klicks, a breem, or half an eternity before Jazz seemed to realise what he was doing. The saboteur took a startled step backwards, pushing free of the embrace. He stared at Prowl, faceplates betraying his confusion.
Frowning, the saboteur shook his helm to clear it. He pressed his servo-tips to the chest-plate above his spark, angling his sensory horns as if he could hear the joy that sang from Prowl's spark to his own. Scowling, he shook his helm a second time.
"Prowler?" His servos waved in free air, as if trying to shape words large enough to encompass the situation. Venting in exasperation, he gave up. "What in th' name of Primus is goin' on?"
The frustration was something Prowl could understand. Jazz was an information-oriented mech, as much so as Prowl himself. Lack of knowledge could offline them both, or offline the mechs in their charge. Nothing was so frightening as ignorance.
"No one was harmed, save you, Jazz. You were captured by Shockwave. He experimented on your spark. Our rescue of you was difficult and not without complications, but ultimately successful. We have been waiting for you to awaken."
There was silence for a few klicks. Prowl watched his companion process the information, evaluating both the facts Prowl had provided and their implications.
"No one's hurt?"
"No." Prowl smiled, and the sun rose in his world as Jazz responded with a broad, relieved grin.
The saboteur ex-vented, hooking a chair with one pede and dragging it over. He settled into it, watching thoughtfully as Prowl retrieved his own low-backed seat.
"I need th' rest of it, Prowler." The saboteur leaned forward, expression intent. "Why're my memory banks blank? What 'complications'?"
There were a dozen ways Prowl could answer that question. All save one of them would amount to nothing but deceit.
"Jazz, I need you to stay calm. You're safe, and we'll work things out. This will be a shock, I understand that, but it's the easiest way."
"Not 'xactly inspirin' me with confidence, mech."
"I know."
Prowl cycled down his optics. He regulated his vents, thinking back to the two, brief sessions he'd permitted to ease the twins' fretting. He had to admit that some of what they'd tried to explain had been a help. Most of the rest had been frankly baffling, or irrelevant with his spark-bound partner deep in stasis. One thing they'd been sure of though, and Ratchet had confirmed: Jazz and Prowl were linked. They were, and always would be, far more aware of one another than any two other mechs. They'd mirror one another's moods, unless they defended against it. And while words would likely always be beyond them, they'd probably need to take steps to stop images and even whole memories drifting between them in their recharge as the bond matured.
Prowl had spent far too long dwelling on those possibilities during his endless wait. He'd probed the thread that linked his spark to the silent Jazz, and he'd learned what he could of its nature. The tactician was nothing if not a quick study.
The thread was still there, where he had learned to find it. It lashed and writhed, still torn by doubt and anxiety, despite the cloak of outwards calm that Jazz had drawn around him. Making anything felt in that maelstrom would be like trying to whisper instructions amidst a howling gale.
Optics still offline, Prowl extended one hand, finger-servos outstretched. He counted his spark-pulses, waiting patiently through the long hesitation before slender finger-servos intertwined with his own and Jazz took his hand.
The connection between them settled, strengthened. Jazz gasped, his spark resisting on instinct alone, but also reaching out, afraid and relieved and excited all at the same time.
An empty frame.
A spark in a box.
Prowl with spark energy spilling between his chest-plates, the box cradled against him.
Ratchet.
Starscream.
Darkness.
The frame restored, its colours vibrant, its visor dark.
Waiting. Watching. Needing. Knowing.
Jazz's servos jerked free from Prowl's, his vents coming hard and fast. The connection faded once again to a distant thread, fragile and turbulent.
Any other mech would have needed a decaorn, a year, an entire vorn, to assimilate the information Prowl had conveyed in a spark-beat. Jazz sat silent for a single breem, his visor bright and locked with Prowl's optics. Prowl waited, not moving himself until Jazz drew in a long shuddering vent and shook his helm.
"I'm safe now." The saboteur might have been reminding Prowl, or reminding himself. "Y' did what you hadta, Prowl, an' I'm not sure I've ever been more grateful."
Prowl's optics dropped to the desk, unable to hold his friend's gaze. He flexed his finger-servos and relaxed them.
"My actions have burdened you with a partial bond. One that cannot be broken."
Jazz leaned forward, his hesitation before taking Prowl's finger-servos back in his own scarcely noticeable.
"Yeah, I got that. We'll work it out, Prowler. Y'know we will."
In all Prowl's tactical simulations, in all his dreams, the impossible, infuriatingly unpredictable mech in front of him had never once responded with such matter-of-fact acceptance.
Not that he entirely believed it. He could feel the turmoil and shock rolling off the saboteur. He would have felt it even without the gossamer thread that wove their sparks together. He knew his friend well enough to read the anxiety, dismay and incipient anger from his frame alone. Jazz feared what might come as much as Prowl did - but his words were a promise: they'd face it together.
"Prowl!" The door burst open, shattering the moment. Prowl snatched his servo back, his door-wings flaring. Jazz's weapon systems shot online, his faceplates stilling in a battle-ready mask, before he overode his instincts and settled back into his chair with deliberate nonchalence.
Ratchet was wide-opticed, his engine growling as if he had maintained top speed from the repair bay to Prowl's office without pause. His sirens hummed as they wound down, still echoing the row he must have made as he raced through the Ark. Behind him, the twins revved loudly and in unison. Behind them, others crowded the corridor, flotsam attracted by the noise and gathered up in the medic's wake.
"Prowl… Jazz is… Are you…?"
Ratchet's vocaliser choked into static, his optics bright.
Jazz gave him a friendly wave.
"Hiya, Ratch."
Gears glitched. Bluestreak was struck silent. Sunstreaker cursed, slumping against the doorway and holding it as if for support. Jazz hummed through his vents, turning back to his companion and raising a brow-ridge behind his visor.
"Y'know, I'm gettin' the idea there was a complication or two y' forgot t' mention."