Lost Decepticon

by GoblinCatKC

Summary:

Jazz, Third in Command, spymaster and saboteur par excellance, came from humble beginnings known only to the elite commanding officers of the Autobot faction. For his own protection, no one else may learn of it. But sometimes, under the worst conditions...his Decepticon shows.

Chapter 1: Stumbling Home

A clatter and crash at the medbay door was Ratchet's first warning. Ironhide's message flashed across his datapad a second later, but by then Ratchet was already remotely sealing all the doors and turning off any operating viewscreens. Out of habit, he filled an injector with dielectric fluid, but he doubted his patient would give him a chance to use it.

Another clatter, something dropping on the floor, and a heavily accented curse. Ratchet vented once, steeled himself for the worst, and came out of his office.

Oh, this was going to be one of the bad ones. How did Jazz always manage to get back to base, let alone make it to the medbay, without anyone noticing? Jazz must have lost more and more control over himself as he moved, slowly watching each of his functions go offline as he gave himself one last command over and over. Return to medbay. Return to medbay.

At least Jazz had dropped his rifle, not because he felt safe but because his shooting hand could no longer grip without three fingers. Jazz leaned against one of the berths, venting in a vain attempt to cool himself, too lost in shock to notice the coolant and energon leaking from his shoulder and pelvic joints. Ratchet scanned the rest of his injuries—blown servos, melted fuses and cracks in his frame's extremities, along with sparking in his audio horns and white noise in his visor. Ratchet guessed that their spymaster was nearly blind and deaf.

Jazz groaned, trying to stand straight and slumping brokenly against the wall, and Ratchet changed his guess. Nearly mute, too, with an strained voice box.

Ready for a desperate knife attack, Ratchet cleared his vent intake.

Startled, Jazz stumbled backward and fell on his aft, creeping along the floor until his back hit the wall. He scrabbled blindly around himself, trying to climb back to his pedes, forgetting in his haze of pain that his right hand was still hanging limp.

"Look at you," Ratchet sighed, coming closer to stand over him. "You're gonna bleed out if you don't settle down."

"Stay back." Jazz vented so fast and deep that his leaking coolant system couldn't keep up, doubly overheating himself. "Stay back. Don't come any closer!"

Ratchet tilted his head, sweeping his gaze over him. Jazz's voice unit scratched with static and his audio horns sparked, meaning he probably heard everything as if he were underwater, including himself. Couple that with his damaged visor and reduced sensory input as his body tried to defend against the waves of pain, and Ratchet was stuck with one very paranoid and panicked bot.

"Do you even know where you are?" Ratchet said.

Kneeling down, he straddled Jazz's hips, using his weight and leverage to pin his legs. Jazz reacted instantly, striking at the mech looming over him, but his servos were sluggish and only at half strength. Ratchet caught his wrists and pushed them up over his head, holding them against the wall. Jazz hissed as his wrist joints ground together, and Ratchet eased his grip very slightly.

"Don't fight me," he warned him, reaching with one hand toward Jazz's visor. "Stay still..."

At feeling Ratchet's touch on his faceplate, Jazz whipped his head back and forth. He knocked his visor off on Ratchet's knuckles, sending it crumbling to the floor. Jazz squeezed his optics shut, bucking his hips once.

"You can't fight me," Ratchet said, stroking his face, running one thumb under his optics. "You never could."

Slowly, as he realized he wasn't being hurt, Jazz's thrashing became very small and tame. The sounds coming from his mouth were equally small, thin as his voice box began to fail. But the hand caressing his faceplate was gentle and familiar, as if he had felt this stroke before. As it touched around his optics, caressing them, his venting came back under control and began to properly cool his systems teetering on the edge of meltdown.

"Good boy," Ratchet assured him. "Open up for me. Come on. You know my voice. Open up."

Shuddering, his chin tilted up, Jazz's optics opened to slits, then wider when no retaliation came. Deep red light bathed his face.

"Lost little Decepticon," Ratchet chuckled. "Remember me yet?"

"R-Ratchet?" Jazz whispered, peering up at him in growing recognition. "Wait. Where...am I back on base? Ratchet, is that...? Oh no—my visor, where's my—"

"It's all right," Ratchet said. "It needs replacing anyway. The door's locked. No one's coming in. You're in medbay. You're safe."

Jazz stared at him a moment longer, his increasingly cloudy processor working through that. Then he relaxed and let his head rest in Ratchet's hand. The glow of his optics colored the space between them, and as often required after these worst missions, Ratchet lightly touched the plating around them, soothing the fear and paranoia back into something resembling Jazz.

Chapter 2: Showing Off

Jazz had the complete trust of Optimus Prime and Ironhide. Sometimes that made it worse.

Sitting at the command conference table, listening to Perceptor and Red Alert describe reports of the highest classification, he wondered how any of them could relax with him there. Even Prowl seemed satisfied with the calculations as to his loyalty. Behind his visor, Jazz glanced at each officer, eternally surprised that they let him be there.

"The only problem with this information," Perceptor said, laying the datapad back on the table, "is that the codes used on this interception were old. They aren't any of the recent ones we know about."

"How old?" Prowl asked.

"They date back to the beginning of the war," Perceptor said. "The passwords check out, but the digital riders don't match anything we know about."

The problem, as they all knew, was that Decepticons always varied their codes and not all transmissions were valid, like one message hidden within another. The difference between troop movements in Asia or troop movements on another planet. Without the additional digital markers, they had little way of telling if this transmission had been deliberately dropped into their lap or not.

"So it's a visual confirmation only?" Optimus asked.

The room fell silent. Perceptor nodded.

Optimus raised his head slightly and glanced at Ironhide, who read his look and got up, locking the main door with his personal password. At the table, Prowl reached into his compartment and withdrew a small box, which he set down and tapped. A faint highpitched signal raced through the room, like the air pressure shifting across sensitive receptors, as a light electro-magnetic burst killed any weak monitoring equipment, and finally Red Alert put the conference room's main processor into reboot, effectively silencing any audio receiver or cameras. And, one at a time, Jazz set the numerous safeguards and firewalls on his visors to sleep.

"All communication effectively blocked?" Perceptor said purely for formality. Everyone nodded, and when he was satisfied, he slid his datapad to over the table to Jazz. "Can you confirm the message as real?"

Venting once and staring at the datapad as if it were a scraplet, Jazz felt Prowl shift and slide one hand over his, squeezing gently. Above the table, there was no indication that Prowl was holding him, and Jazz turned his hand up to return the touch.

"Gimme a second, bossmech." Jazz forced a smile and audibly disengaged the locks holding the titanium frame of his visor in place. "Wasn't planning on showing off today."

A chuckle went around the table, and Optimus nodded once.

"I'm certain Red Alert, at least, is reassured at how long it takes you to 'show off'."

Across the table, Red Alert tapped the edge of the table without realizing it. "It is tolerable, especially since this is with Jazz's full cooperation and not resisting Decepticon malware. However, I still must formally voice my extreme dissatisfaction that the Third in Command must place himself in the field so often. Jazz and this secret are safer here."

Red Alert's voice turned into the mild whine that it usually did when he couldn't force his security decisions. Optimus usually gave into everything he wanted.

"I know," Optimus said. "With so few bots so attuned to SpecOps work, however, I can only continue to repeat that he's best used in the field."

"Sorry, Red." Jazz clicked the last lock and disengaged the last security protocol, a mild explosive built into the frame. "An instrument this good just gotta be played, know what I'm saying?"

Red Alert's huff and quiet "but you're not a tool" was heard but unacknowledged. He couldn't argue against the realities of war.

With his free hand, Jazz flipped up his visor. He kept his gaze firmly on the datapad, but in his peripheral vision and on his kinectic sensors, he felt the tension in the room rise as everyone else halted their battle subroutines triggered by his optics. Some other Autobots had red optics, to the endless teasing of their comrades, but even they didn't have the deep, dark scarlet of some of the original Decepticon forces.

The message was brief, and Jazz felt the minute servos deep in his optics quickly spin around, rotating a dozen thin lenses to proper position. One by one, they lined up faint receptors that picked up the subtle binary script hidden in the text, and then selected the proper ones in sequence. As they did, he transmitted the translation to the datapad.

"Slag, that's ancient," Jazz whispered. Shaking his head once, he locked his visor back in place and slumped in his chair again, passing the datapad back around.

"It's Soundwave all right," he said, "but it ain't what you're thinking. I don't know if the plans are legit 'cause it ain't about that. He sent this to Megatron, saying he's scoped the spy in their ranks."

"Does he say who?" Optimus asked.

"Nope," Jazz said, "and he's in the wrong dang troop, but he put the why's of his suspicions in here, and...he's close, Prime. He's real close to my guy."

"Do we need to pull your agent out?" Prowl asked.

Jazz tilted his head in thought. If it was himself, he would risk staying undercover, but he didn't want to see Punch executed because he hadn't read the signs right and extracted him in time. That would bring suspicion down on himself, even if the officers never showed it, and worse, it would cost him the only drinking buddy who knew what it was to hide almost every moment.

Not that Punch ever said much when he came back. He was developing that long stare Ironhide sometimes said Jazz himself had, and Jazz sometimes worried that Punch was already lost between sides. But wars had casualties, and Punch's information hadn't been bad yet.

"No," he started slowly. "We don't have to...but if you wanna keep him in there, we're gonna have to reassure them that he's on their side."

Ironhide grumbled and glared at Jazz. "You mean put a round in him or let him put a round in you."

Jazz gave a half-shrug. "Either way, someone's gonna have to take one for the team."

"Ratchet just repaired you," Prowl said in exasperation.

"Yup," Jazz grinned. "So I'm good for another go around."

"Before that becomes necessary," Optimus said, "I'd rather see if we can solve two problems together. Starscream has been moving along the Gulf oil wells. If we can arrange the coming battle on our terms..."

Jazz tuned him out as conversation turned back toward battle plans and long term scenarios. It was nothing he couldn't keep just half an audio on, and he'd receive the meeting notes later anyway.

He hadn't let go of Prowl's hand. Revealing his optics never got easier. In front of the Prime, it felt like a betrayal, even if he'd been Kaonite before changing sides. Optimus never said anything about it except to constantly trust him, promote him and share a love of human sports with him, but the needling paranoia in Jazz's cortex kept the doubt fresh in his thoughts.

Prowl slid his datapad over to Jazz.

Are you all right?

Jazz smiled, squeezed Prowl's hand again and typed a reply.

Be fine later. If you're up to it.

The faint, faint smile from Prowl was all the answer he needed.

Chapter 3: Gathering in Medbay

A heavy knock interrupted them, and Ironhide cursed about forgetting the slagging door. Once he'd unlocked it, Smokescreen leaned in, scanning until he spotted Jazz.

"Commander?" he asked, venting heavily. "Can you come? It's Mirage."

Everyone sat straight, and Jazz was already on his pedes.

"Don't say it," Jazz started, a sinking feeling in his spark chamber. "Dammit, don't—"

"It was Cliffjumper," Smokescreen said with a nod. "Got him from behind. Mirage is in medbay now—"

"I'll rip that slag's head off!" Jazz snarled, passing Smokescreen as he broke into a run.

"Aw, great," Ironhide said, about to stand.

"I'll take care of it," Prowl said, waving him down as he followed Jazz. "Between Ratchet and I, we can manage him."

When Jazz wanted to be somewhere, Prowl would have sworn he moved as fast on his pedes as his alt mode. Jazz reached the medbay well before him, with scuffmarks on the floor where he'd come to a hard stop and swung in, leaving the door slowly falling closed. Prowl heard the rushed voices through the quick vents cooling the sudden flush of heat through Jazz's system, heard Mirage's sluggish response.

Bumblebee was just coming to the door, grabbing it and then holding it open briefly for Prowl. The look in his optics said that Prowl was allowed but promised trouble for anyone else trying to come in after, and Bumblebee stood directly in front of medbay as soon as the lock clicked. The handful of mechs that made up Special Operations was closing ranks around one of their own, and Prowl counted off the bots in Jazz's unit, sending a ping to Red Alert to account for the others as fast as he could. Hound wouldn't hurt anyone, but Smokescreen's actions were always a gamble.

Jazz stood beside the berth, ignoring and being ignored by Ratchet. Both had learned how to deal with each other's needs over the long vorns, and if Jazz had to be there, then Ratchet could tolerate a single hand gently covering Mirage's.

Mirage lay still, moving only when Ratchet tapped his arm, warning him to adjust while the medic rotated the shoulder. Grinding steel on steel followed as Ratchet undid several screws and bolts already covered in blackening grime and leaked energon. Mirage hissed, half-rising up from the bed, and Jazz put his hand under his bot's back to help hold and ease him back down.

"I'm dousing your pain receptors," Ratchet said, his right hand transforming into a spidery mass of thin probes and port connections that slid under Mirage's armor. "But not all of it. You gotta tell me where it's hurting."

"Got it," Mirage groaned, digging the back of his head against the berth. "Worst of it's under your hand. Lower."

Piece by piece, the dented armor around his shoulder lifted away. No longer compressed, torn fuel lines and cables began to splash coolant and energon with sparks traveling from the wound down to Mirage's trembling fingers and up to his collar.

From the back office, First Aid appeared with an armful of compresses, clamps and spare parts fitting Mirage's model. In sync with Ratchet so that they never stepped in each other's way, First Aid worked to contain the damage while Ratchet diagnosed and prepared for deep repairs. Compresses stymied the leaking before the cables were shunted, his electric coils shielded or temporarily powered down.

Finally Mirage moaned in relief, relaxing and going limp. Enough motor control returned that he could turn his other hand up to hold Jazz in return.

"Hit the spot?" Ratchet asked, looking up from counting his internal processing clock.

"Oh Primus." Static riddled his voice box, overstressed from his previous yell and then the strain of excess electricity surging outside its proper channels. "Haven't had a bad short like that in so long."

"Not long enough," Jazz said, leaning closer. "Talk to me. What do you remember?"

"It was my own fault," Mirage said. His optics opened, unfocused. "I started to turn my back on him."

"And I thought you were my best student," Jazz said, keeping his voice light. "Maybe this time it'll stick in your helm. You don't turn your back on no one."

"Makes it a little hard to walk down the corridor," Mirage murmured.

"Learn," Jazz said. "Who was it?"

Mirage blinked. "The security cams..."

"I'll look at 'em later," Jazz said. "I wanna hear it from you."

His mouth tightening, Mirage turned his head a few inches, closing his optics either to remember or to avoid facing them.

"He heard me talking to 'Bee," he started. "Told him he shouldn't hang out with Decepticon sympathizers."

"Who?" Jazz said. "Gimme a name."

"Jazz—" Mirage said, squeezing his hand tighter. "Please, Jazz—"

"No begging when I ain't in the berth with you," Jazz said. "The name."

Ratchet looked up briefly at Prowl, sharing a look. Prowl very slightly shook his head. Jazz was not yet in danger. He would let Jazz conduct his unit as he saw fit until forced to restrain him.

"It was Cliffjumper," Mirage said so softly that the static nearly drowned it. "Said being a pacifist was as bad as giving aid to the 'Cons."

"As bad as jumping his own damn teammate?" Jazz growled.

Mirage squeezed his hand again, shaking his head once. Jazz gave him a cheery smile and leaned over him, nuzzling his faceplate and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Don't worry," Jazz said. "I'll be good. Promise."

With a faint murmur, Mirage nodded once, succumbing to recharge mode as Ratchet inserted a drip of ionized fluid to slow his systems down. Jazz held his hand a moment longer, then stood straight, rotating his own shoulder in sympathetic ache.

"He'll be okay, right?" he asked.

Ratchet didn't pause even to look up. "He isn't the one I'm worried about right now. Don't do anything stupid."

Jazz's smile didn't fade. "Stupid was that little fragger thinking he could walk all over my bot."

Prowl took a step, about to speak up, when Ratchet paused in his work and gave Jazz the full force of the glare of an overworked medbot up to his wists in a torn mech's components. Prowl, who usually did a good job of avoiding Ratchet's ire, felt his own servos tense up, and Jazz leaned back, lowering his head slightly as if Ratchet held him responsible for the whole mess.

"I am taking valuable time," Ratchet snapped, "from fixing up 'your bot' because Mirage is more worried about what you'll do than what Cliffjumper'll do. So when you go slit Cliffjumper's cables, you remember you got a hurt mech back here afraid you'll end up busting yourself worse than that 'little fragger'. You hear me?"

Jazz squirmed, and he gave Prowl a look over his shoulder, aware of how the Second was keeping a tight watch on the Third. With one more look at Mirage, clenching his fists and then making himself relax them again, he vented out a sudden burst of heat.

"Y'all wound me," he said, holding up his hands in defeat. "You really do. Cliffjumper ain't no thing to get the Jazzmeister all wound up."

"It's a relief to hear," Ratchet said, going back to work. "Last thing I wanna see is you hurt 'cause you care about your mechs."

Ratchet's voice wasn't any softer, but Jazz's smile faded to something sincere, relieved that the medbot wasn't really angry at him. Turning, Jazz tilted his head slightly to look at Prowl.

"You gonna make sure I behave?"

"You are the Third in Command," Prowl said simply. "I won't have to."

Jazz's grumbled under his voice, walking past him and opening the door, startling Bumblebee.

"Jazz, is he—"

"He'll be fine," Jazz said, clapping a hand on Bumblebee's shoulder for a moment. "Just roughed up a bit. You stay here and keep an eye on him, got it?"

The smaller bot nodded quickly and went in, taking up position by Mirage and putting up with Ratchet's grumbling about a crowded medbay. Jazz chuckled after him, but when he turned back around, his smile was cold and made Prowl wonder why no one had ever guessed what lay under that blue visor.

"He in the brig?" Jazz asked.

Over his private communication channel, Prowl confirmed Cliffjumper's location with Red Alert and nodded once.

"Okay," Jazz said, shrugging once. "Let's go be good, disciplined little Autobots."

Prowl's voice betrayed a wry humor even though his face remained impassive. "Your restraint is an inspiration to us all."

"It's gonna be a damn inspiration to Cliffjumper," Jazz said. "Bot's gonna discover what it means to pray to Primus."

Chapter 4: Behaving

But when they arrived, it was to find Optimus already standing in front of the first cell. Prowl drew up short at the doorway and put one arm out, halting Jazz as well. The brig was not something they had to resort to often. Even repeat offenders like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were more likely to be put to work until the punishing officer was satisfied. No, Optimus had beaten them to Cliffjumper, and neither he nor Jazz would interfere until Optimus was done.

Jazz stepped behind his shoulder, scooting close enough that Prowl felt the warmth from his systems. Both of them took the other's presence as a shield against their Prime's anger. The officers often looked at their leader as an inspiration or friend, perhaps even going so far as to call him their only hope, but there were times that he put aside every other aspect of himself and acted as the Chosen of the Matrix of Leadership, Leader of Cybertron, capable of spark shattering guilt trips, and even the ricochets off his speeches hurt.

Since Cliffjumper was not trying to talk over him or interrupt, Optimus must have been speaking for a long time already. Jazz wished he could see the smaller bot around Optimus. Cliffjumper matched his name in every way, and Jazz wanted to see the sad pile he made when he hit the bottom.

"—to raise arms against your own comrades," Prime said, continuing a speech that had clearly been going on for some time. "Comrades who have fought alongside you and protected you in battle at the risk of their own lives."

"He's a sympathizer, you can't deny it," Cliffjumper said, but the words came reluctantly from his voice processor. "He don't wanna fight."

"Who among us wants to fight?" Prime said. "No one wants war, and no one should want to raise arms against another Cybertronian. And yet Mirage has fought loyally for our cause for thousands of vorns."

"Lousy 'Con in 'Bot insignia," Cliffjumper muttered at his lowest volume.

"Today," Prime said, pausing for effect, "the only one acting like a Decepticon was you."

Prime's last comment dropped on Jazz and sank down so that he felt too heavy to move. Prowl lay a hand on his shoulder, but Jazz didn't notice, slamming his vents tight so he wouldn't make a sound, no matter how hot his system had started to run.

Jazz? Prowl tentatively pinged their internal comm system, his inner voice gentler than his disciplined face would suggest. Are you all right?

Just dumb memories, Jazz rushed to say, annoyed at how Prowl had caught him. I'm good.

Yes, Prowl nodded once as if Jazz had passed inspection, facing the browbeating still in progress. You are.

When Prime finished, Cliffjumper was sitting on the floor, head in his hands, barely responsive. He nodded when asked if he understood exactly what he'd done, and his salute trembled when Prime turned and left.

Jazz and Prowl stood at attention when he drew close, the authority noticeably slipping from his shoulders as he vented once. No one enjoyed a chewing out, least of all Optimus.

"How's Mirage?" he asked.

"Ratchet said he'll be fine." Prowl glanced at Jazz. "And our Third has promised to be a 'good, disciplined, little Autobot'."

"Prowl, you are one seriously uncool cat." Jazz gave his fellow officer a sideways glance that was only barely discernible behind the visor, groaning slightly and lowering his helm a few inches.

Optimus nodded in appreciation with his mask only somewhat muffling his laugh. "I never doubted it. He's all yours, Jazz, but don't tear him apart. He'll be in here for a few orn, and I don't think he'll find many friends when he comes out."

Jazz felt warmth spread through his spark. Nearly countless vorn working under Optimus, and yet their leader still reassured his worries just by being so close that he could feel the taller mech's vents. Jazz measured himself against Optimus' opinion of him, and he strove to never give Optimus a reason to be disappointed in his choice.

"Sure thing, boss," Jazz nodded, offering his rarest 'trust me' smile, rare in that he actually meant it. "I'll be just a couple kliks."

"Then I'll leave you to it," Optimus said. "Be sure you two comm me when you know what you want to do about the Soundwave situation."

"Of course, sir," Prowl said.

Optimus nodded and walked on. Jazz couldn't help watching him go. In just a few breem, the Autobot leader could reduce a mech to wanting to tear out his own fuel pump in guilt or follow him into the Decepticon base with nothing but his bare hands.

"You want to go in first?" Prowl asked. "Or shall I?"

"I will," Jazz said. "Like I said, just a couple kliks."

He went and stood in front of the cell, arms crossed, simply staring at Cliffjumper. The scuffs and dents on the mech's armor surprised him a little—Jazz needed to find out which Autobots had tackled him and give them a little reward. Cliffjumper would be lucky if Ratchet sent him painkillers, let alone came to repair him right away.

A breem passed. Then another. Jazz was beginning to consider what to do about Punch and Soundwave when Cliffjumper finally spotted him and startled backward, hitting his head on the wall.

"Jazz," Cliffjumper said, swallowing his nervousness. "Hey, listen—"

"No," Jazz said.

Cliffjumper's jaw clicked shut, and Jazz drew up close to the bars and leaned forward.

"You hurt my 'bot," Jazz said. "Who's a thousand times more dependable than you. I don't know what Prime said, and I don't know what Prowl'll end up doing to you. I don't care. 'Cause I'll deal with you later myself."

The other mech stared at him in confusion. "What—?"

"You won't see me coming," Jazz said. "You won't know where I am. One moment you're walking down the hall, and then..."

He waved his hand idly, letting Cliffjumper jump to his own conclusions.

"That...that's not fair," Cliffjumper whispered, his optics growing wider. "You can't—"

"Why not?" Jazz said, already turning and heading toward the door. "Just using your own tactics."

"Jazz, no," Cliffjumper said, grabbing the bars and calling after him. "Wait! Jazz!"

"Maybe," Jazz said over his shoulder, "when you leaping off of cliffs, you oughtta start thinking 'bout what scrap pile you gonna land on."

Once he was clear of the brig, Jazz glanced at Prowl and kept going. The private message on his communicator didn't surprise him.

Attacking an Autobot is not permissable at any rank, Prowl reminded him.

Let him look over his shoulder for awhile, Jazz said, pausing. He's gonna find he ain't got no friends, not when I'm the one looking to cut his cables.

Jazz...

Venting, Jazz turned and faced Prowl, ducking his helm at the stern look on his friend's face. Ain't no thang gonna happen, bossmech. Didn't even threaten nothing, and 'sides, putting him on alert might put him on his best behavior for awhile, right?

Careful, Prowl said, but his internal voice was light after Jazz's swift reassurance. Your Decepticon is showing.

Bad habits die hard. Jazz frowned. But you are gonna handle him, right?

I think half a vorn of surprise double shifts, Prowl said as he came close. Keep him too tired to attack anyone. Plus a complete wipe of any of his privileges. He will have to earn those back again. That, coupled with the stigma of having hurt one of our own, should make him understand the severity of his actions.

Prowl stepped close, reaching up and caressing Jazz's audio horn, brushing the back of his hand across the Third's helm. It hurts, being viewed with suspicion by your comrades. I would not wish that on anyone. Hopefully he will learn his lesson and eventually return to full status.

Ain't inviting him to no parties ever, Jazz said, tilting into Prowl's palm. Speaking of which, when Ratchet signs off on him, I'll be breaking regs and throwing Mirage a welcome back party with all of Spec Ops, Blaster and probably the twins to keep things lively. Probably snag a little coolant with some questionable additives, too.

I see... Prowl said, quirking a faint smile.

Very hush hush, Jazz added. Don't tell Prowl. He gets really annoyed when I bend the rules.

I'm sure he does, Prowl said. But for Mirage's sake, he'll probably give you half a joor warning before raiding the party.

That's all I ever ask, Jazz said with a kiss to Prowl's fingertips, heading down to Wheeljack's lab to temporarily spring the twins from their hazardous punishment detail.

Chapter 5: Memory File Begin

For millenia, the black killing fields of Cybertron lit only with the flashes of war, tracer rounds that shot neon fire across the sky, explosive flares that burst blindingly white and faded just as fast. Mechs torn in half by canon fire and the bright sparks of their systems sputtering out. And over the miles of battle, the green haze of lingering radiation.

Sheltering behind the broken curve of a highway, Ironhide put his back against the wreckage and reloaded, glancing at Optimus to check for damage.

"You okay?" he called, shouting over a close blast.

"Still in one piece," Optimus answered. "You?"

"More or less." Ironhide vented, stirring up a cloud of black ash beneath them. "Bad news. The carrier got hit. If we wanna get out of here, we're gonna have to drive."

Optimus scanned the battlefield, optics adjusting for the near lack of light. They were cut off from the main retreat, but here and there he spotted the last handful of his Autobots, separated from the rest of the forces by blinding smoke. If there were more Autobots still on the field, there was no way to find them now. All he could do now was keep his remaining mechs together and pull them out in one piece.

"Rally anyone left to our position," Optimus said. "We'll follow the line of the highway until we can regroup—"

A high whine and crackle overhead interrupted him, drowning out his voice as it grew closer. Unnoticed during the fight and almost impossible to make out through the smoke, the clouds had thickened and grown heavy, and now thunder flashed inside with a green tint.

"Slag," Ironhide whispered. "Cloud seeders."

"New plan," Optimus said. "Run until we find cover! Autobots, roll out!"

They burst from their shelter, leading the last stragglers along the highway. Their dust plumes drew less and less fire as the remaining Decepticons realized their own danger and turned to flee. Any cover left standing was only a broken wall here or there, pavement cracked and thrown up by bombing. Even the largest cover, the broken pieces of the destroyed highway, were little more than thick sheets of steel standing upright with dangerous power cables sparking in the air. No shelter at all from the coming acid rain.

Optimus counted the mechs reporting in—Ratchet with a wounded Prowl at his side, Red Alert and Inferno. Counting himself and Ironhide, that wasn't even a sliver of the forces he'd led in. He had to hope the rest were in full retreat.

"Can you contact anyone?" Optimus intended the question for Ironhide, but it was Red Alert that answered.

"There!" he cried, intensifying his light to the path before them. "I see something!"

"You're always seeing something," Inferno sighed, but he slowed ever so sightly as they came closer. "It's just a pile of junk."

"No, wait!"

Ironhide slammed his brakes into place, wincing as he screeched to a halt with his rear tires spinning him around so that he stumbled back to his pedes. With the rest of the Autobots coming to a halt beside him, he knelt beside the fallen mech and turned him over.

"It's Blaster," Ironhide said, tugging at his cassette deck. "And his cassettes. They ain't moving."

"Is he alive?" Optimus asked.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Ratchet said, twitching in pain. "It's starting."

A red drop struck his shoulder, drawing a spark, then another, each bit of rain perfectly visible as they came down. Inferno bent over Red Alert, putting his arm around the smaller bot's waist and ignoring his protest.

"Everyone get close," Optimus said, ignoring the haywire in his own systems. "Ironhide, help me melt over a piece of steel. If we're lucky, it'll shield us from the worst of it."

"But—" Red Alert started, then fell silent. They knew it wouldn't be enough for all them. Optimus was trying to save what few he could, even if it galled the unlucky ones who had to watch them die.

A bright spotlight flashed over them, followed by the rumble of heavy engines and the violent wind sweeping black dust over them. The loud speaker activated with the pilot's voice, almost indistinguishable from the deafening rotors.

"I'm coming around." The searchlight spun around, leaving them in the glow of the landing lights and internal light as the hatch unsealed. "Get inside!"

"The carrier," Ironhide whooped. "It made it!"

As the transport unit landed, its rear hatch opened completely and shielded them from the rain. Red Alert found himself helping Inferno limp up the ramp, with Ratchet hauling Prowl and both Optimus and Ironhide carrying Blaster, holding his deck closed so his cassettes wouldn't spill out.

Once the ramp was back up and the hatch resealed, Ratchet set Prowl down beside Blaster and commandeered Red Alert and Inferno into impromptu medical aids. Solvent packs lay within the repair kit stowed in the carrier, and a quick rinse was required before anything else could be seen to. Optimus watched them for a long moment, listening to them chatter and insult each other, then vented out in relief and followed Ironhide to the front.

"I heard all the carriers got shot down," Ironhide called out, moving up through the stowage bay toward the open door of the cabin.

"They did," the pilot yelled over his shoulder. "I just found this one—did you see anyone else?"

Ironhide and Optimus froze. Neither of them recognized that voice nor the black and white paint job. They both drew their rifles again, moving slowly now.

"Didn't see no one else," Ironhide said, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. "Just those damn cloud seeders."

"There's gotta be more of us out there," the pilot said, so focused on his flying that he didn't notice the change in Ironhide's tone. "I'm sweeping again."

With his rifle aimed just below the mech's helm, Ironhide came into the cabin, taking a long look at the pilot.

The frame was a little off model but nothing unusual in a warzone without access to proper parts. That he'd been in heated combat was obvious by the badly scuffed and scraped paint and long scorch marks. One of his knee joints had partly melted. His cables had torn, leaking coolant down his side, and his vents came too short and quick, a sure sign of overheating.

Ironhide would have felt sorry if he hadn't seen the Decepticon decal on the mech's chestplate or his red optics. Instead Ironhide felt relief that one of those optics had cracked and the other audibly ground as its lenses constantly tried to refocus. Their Decepticon savior probably couldn't see more than large blurs.

That raised another question. How the frag had they not crashed?

Ironhide's optics widened slightly when he saw the pilot's hand sunk up to the wrist in a gash in the console. From the looks of it, the pilot had torn the steel himself, plunging his hand into the mess of flowing current. An interface cord had been spliced into the carrier central processor, and the other end...

...was spliced into the neural line of the pilot's hand. Ironhide winced. Like a poor mech's power splice, insulation had been stripped from the ends of both cords and the wires twisted around each other. Safer to do with simple power cords. A neural splice meant that the Decepticon was receiving the carrier's sensor readings directly in his cortex.

Primus alone knew what that did to a mech's processor, suddenly having an alien shell attached to his frame. The acid rain was scraping long streaks across the carrier. It must have felt like claws across his plating. And if someone shot the carrier, the pilot would feel the bullet as if it were tearing through his own casing.

It explained the panicked flight of the carrier, tilting wildly as he swept the spotlight over the field, flying so low that he grazed the burnt out ruins of what used to be homes and shops. He set the radio scanner on its broadest range, tuning in and out of each frequency on the highest volume as he tried to pick voices out of the static.

"Please," the pilot whispered over and over, lowering his head as the rain grew into a harsh downpour, beating the carrier with terrible lashing bursts. "Primus, please..."

Screams and electronic shrieks answered his prayer. He froze, staring at the illuminated rain. Mechs caught in the acid were too far gone to answer his hails, sparking into flames or left helpless as their cables corroded and all their energon spread around them. In the rear cabin, everyone fell silent, surrounded suddenly by the cries of the dying.

The Decepticon shrank into his seat, drawing away from the sound. His vents came faster, then too fast, gulping air in sharp gasps that exposed how much internal damage he'd taken. Specks of energon and coolant coughed out on his lips and dripped down a gash on his back where a bullet had pierced straight through him.

Shock was finally setting in, and Ironhide had seen it too often in younger and younger mechs. He reached past the Decepticon and turned off the radio, then lay in a rough course.

"Come on," he said, holstering his rifle. "We've got a medic with us."

The mech didn't move. His voice box turned scratchy with static, and Ironhide knew enough field medicine to step in close, sliding his fingers under the mech's throat cables. The Decepticon didn't shy away, instead leaning toward him as Ironhide eased the kink in the cabling.

"What's your name, kid?"

No answer. Ironhide put his hand under the mech's chin and made him look up, lip curling at the sheer damage to the red optics. The intact optic continued to whine as its lenses spun ineffectually, and Ironhide pressed the side of the optic well, briefly disrupting the charge and sending the servos into full shut down.

"Unless you want me to keep calling you kid?"

"...Jazz."

Ironhide chuckled. That never failed. Decepticon or Autobot, the kids were all the same.

Chapter 6: Memory File End

Pulling the hasty splice free from Jazz's wrist, Ironhide put the smaller mech's arm over his shoulder and held his waist, lifting him from the seat. Jazz yelped as he put weight on his mangled knee and grabbed at Ironhide, holding himself up.

"Relax, relax," Ironhide said, "s'just 'till I can get you around. It's pretty tight here."

Optimus moved to let them pass, giving his bodyguard a rueful look before taking the controls himself. Neither of them wanted to kill the Decepticon, but they had precious few options and taking him prisoner wasn't one of them. He wouldn't stop Ironhide from showing compassion, but he didn't see any other outcome except another dead enemy and one more weight on his friend.

"So," Ironhide said, taking Jazz one step at a time. "Spliced into the carrier. Where'd you learn that? Engineering? Medical?"

"Uh." Jazz chuckled, pulling in a short vent. "Would you believe I guessed?"

"No way," Ironhide scolded him, but in a light voice meant to be conversational. "You didn't know what you were doing?"

"Kinda," Jazz shrugged. "Got lucky."

"Damn lucky," Ironhide said. "That could've scrambled your circuits or overclocked your cortex."

"I dunno," Jazz said. "Made me forget I was shot for awhile."

Ironhide tilted his head. "Well, yeah. Good point."

At the rear of the carrier, Ratchet had his back to the cabin, patching up Prowl's torn cables. Beside them, Inferno sat against the wall with Red Alert quietly reclined in his lap. Blaster hadn't woken up. Ironhide hoped the communications mech didn't wake up for awhile, saving them from the music he played for comfort.

"Got another patient for you, doc," Ironhide said, setting Jazz down against the wall opposite the Autobots.

"'Cause I don't have enough problems," Ratchet groaned. "At least I've got this almost done."

Wiping his hands clean of grime and dust, Ratchet glanced over his shoulder at Ironhide. Then went completely still, staring at the Decepticon insignia on Jazz's chestplate.

"...the slag?" Ratchet said in a low voice.

"Yeah, it's a pretty impressive gunshot, huh?" Ironhide said, covering Ratchet's curse. "Everyone, this is Jazz."

Inferno reacted first, putting his hand over Red Alert's mouth before the smaller bot could yell, holding him as Red Alert struggled and went for his rifle. Next to them, still in a haze of pain, Prowl turned his head to follow the medibot's look. He stiffened and he glanced at Ironhide as if for confirmation that Jazz was incapacitated.

"The kid who saved our lives," Ironhide said, emphasizing each word. "Kid can't hardly see anything. His optics are all shot to slag."

Ratchet met Ironhide's look, regaining his composure. "No kidding. How was he even flying?"

"Spliced himself into the ship," Ironhide said, and he put a hand on Jazz's shoulder to keep him quiet. "Primus only knows what it did to his processors. I had to unkink the power line to his voice box and put his right optic in shut down."

"Great," Ratchet muttered, picking up the pack of solvent and cable shunts. "So I got crushed servos on top of a clear through shot. Thanks a bunch."

"Hey, I didn't crush anything," Ironhide grumbled. "Jazz needed some relief—"

"Jazz," Prowl said, taking in the mech before him. "I don't know that designation. Which division are you with?"

"Just infantry," Jazz said, wincing as Ratchet made him sit straight. "Nothing special."

"Then how did you acquire this carrier?" Prowl asked. "It's for Autobot fliers."

"Makes sense," Jazz said, squirming as Ratchet pulled at his pierced armor. "I was in—ow-ow-ow—"

"Don't get all tense," Ratchet said, and he grabbed Jazz to stop his arching away. "It just makes it hurt worse."

Static hisses and squeaks leaked into Jazz's voice, and Ironhide sat next to him and grabbed his shoulder to hold him still.

"Keep talking," he said. "It'll distract ya. How'd you get the ship?"

"First assault," Jazz ground out, "pushed pretty deep. Lost my squad in the first carpet bombing. Couldn't go back, so I hid."

"On that flat-aft battlefield?" Ironhide scoffed.

"With all the...mechs," Jazz said. His optics closed. "There were so many in a pile, I looked like one more. When the Autobots went by, I started moving again."

Ratchet yanked a handful of cables loose, pulling them clear and inspecting each to find the torn ends. Unused to having pieces of him pulled around so abruptly, Jazz let his head fall back on Ironhide's arm, trying to vent and chilled by the cool air suddenly brushing against his inner cords. Ratchet drew from his subspace an injector of pain blockers.

Putting his hand on Ratchet's, Ironhide shook his head, then shared a look with Prowl. Neither spoke, but Prowl nodded once and looked back at Jazz. This Decepticon might have some information about the rear lines that they didn't know yet, and pain be damned. When Ratchet spotted their looks, he glowered at them but didn't argue. Jazz might be his patient, but he was the Autobot's prisoner first and foremost.

"Stay with us," Ironhide said, giving him the tiniest nudge. "Keep talking."

"Moving where?" Prowl asked.

"To...to forward," Jazz said, trying not to move as Ratchet worked. "Couldn't go back. Would've run up behind Autobots. Just kept going."

"You were behind enemy lines?" Prowl said in disbelief. "And no one saw you?"

Jazz laughed. "Ain't no one finding me if I don't wanna be found."

Prowl vented, feeling a chill run through his cables. Red Alert had set up their security personally, and his legendary paranoia turned their guerilla encampments into something that could hold their own against the Decepticon military. Red Alert signaled Prowl's internal communications, giving Inferno a dirty look but not fighting off his hand.

This mech's dangerous, Red Alert insisted. The rear guard didn't clear out until the retreat sounded. He would've had to stay hidden for most of the fight, and that'd be almost impossible.

"Hidden," Prowl said, looking back at Jazz. "Not fighting?"

Jazz ducked his head as if being scolded. "Wasn't a chance. My optics were pretty fried by then and there were too many of them."

"Of course there were," Prowl said. "That's why it's called an enemy base. You didn't even try to blow up their supplies?"

Jazz fell silent, staring blankly at the blur of Prowl. His voice, when he started talking again, was directed only at himself.

"Huh. Why didn't I think of that?"

Ironhide patted his shoulder. "Survived a bombing run and then woke up among the dead? I'm surprised you had enough of your helm to hide."

"From the damage up here," Ratchet added, layering a strip of sealant over the cracked optic, "I'd say he had to do a full reboot. Has almost all the classic symptoms of battle fatigue."

"And this carrier?" Prowl asked.

"Found it," Jazz said. "I was gonna hightail it out, but then the rain started..."

His voice trailed off again, and his head lay more and more on his shoulder. He looked as if he were fighting going into recharge, his optics drooping more and more.

"You're wasted in combat infantry," Prowl said softly.

"Huh?"

"Working your way behind enemy lines, stealing one of their carriers, and then coming back despite the pain and danger to try to rescue anyone you could..." Prowl shook his head once. "You would've made a fine special operative."

Jazz said nothing for several seconds. As Ratchet began work on his melted knee, Jazz suddenly gulped air and drew his good knee up, putting his head down on his arms.

"Primus..." He whispered.

Ironhide felt the shift in Jazz's shoulders, the tensing of his arms and how he froze, rather than simply relaxing. The interrogation was done. Jazz knew.

Fortunately Ratchet saved them an awkward conversation. The Decepticon slumped down in the medibot's arms, eased down to the floor as Ratchet wiped his hands clean in satisfaction.

"Locked him into recharge and systems reboot," Ratchet said. "I figure we have a couple joor before he wakes up and we have to deal with Ironhide's delightful little mess."

"'My' mess?" Ironhide demanded.

"One bullet would've taken care of everything," Ratchet said. "But now we gotta take care of him."

"He saved our lives," Ironhide snapped. "You wanted me to just toss him out into the rain?"

"No," Ratchet said, tossing his grimy solvent cloth into Ironhide's face. "I want you to remember he's not some newly sparked recruit to take under your wing. He's got a Decepticon insignia, and you're gonna end up hurt if you forget it."

"You can't hold out hope that you can convince him," Red Alert said, pulling free of Inferno's hand. "Best case scenario may be that you let him go and have to kill him later."

Ironhide didn't reply, but he didn't look any less defiant.

"Then again..." Prowl mused. "He only realized who we were when I slipped. I think there may be some hope, although you had best not rely on it."

"'Slipped how'?" Inferno asked.

"I praised him," Prowl said simply. "Decepticons might tend to a fallen mech and might be grateful for a save, but praising him for a rescue mission? Rather than punishing him for not destroying our base? This Jazz is a clever little bot. Once we return, with your permission, Ironhide, I'd like a chance at changing his mind."

"My permission?" Ironhide asked.

"You're the one who decided to keep him," Prowl reminded him.

Huffing, Ironhide grumbled out a note of agreement and went back to sit with Optimus.

For the rest of the flight, Prowl watched Jazz twitch or turn while unconscious. With his optics closed and one hand resting on his insignia, Jazz looked like any other Autobot. Inwardly Prowl scolded himself. This truly was a fool's errand. Convert a Decepticon. But Jazz was clever and resourceful, and most importantly he had returned of his own will to rescue mechs he did not know.

And Prowl was tired of killing mechs. For once, he would like to keep one alive.

Chapter 7: Running Home on Empty

Low on energon, wheels sliding on sand blowing across the road and outrunning the wisps of clouds over the moon...Jazz blasted the local hard rock station, screaming Radar Love at top volume. His radiator was riddled with bullet holes, the armor of his hood was cracked, his inner navigation gyros were burned and failing, and the landscape passed by in a blur at a hundred miles an hour.

In the night sky, a thousand stars splashed from one horizon to the other, a streak of light pointing Jazz's way. Finally close enough to hear Blaster broadcasting on their agreed signal, he followed the communication officer's voice but didn't answer. Basic subroutines led Jazz to drive home, but he was wounded. He was too vulnerable to let anyone know he was there. He would have turned off his headlights if a Decepticon hadn't already smashed them.

He nearly didn't let himself drive back to the Ark in the first place. The only reason he went back at all, instead of curling up in a dark corner and listening to Madonna on repeat, was Ratchet's annoying override nagging him to return for repair.

Worse—if he held still for longer than twelve hours, his radio shut down and his music library seized up.

Jazz's cortex swam in and out of the song, drifting away to miscellaneous hit songs until his tires rolled over the road's rumble strip and he jerked back onto pavement. The songs mixed in his head, "I get knocked down and we've got a line in the sky," Mirage's party replaying itself in his head.

Memory files missing, out of order. He needed a defrag, a hard reboot, a recharge and a full repair. None of that would happen any time soon.

Or maybe he didn't need repair. His diagnostics were coming back garbled and missing sections. If diagnostics couldn't read any injuries, then clearly he was fully functional. Just low on fuel. He'd get back, hit the depot for an energon cube—

His wheels suddenly jerked to the left, sending him into a spin. A full rotation went by and he steered into the turn, coming to rest with a wild plume of dust.

Jazz coughed sand and energon, surprised at how bright his headlights had become. As bright as the Ark's main entrance. How'd he get here? He recognized the open corridor and the smooth steel floor, and he transformed back into his rootmode, shrugging his shoulder so that his bent armor would move into place. One doorwing jammed at an odd angle and his left arm refused to move, hanging numb and hot at his side.

"-zzz-ttsllllllllleiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"

Jazz drew and fired before he knew what he was firing at. Everything was too bright, reflections bouncing off of reflections, with enemies somewhere in the white glare. The sound didn't come back, and he turned back towards...towards wherever it was he was going.

---

Is your head still attached? Blaster said only half in jest, watching via the Ark's monitors.

Yeah. Bumblebee leaned out from around the main doors, careful not to make a sound. I jumped before I even finished. Definitely doesn't know it's me.

I don't think he knows where he is at all, Blaster said. Just keep the corridor clear and don't let any latecomers into the party.

On the other side of the main corridor, Ironhide watched through slitted optics and over the sights of his gun-barrel. All of the doors in the main corridor were sealed shut with his own personal overrides, all save one. Jazz kept his hand on the wall, dragging one pede and leaving a trail of mud, oil and energon on the floor, taking deliberate steps that came slower and slower.

Think he's gonna make it? Ironhide wondered over the officer's channel.

He always does, Ratchet said. On his datapad, he entered the worst injuries he'd spotted on his own monitor. He must be on empty. Fumes'll let him go for a few more minutes, then he'll drop.

Ironhide watched Jazz fall to one pede, knocking his dented shoulder against the wall, then painfully push himself back up and keep walking.

Come on, kid, he thought. Only two doors now—

Jazz's pede groaned in protest and cracked down the middle. With a whine of static, Jazz fell to his knee again, and the hairline fractures in his visor gave way. Bits of blue polycarbon slipped free and shattered on the floor.

Ironhide stiffened. Blaster—

There's no one to see, Blaster responded. I've already shut down recording. There's just...oh slag.

Ironhide looked up. At the far end of the corridor, Bumblebee had come back when Jazz fell, probably afraid his friend had passed out. And although he was too far to see details, there was no mistaking Jazz's deep red optics nor that precise shade of scarlet. Bumblebee was a fellow Spec Ops bot, practiced at making instant identifications and just as instant kill shots. He'd know exactly what that shade meant.

Bumblebee froze, watching Jazz give up on the pede and instead crawl towards the medbay, dragging his leg and leaving bits of crumbling armor behind. With a screech of static that died to nothing, Jazz finally disappeared past the door.

Well... Blaster sighed. That's gonna make life interesting.

I'll handle him, Ironhide said, holstering his gun as the medbay doors slid shut and locked. He headed down the hall, adding his own override to the lock. Is Ratchet okay?

Ratchet is fine, the medibot cut in, followed by a pause and a soft grunt. I was right. He went right over when he heard me. I'll call Prowl down later for his debrief. Ratchet out.

Ironhide faintly smiled, not even breaking stride as he headed to where Bumblebee stood, confused with one hand pressed against his mouth. The smaller bot didn't notice him at first as he stared at the door.

"Come on," Ironhide said softly. "Let's talk."

"Is he...?" Bumblebee whispered, looking up at him in shock. "Did they do something to his optics?"

Ironhide blinked, staring at him in surprise. Then he chuckled.

"Your boss is a lot better than that," he said. "Walk with me. I got a lotta doors to open, and then I'll tell you a story."

Chapter 8: Memory File - Interrogation

The Autobot's base was a world of bright blurs. Jazz sat in what Ratchet kept telling him was a medbay, although he suspected it was a harshly lit cell. But that made no sense since he could hear other mechs around and Ratchet never seemed to leave the area. Jazz kept curled on his berth, listening to the medibot working on someone else while Jazz figured out the lay of the rooms.

There was his cell, small and out of sight. Then Ratchet's office where he sat down and typed, and then a much larger room where he repaired Autobots. If that was the whole medbay, then either this base was just a little outpost or else the Autobots were not faring well in this war.

Maybe that's why Ratchet was so cranky.

"If I have to change out your rear axle one more time," Ratchet growled, audibly wrenching back an armor plate, "I swear to Primus—"

"I know, and I'm sorry," his patient said, yelping as something sensitive was pulled. "I really thought I'd timed my escape better."

"The only thing you ever timed properly was getting hurt while I'm on base."

Jazz smiled. Only Ratchet's sarcasm relieved the tedium of sitting in here healing. Fortunately for him, and not so much for the rest of the base, Ratchet's sarcasm was quite entertaining.

"So who do you have in the back room?"

Jazz raised his head.

"Who said anything about the back room?" Ratchet snapped, with a harsh clank right after.

"Ow! Come on, the whole base is buzzing that you have some mech in there. I heard he was banged up real bad during the last fight."

Ratchet snorted. "Well, whoever's spreading those rumors, you tell 'em to shut up."

"Why? Is it a secret? Ooh, is it a secret mission?"

"Bluestreak, you ask any more questions and I'm gonna disengage your voice processor permanently."

A door opened, followed by a much more familiar voice.

"Ratchet, is your other patient awake?"

"...oh for crying out—sure, Prowl, go ahead. Did you know 'the whole base' is talking about him?"

Jazz vented as quietly as he could. Prowl? So he knew three of them now, and Prowl was the one who had said Jazz would make a great Spec Ops 'bot.

"Really?" Prowl said. "I would have thought our mechs would know that rumors are liabilities during a war."

"Sorry," Bluestreak said, "but it just really caught my curiosity, you know?"

"It would catch any spy's curiosity as well."

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry," Bluestreak said.

The next door that opened was closer. Jazz scooted back on his berth until he came up against the wall. Then the pressure in the room changed, and he wished he could see anything except fuzzy splotches of color.

"Hello, Jazz." Prowl shut the door and audibly locked it. "I imagine you must be very confused right now."

"Not really," Jazz said. "I've been taken prisoner by the enemy. Your medic is repairing me but keeping me blind so I don't cause a lot of trouble. You're in here to interrogate me and then probably kill me."

Prowl paused, then vented and sat down. So there was a chair in here? Or had Prowl brought one in?

"Mostly right," Prowl said, "but I'm not going to kill you unless you make it absolutely necessary. It would be a poor way to thank you for saving our lives. And the life of our Prime."

Jazz's vent choked off.

"I do need to interrogate you," Prowl said. "Before any information you have is no longer useful."

"The Prime was there?" Jazz whispered. "Optimus Prime?"

"He was," Prowl said. "As were several of the high ranking officers. If you had left us there, the Autobot faction would have been crippled."

Jazz sat still for several seconds. He curled up as best he could, his wounded pede stuck out at an odd angle.

"I saved the Autobots," he whispered, then laughed once. It was a mix between surprise and shock, and his venting grew shaky as he started to tremble. "I'm dead..."

"You're safe here," Prowl said. "No one knows who you are, and no Decepticons will ever find out—"

"You don't know that!" Jazz pressed his hands over his faceplate. "I've seen Soundwave work. I've seen Soundwave rip the thoughts out of mechs. And Shockwave...Primus, Shockwave..."

"You've seen both of them?" Prowl wondered. "You're just a combat mech. Why would you have been close enough to see an interrogation?"

"They were killing 'Cons," Jazz whispered. "Sympathizers. You could feel Soundwave in your head, and anyone they picked out, Shockwave took apart."

The memory had been pushed down and compressed, but speaking about it forced the images back up. An unlucky Decepticon right beside him had been pulled out of the line and dragged flailing to the smelter, and the splash of molten steel and smoke, the hissing and terrible shrieks, the electric pops and the optics falling out of a melting face—

"Jazz, calm down—"

Jazz didn't hear him. This was worse than just sympathizing with the Autobots or feeling bad when one of them was executed. Shockwave melted down traitors, or tore out their cables while they watched, or injected them with rust until they fell apart. If they knew he'd saved the Prime, they'd come up with something even more terrible.

And the Autobots? The things he'd heard were just as bad. They only kept a mech alive to force download his cortex, and then they'd disassemble him for parts. Or rip open his spark chamber. Or leave him in pieces for the Decepticons to find.

The bright blurs went black. He couldn't draw in enough air and he knew he was screaming static and someone was grabbing him, pushing on his torn knee and painfully wrenching the patch on his gunshot wound. Were they already stripping open his interface connectors?

"Jazz—"

Overwhelming roaring filed his audios. He couldn't move—he couldn't move—

Something cold rushed through him. He shuddered, seizing up, and his joints began to relax and fall limp. He drew in several shallow vents, but each one was a little deeper, more steadying.

 "—a good hit of dielectric fluid..."

The pain faded until he felt nothing, just a floating sensation of weightlessness and peace. Was he falling? No, there were two blurs around him holding him up.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Ratchet said.

"Nothing! He mentioned he'd witnessed an execution by Soundwave and Shockwave and—"

"Oh, is that it? Why didn't you warn me that you were gonna traumatize my patient?"

"I tried to calm him down, but he realized what would happen if the Decepticons knew he'd saved us."

Jazz grew increasingly aware of how he lay, slumped in someone's lap with a hand rubbing his back. He turned his head slightly, rubbing his face on the smooth steel of Prowl's shoulder. If he listened closely, the servos hummed just under the armor, surrounding the faint pulse of fluids rushing through his cables.

"Prowl, you may be one fine tactician, but you don't know a thing about a 'bot's emotions!"

A faint smile cross Jazz's face.

"Dunno," he murmured. "This feels...kinda nice, actually."

There was a long pause, and then Ratchet's snorted.

"Guess everyone's got a soft spot for shiny bots too stupid to take care of themselves."

"I don't know what you did, doc," Jazz slurred, wondering if his voice was as slow as it sounded to himself. "But I'm feeling too good to feel bad."

There was another prick in the cables at his throat. Jazz knew that Ratchet had injected him with something else, but the crash from his panic and the dreamy fog filling his cortex left him comfortably settled in Prowl's arms. When Prowl began asking him questions, Jazz slurred his answers, content to tell him whatever he wanted.

Chapter 9: Tchk Tchk

Wrist deep in Guzzlegush, Ratchet turned and wiped his optics on the steri-cloth slung over his shoulder, blinking away the splashed oil and energon. His fingers held the combat mech's main fluid lines clamped shut, sliding up to the closest connectors and snapping the emergency shut-off valve.

"Get me some suction in here," Ratchet said, pulling a replacement cable from the supply beside him.

"On it," First Aid said over his shoulder.

First Aid finished a splice into SteelCasing's coolant system and revved up the fans over his half-slagged engines, halting any more damage, then came back around and set the berth's drainage hose into Ratchet's patient, monitoring the flow and checking for further leaks.

"There's a mix of fluids in there," Ratchet said. "Not sure if his systems are leaking into each other further up or if it's a cracked seal here. How's Damagedealer over there?"

"Stable," Red Alert said as if it was obvious. "His filter's burned out so I patched him into external filtration."

"Good," Ratchet said, taking a moment to vent, the same moment that the berth alarm began to blare. "Slag, he's building pressure. Get the—"

So focused on replacing the cable and the energon slicking everything, Ratchet only noticed the other mech walking by when the shadow passed over his helm. He looked up long enough to spot Prowl's familiar doorwings, about to stand when his patient's seal failed and began leaking again.

"Prowl! Prowl, don't—slag it!" Ratchet bent back over the berth, yelling over his shoulder. "You can't see him yet! He's not ready!"

"Time is not our on side," Prowl said as he went by. "Which room is he in?"

"He needs a whole orn!" Ratchet yelled, torn between saving his crashing patient or stopping Prowl. "Prowl! If you wake him up—Prowl, dammit! Prowl—you useless, stuck up, desk jockey—he's not gonna know it's you!"

"Never mind," Prowl muttered to himself, heading toward the single rooms. "I'm sure it's the only locked door here."

Around the corner, Prowl entered his personal security override and opened the last door in the short hall. Despite himself, he stiffened, half expecting Jazz to suddenly leap out at him. Ratchet hated intruders in his medbay, but he wasn't one to overblow danger.

Jazz lay still, several cords trailing out of his frame to the berth itself. All of the energon and oil had been cleaned up, leaving him looking like a broken toy, his cracks and fractures cleaned out with sealant along the raw edges. The monitor above him showed all of his core systems and processes with several readings in red.

With a faint sigh, Prowl lay down his datapad and leaned over Jazz, studying the monitor. He couldn't tell the fine details, but the worst stood out. Jazz's frame held more cracks than were obvious, and his vents were labored even in recharge. As Prowl put his hand on the berth, he felt a cold layer of air stirring over Jazz, cooling him without needing to use his fans.

"Jazz...?" Prowl whispered, leaning closer when his friend didn't stir. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Was he in deep recharge? Usually Rachet left returning agents in a medical defrag, still able to respond. Prowl looked back up at the monitor. Loathe to meddle with the medic's work, he nevertheless studied the chart, searching for a means of waking up Jazz.

A hand closed around his throat armor, fingers finding the joints and digging in tight. Prowl choked, grabbing at the arm, manhandled backward as Jazz sat up. Red optics swept the room, staring at him without any recognition. Jazz brought up his other hand, but the cables attached to his wrist and elbow drew him short.

"Jazz tchk" Prowl winced as the spy tightened his grip, crushing one side of his voice processor so that it hissed static. "Jazz tchk it's me. Jazz tchk stop—"

Jazz said nothing, yanking at the cables, focusing on Prowl with narrowed optics. Prowl let go to try hammering at Jazz's arm, groaning as the mech's fingertips slipped further into his throat joints and crimped energon cords.

Prowl wrenched backward, ignoring the damage done. If he didn't get out of Jazz's grip, he'd seen what the smaller bot could do with one hand in someone's cabling. Jazz tenaciously held on, pulling at him, and Prowl heard the snaps and creaks of Jazz's frame cracking further.

Something brushed by his shoulder, reaching over him to touch Jazz's helm, cupping his face. The hand on Prowl's throat froze as Ratchet began murmuring.

"You're safe," Ratchet said over and over, stroking Jazz's face, nodding as First Aid came around and adjusted the flow on one of the berth's cables. "Let him go...come on, let him go—"

Jazz's hand opened. Prowl gasped and stumbled back, his hand protectively around his throat, hitting the wall and sliding to the floor.

"Good, very good," Ratchet said, still stroking Jazz's face. "Now lie down...you need to rest. You need—"

"He needs tchk tell me what tchk learned," Prowl said, sputtering as if he could cough out his processor. "His mech—is he still tchk—"

"Prowl—" Ratchet snarled.

"That's an order tchk," Prowl said. He came back to his feet, drawing himself up as much as he could. "Ask tchk his mech, if tchk was tchk—"

"I got it, I got it," Ratchet grumbled. "Shut up before you crush your own circuits."

Still venting hard, coughing behind his hand, Prowl waited as Ratchet whispered to Jazz.

Trembling, Jazz listened, and First Aid silently turned off the coolant, allowing his temperature to rise by slow increments. Jazz turned his head slightly, closing his optics as he rested against Ratchet, faceplate nestled against Ratchet's shoulder. Finally Ratchet lay him down, holding his hand, and Jazz slumped against the berth.

Weariness weighed down Ratchet's whole frame, and he looked at Prowl with too much exhaustion to be angry.

"He said 'Counterpunch, 00982, 00341, UTU'." Ratchet vented with a shrug. "That mean anything?"

Prowl went very still, and his stare became distant. A thousand calculations worked in his head, following a hundred plans out to their most likely conclusions. His mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Coordinates tchk," Prowl said, turning to go.

"Wait!" Ratchet said, one hand flung out. "Your voice—I need to—"

"No time," Prowl said, but he paused at the door and looked back at them, his gaze moving from Jazz to Ratchet, nodding once by way of apology. "Take care of tchk—"

"Yeah, yeah," Ratchet sighed, waving one hand as if waving away an annoyance. "You better come back later. He's gonna wanna say sorry."

Hesitating, Prowl nodded again and left.

Chapter 10: More Decepticon Than Autobot

Half an orn later, Ratchet sat with his pedes up on his desk, editing his records while First Aid updated their list of supplies. Ratchet savored the quiet. His patients were all repaired, although Redvalve and SteelCasing were in a separate room for observation, and Jazz was lost in deep recharge. The medbay was quiet enough that Ratchet thought he might be able to slip in his own quick recharge.

Then Prowl walked in, meeting Ratchet's optics for a second before sitting on the edge of the closest empty berth. A moment passed. Prowl moved a few files on his datapad, tilting his head to make sure his databases were in perfect order. Neither of them spoke.

Then Prowl sighed and set his datapad down, giving Ratchet a look.

"Did you want something?" Ratchet asked with a small, bitter smile. "Sir?"

Prowl heaved a long vent and gripped the edge of the berth. "Jazz's spy tchk to attack us tchk show loyalty to Megatchk. We managed to make it look real, with tchk Mirage disappearing in the fight. I am sorry tchk wake up Jazz, but we needed to know."

Ratchet stared at him a moment longer, then huffed and came to his pedes. Prowl sat a little straighter, moving with Ratchet's hands as the medic tilted Prowl's helm back, exposing the crushed servos and exposed cords.

"You know," Ratchet said, "you take all the fun out of being self-righteous, you know that?"

Prowl grunted once. He stared at the ceiling, reading the helpful hygiene and self-maintenance posters Ratchet had pasted above the berths. In the washracks, remember: one breem with sealant cream.  Going on a mission? Did you check your coolant level?

Prowl frowned at a picture of Ratchet snarling. Obey or be slagged. That couldn't have been approved beforehand.

He tried to clear his vocal processor again. "So how long—?"

"Shut up," Ratchet said, inserting a thin probe into the slits of Prowl's armor. "I can fix it, but you'll have to let it rest awhile. Just a couple joor, starting now."

A low vent followed, but Prowl didn't argue. He twitched as his crushed circuits were stripped out and new ones laid, sparking faintly as Ratchet tapped the new parts in and delicately attached them to their casings.

"I'm rebooting the whole assembly," Ratchet said, beginning to reset the throat armor in place. "You can probably just sit back and relax in your office for the rest of the shift, let the new parts take and—"

Blaster's personal request signal blinked on his internal comm. Ratchet cut himself off, looking at Prowl to make sure the other officer was receiving the same alert. The data flowed in from Blaster almost too quickly to absorb, a long string of coordinates and abbreviations that spelled out an ambush, wounded incoming. Names of mechs followed with injuries listed, starting with the worst. Ratchet hissed. One spark chamber breached, two pedes gone, an arm assembly blown off at the shoulder—

"Slag," Ratchet muttered. "Slag it all—First Aid, get some supplies and a few squad medbots out at the entrance. We'll triage there. It's gonna be crowded as is—dammit. Get our other patients on their pedes and down to the brig medbay. Guzzlegush and SteelCasing can make the walk, but Redvalve'll need a lift and..."

Ratchet's voice faded, and he faced Prowl again.

Both of them shared the same thought. The other mechs were simply injured. But how to move a paranoid assassin without hurting him or killing anyone else?

"I'll—" Prowl's jaw snapped shut at Ratchet's look.

I'll take Jazz, Prowl said on their internal comm. My office is quiet enough.

Won't work, Ratchet said, shaking his head. He needs a berth.

My quarters, then, Prowl said.

Ratchet gave him a look as if trying to diagnose his malfunction.

"Your quarters."

Yes. Prowl met his optics evenly. I've recuperated after repair on my own berth. I imagine he can as well.

That ain't the..." Ratchet vented and turned around, gathering a long syringe already resting on his console. "Okay. All right. You got no idea what you're letting yourself in for, but I don't have any options right now. Come on."

Prowl followed, sidestepping as First Aide passed by with cases of supplies and transport slats to be loaded up when he transformed to his alt mode. Ratchet opened all the doors in the bay as he went, flipping on lights and rousing his walking wounded patients.

"Emergency situation, mechs," Ratchet called over his shoulder. "Everyone up. Head to the brig medbay. You can finish your repair cycles there. And don't let me catch you wandering off or going back on shift—you're still in disrepair and if you don't think you need to be there, I'll give you a reason."

Half tempted to talk to Ratchet later about his threats, Prowl kept his focus as they went into Jazz's room. Ratchet shushed him, then turned to his patient and set the syringe against Jazz's elbow joint, sliding the needle between the slits of his armor. Even in his recharge, Jazz whimpered, turning his helm.

Prowl grimaced in sympathy. He'd felt Ratchet's syringes before. The needles were thick enough to pierce their sensitive cabling.

"This'll keep him out for awhile," Ratchet said, pushing in the last drop of glowing blue fluid. "Can you clear the hall just in case?"

Already doing so, Prowl said as he finished the message to Ironhide. He frowned at the older mech's suggestive snicker. There. Our way is secure.

"Great." Ratchet scooped up an armful of thick straps, then a large bottle and a box of several white packets. "Pick him up and let's go."

Prowl blinked. "I can just—?"

"Shut up." Ratchet didn't turn, already halfway out the door.

Prowl suspected the medbot was internally conferring with First Aid and issuing orders to the squad medbots on base, likely cajoling Wheeljack away from his own work as well. There would be no help from him.

He looked back at Jazz. Ratchet wouldn't have said to pick him up if Prowl could have hurt him, and Prowl had carried wounded mechs before. He eased his hands under Jazz's pedes and back, pulling him up in to his arms. He hefted Jazz close, tilting so that the saboteur's helm rested on his shoulder.

With Jazz so up close, the fractures on his frame were obvious. Thick canvas bandages and patches covered the deep rents along his shattered pede, but hairline fractures riddled his whole body, radiating out from his shoulder and hip where he'd taken some of the worst hits. Each crack was filled with sealant, healing from the inside out.

Jazz's vents came slow and deep, his patched hood rising softly. If Jazz was in pain, at least he didn't seem to feel it for now. A good sign was that his body was cool, no longer suffering on the edge of meltdown, and his radiator no longer whistled with air rushing over dried coolant.

Carefully edging through the door, Prowl carried Jazz to the main medbay and found Ratchet finishing giving instructions to First Aid. With one arm over a small gray box, Ratchet glanced at Prowl and nodded once, then started out toward the Second's berth chamber.

"We'll get him restrained to your berth," Ratchet said over his shoulder. "Mainly as a precaution. These packets I got are his energon supplements, helps his armor heal up. He needs it every couple of cycles—I put a schedule and dosages in the datapack I'm sending you. Don't miss a dose."

They turned a corner, heading down into the officer's row, and Ratchet unlocked Prowl's door with his medical override. As he went in, dumping his supplies on the desk, he snorted.

"Nice place," he said, looking over the empty desk, bare floor and spare furniture. "Real lived in."

I don't require any more, Prowl said stiffly, taking Jazz to the berth.

Holding his breath so he didn't jostle him, Prowl eased Jazz down, sliding his hand up along Jazz's back and cradling his helm as he lay him straight.

Ratchet's datapacket downloaded into his cortex and, when opened, showed Prowl a simple schedule of feeding: one supplemented energon every two joor, with the next dose due in just half a joor. The supplements lay in wrapped little packages with directions on the front. Prowl scanned them—regular steel and carbon additives to mend the cracks faster, he assumed.

"Help me with these," Ratchet said, tossing his box on the floor and opening it up. His hand came back with a handful of kevlar mesh woven into a web of thick straps.

Did your bandages tangle? Prowl asked. He knelt and took one end of the mess of lines, stretching them out and finding not a tangle but a net. What...?

"Anchor it on the corner there," Ratchet said, pointing. "These berths might not be med-standard, but they got their own hooks and catches for emergencies."

Taken aback that here was something about his berth, his personal recharge station, that he didn't know about, Prowl followed Ratchet's motion and found latches that he'd previously assumed had to do with the berth's structure. At the net's corner, a long belt with a metal lock dangled awkwardly, flopping just past Prowl's fingers until he snatched it with an irritated snort, wrapping it around the latch and clicking it shut.

"There we go," Ratchet said, already locking down the last corner with practiced ease. He gave each one a hard yank, tightening the belt Prowl had fastened. "Okay, now I feel better about this."

Prowl frowned, studying the net now covering Jazz. The kevlar mesh was flexible enough to fit snugly against his edges without pressing painfully into his compromised frame. When Jazz woke up, he would find himself held fast in the berth.

He won't like it, Prowl said, thinking of how fidgety Jazz could be.

"Don't think I don't know it." Ratchet double-checked the fasteners, then slid a hand under the net. "There—had to make sure it wasn't too tight."

Prowl looked between Ratchet and Jazz, between Jazz and Ratchet. His optics narrowed as he analyzed the length and width of the straps, the materials, the tensile strength, coming up with how heavy duty the mesh must have been rated.

He will wake up as dangerous as before? Prowl asked.

Silent, Ratchet glanced at him, then nudged the box under the berth and gave the net one more hard pull, as if trying to wrench the kevlar free.

"Look," Ratchet said, glancing at the door to be sure it was shut. "I ain't got more than a breem, so I gotta say this quick, but what I'm about to tell you is a medical level 'need to know' only, got it?"

Prowl nodded once. Medical clearances were the one link in the chain of command that Ratchet held above the top officers, perhaps even Optimus. Over the vorns, the medical officer had come to know every weakness and secret of every mech in the Ark. He knew things about Prowl's doorwings that would make the Second in Command die of embarrassment if the rest of the Autobots knew. And the mech was deadly secretive with those clearances. He had to be. Everyone trusted him as much as they feared him.

"Jazz...you know he gets slagged to hell sometimes," Ratchet said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But sometimes, on the really bad nights, he comes back more Decepticon than Autobot."

Prowl hissed, glancing at Jazz as if a purple insignia might reappear. His security clearance—

"—is safe," Ratchet cut him off, shoving a finger in his face. "That's the point. If you're gonna go off on some insinuation fest, lemme know so I can kick you out and stick someone I can trust in here with him. He's gone through ten times more slag than I like to imagine, and he needs repair, not an interrogation."

Prowl held up his hands, waving and stepping back as Ratchet's voice rose. Ratchet's anger was legendary among the Autobots, not because he was loud—Sunstreak could beat him for volume any day—but because Ratchet knew exactly where his authority began and ended, and he never threatened anything he couldn't do. If he wanted to kick Prowl out of his berth for an orn, then Prowl would recharge in his office.

I didn't mean it that way, Prowl said quickly. It's merely another variable I need to analyze, that's all.

Ratchet gave him a long look, about to say something else, when he blinked and his face twisted in disgust. Cursing about panicked medbots who couldn't send a clear communique, Ratchet turned to head out. He came to a halt at the door, however, leaning against the frame and looking back over his shoulder.

"If he wakes up and doesn't know you," he said, "don't take it personally. You might have to force feed him that energon."

Prowl waited for more direction, but when Ratchet added nothing, his doorwings drooped.

...is that it? Prowl asked. This is hardly a plan. What do I do when he wakes up?

"Talk to him," Ratchet said, turning toward the corridor. "Sometimes touching helps. You know he hates being confused."

Still feeling lost, Prowl didn't call him back as Ratchet left, locking the door with his medical override. Prowl narrowed his optics at that. Why lock them in?

He glanced at Jazz, at the net binding him to the berth. Locked fast in recharge, Jazz vented deeply, quietly running repair programs and twitching as his basic circuits hummed. Prowl narrowed his optics and came closer, extending his doorwings and pushing his sensor array to maximum sensitivity.

It was true that Prowl was not a war build or even retrofitted for combat, save for a little reinforced armor, but his sensor capability more than made up for his lack of battle prowess. Tactics models were built for recording data and processing billions of calculations for the best result. Transmissions from satellite and radio, scouts beyond the front line, endless reports from all the Autobots in the entire Ark, the intelligence brought back by Jazz and Spec Ops...all of it filtered through Prowl's cortex and drew a vast picture of the battlefield. Every mech was part of Prowl's optics or audios, the entire complex array simply a grander version of his doorwing sensors.

A soft susurration caught Prowl's attention. The faint whisper hovered just underneath Jazz's internal workings, constant between the clicks and hums of motors and analog switches. Careful not to tighten the netting across Jazz's compromised frame, he sat down on the edge of the berth.

Quietly raising his doorwings and stretching them out above Jazz, he went still, listening to the tiny processes going on inside the smaller bot. Servos clicked, energon trickled through his cables in slow steady beats, driven by the low hum of his hydraulic pumps. His engines whirred at their lowest setting, shuddering enough to whine as it slipped gears and slid back to low. Jazz winced but didn't wake, too drugged and too weary.

Prowl smiled faintly. He remembered a much younger Jazz from many vorn ago, already battle-shocked and weary of war, hunched over in pain as his red optics glowed against a Decepticon insignia. So much time had passed since then. With Jazz's systems lulling him into a reverie and Prowl's calculations fading into a familiar background noise, he called up Ratchet's scheduling and began to read through it. A supplemented dose of energon in another few breem—he would have to wake Jazz for that, and then talk him into going back into recharge.

A thorough polishing...Prowl looked forward to that. True, medicinal polish carried a strong scent of mineral sealant and liquid polycarbonate, but gently rubbing that into the dents and cracks in Jazz's armor would bring the small bot' nothing but relief, easing both the pain and the intense itching that broken armor sometimes caused.

And then would come the whining. Jazz craved movement, often fidgeting and even dancing when he had to attend a meeting for any length of time. Being strapped in place under a net, unable to do more than twitch, would send Jazz into a paroxysm of needling, cajoling, begging, and if Prowl wasn't lucky, threats and promises of retaliation.

There was no telling how long he would be trapped here with a frustrated Jazz. Prowl flipped his communications array to active and searched out Ironhide's comm signal, pinging him for when he had a free moment. If anyone knew what could keep Jazz distracted, it would be the older mech.

Ironhide took a breem to respond. Prowl dipped into the messages and relays flying between mechs and reasoned that the triage of wounded mechs had been far more complex than Ratchet had guessed. Likely everyone was busy.

Ironhide's reply came short and terse. Ain't got the time to spare, sorry.

Understood, Prowl said. When you have a moment, then—

Prowl's wings ignited in pain and made the room explode in white sparks across his optics, flaring bright as his sensors screamed. He froze so tight that his armor shuddered. Crushed circuits crumbled under the twisting metal of his left doorwing as a hand fisted around its connecting strut and yanked.

Prowl's vocal processor shrieked static and high pitched basic tones, then crashed and went silent. He toppled backward and slid before he was grabbed and held awkwardly on the berth, resting his whole weight on his mutilated doorwing.

The lights spun around him before he was roughly turned. Prowl saw loose and partially cut straps, saw a flashing blade no longer than a finger. Saw Jazz sitting up, eyes scarlet and focused on Prowl without a byte of recognition.

"Not a sound," Jazz said, bringing the knife up so that the blade pressed against Prowl's throat cabling. "You scream like that again and they'll find your energon splashed all over these walls, got it?"

Jazz loomed over him, adding pressure on Prowl's doorwings. Prowl thrashed reflexively, felt the pain rise to a crescendo and turn into a white blur of agonized numbness. The screaming sensors turned into a single distant buzz, and Prowl could do nothing more than drag in weak, shuddering vents, mute and deaf to the world.

Jazz said something, his mouth moving with no sound. Prowl drew a shuddering vent, felt the knife press against his throat cables hard enough to cut into the thick casing. Not a full slice, just enough to prove that Jazz meant to kill, to ignite a line of pain across his throat.

And then Prowl felt nothing. His pain receptors overloaded and crashed, taking several systems with them. His diagnostic routine went haywire. Audios, offline. Vocal, crashing. Visual, compromised. Fine motor control, compromised and crashing. Sensor arrays, nonresponsive, assumed catastrophic damage. His frame protectively locked his joints as repair subroutines came up, drawing his higher functions back into his cortex, effectively forcing him to retreat into his mind.

Seized up in stasis lock, unaware of what Jazz might be doing, Prowl found himself in a most unique situation. Often he glitched from the sheer amount of variables Jazz could introduce, but this time only two outcomes presented themselves.

Either Jazz would kill him, or else Jazz would forget about him for now and kill him when Prowl came out of stasis lock.

That explains why Ratchet sealed the door, Prowl realized.

A moment passed as he considered that. Ratchet had known this might happen. Ratchet knew what Jazz could do. And still Ratchet had placed him in here with Prowl, who though no slouch in a fight was also the kind of mech that Jazz chewed up during a mission.

Still alive. Jazz had chosen to kill him later, then. With a little more life presented to him, Prowl began to run calculations.

When he woke up, he would still be incapacitated by pain sensors. Those would need to be disabled immediately. Numb doorwings would send him reeling. His balance gyros would need instant recalibration. Jazz was probably already taking his gun. He would need a full synaptic charge loaded at his fingertips—he would only have time for one shot.

One after another, he set delayed commands on timers, each a nanoklik after each other, all of them a bare nanoklik after he would come back online. Rushing so many commands would push his processors to burning, but he would grab every statistical percentage of success that he could.

At the edge of his processing, he kept one optic on his repair percentage. When the repairs hit twenty five percent, he would be mobile enough to follow his set commands. He settled in to wait, patient as no other mech could be, watching his repairs creep along.

Less than a breem. He would take Jazz by surprise and disable him. And if he did not succeed...

That did not require calculating.

 

Chapter 11: "Pretty pathetic there, princess."

"—the frag?"

Jazz gave Prowl a shake, startled at how his optics went dark. Dead? Doubtful. Bigger Praxians than this one had screamed when something this traumatic happened to their notoriously sensitive doorwings. Self-protective shut down, then.

"Pretty pathetic there, princess," Jazz snorted. "But since you ain't gonna be screaming again any time soon..."

Pushing the mech off his lap, Jazz cleared away the rest of the netting and got to his pedes, stepping over Prowl. And then toppled on top of him, wincing silently as his pede cracked underneath his weight.

The pain knocked his systems into a sudden reset, and he lay still, drawing in shaky vents. When he could, he looked over his shoulder at his pede, and his optics widened. The armor was actually flaking at the edges. Rough canvas bandages held the pede together with sealant to force the cracks to heal, but a chunk of the armor was simply gone.

"Ain't running outta here," Jazz whispered to himself. "Pro'lly ain't driving, neither."

That left him two options. Hide, or hostage.

He pushed himself up, sitting back heavily against the berth and taking a long vent. If he didn't move, the pain settled and didn't make him want to vomit out energon. And now that he was looking at himself, he found numerous thin cracks across his entire frame, all of them coated with drying sealant. His pede was the worst, a dark web of fragile breaks in all directions, but the cracks covered both legs, the armor of his hands, one shoulder dented in so badly he could barely raise his arm, and—

He froze. Reset his optics. Reset them again.

What the frag was an Autobot decal doing on his hood?

Groaning, he lay his head back on the berth, closing his optics against the light. Pain throbbed behind his left optic, building with each pulse of his spark, and any attempt to recall data brought a splash of white light and an processing error screech. Data not found, internal routes not responding. Wait, or force a reboot. When he tried rebooting, his whole cortex sparked.

A medbay. He needed to reach medbay. He didn't now how but medbay would fix everything. Gulping air, switching on his fans and hissing as they knocked against dented metal, he arched his back and sat up. His fans shut down, his engine sputtered and shook as a subroutine malfunctioned and forced coolant to flow too fast through his system.

He grabbed the back of the berth, lifting himself while gathering his semi-good pede underneath his frame and struggling to one side, dragging his shattered pede up with him. The effort left him drained for a moment as he vented.

"Medbay," he whispered, head down. "Just gotta find medbay."

Two corridors down, one corridor up, and how did he know that? He would question that knowledge when he wasn't chilled to the core and shaking with exertion. But there would be Autobots moving through the Ark. He had to reach the medbay without being stopped.

Through the vents? He looked up at the tiny ventilation shafts in the ceiling and along the floor. A minibot might make it through, but he fit comfortably only in Decepticon bases, where shafts were just large enough for a small grounder. And again, how did he know that?

"Dunno what you slaggers hacked me with," he mumbled to Prowl, reaching down to turn him over, then hauling him up so that Prowl stood flush against Jazz. "But I need to get to medbay, princess, and you're my ticket in."

Holding Prowl was not as hard as it should have been. Hundreds of pounds of machinery managed to stay on wobbly pedes, canted in at the knees and held upright with Jazz's arm around the waist. Depending on the shift schedule, maybe there wouldn't be many mechs around, the few on duty would think these were two 'bots who'd overenergized and were on their way to their bunks.

"Hopefully ain't too many mechs who know ya," Jazz said, readjusting his grip and sending a jolt through his arm as he wrenched his elbow. "Okay, here we—"

The door opened.

Jazz's first instinct was to throw the knife. He almost did, but the sudden sight of two mechs in front of him kicked in his hostage routines, and his knife swung back up to Prowl's throat, fitting into the same groove he'd cut.

Back. Off." Jazz narrowed his optics, leaning forward as he tilted his head. Broken and battered, he posed to make himself look as dangerous as possible.

"Jazz," Ironhide said slowly, bringing his hands up as if to placate him. "Don't hurt him."

"Well," Jazz said, forcing his grin and twisting the knife enough to make Ironhide step back. "That's entirely up to you, ain't it?"

In the doorway, Bumblebee glanced at Ironhide, then back at Jazz. At the knife in his hand. Bumblebee had seen his commander work before, and though Jazz's frame trembled with the effort of holding upright both Prowl and himself, Jazz's hand lay steady on the Second's main energon cable. A flick, and fuel would splash the floor.

"Jazz...?" Bumblebee asked as he stepped forward. Ironhide's outstretched hand caught him at the chest, bringing him up short, and Jazz shifted, tensing his arm as if about to draw the knife swiftly across the cable.

"I dunno what kind of hack you played," Jazz whispered, and his face twisted into a grin borne of agonized cracks grinding against each other. "But I'm still me. And I'm walking to medbay, or else princess here's gonna decorate this room."

Ironhide moved back, his hands raised as if trying to mollify an animal. "Fine. We play it yer way. Just don't hurt him."

"Yeah, right." Jazz's grin never faltered, never dropped an inch, grim and specked with his own energon as he coughed. "Like I believe you two'll just let me waltz on by."

"What—" Ironhide paused as Jazz turned his helm ever so slightly to face him. With only the berth's dim light around them, the scarlet optics colored the room, turning him into the Decepticon before he'd become his young friend. "Do you remember anything? What vorn it is, even?"

Jazz stared at him, gulping air and forcing his fans to turn faster. If he noticed that one of his fans was missing and its slot bent at an angle, he didn't let on. After a moment, his fans stopped whirring.

"Ain't got a clue," Jazz said, chuckling. "Maybe when I'm in medbay, I'll remember. Maybe even drop your buddy there safe and sound. We gonna take a walk or what?"

Bumblebee frowned. 'Admit nothing to the enemy,' Jazz had once told him. 'Lie. Where they think you are? A lie. What they think you want? Nothing but lies. Wrap yourself up in lies.'

But this Jazz sounded sincere. Bumblebee had worked with him for numerous vorn. He knew what Jazz sounded like, happy or sad, nursing a cube or slipping through a Decepticon base. He knew Jazz when he lied, becoming the "Jazzmeister, Super Spy Extraordinaire and secretest weapon of the Autobot faction." And he knew what Jazz sounded like in pain and telling the truth.

"You won't make it," Bumblebee said flatly, ignoring Ironhide's aborted gesture and the harsh ping on his internal com. "You're too hurt. You can't carry him the whole way."

Jazz tightened his grip on Prowl as if Bumblebee meant to wrench him away.

"You got a better idea?" Jazz asked.

"Sure." Bumblebee vented out, steeling himself, then turned his back to Jazz and held his arms slightly out from his body, elbows bent just enough to betray his nervousness. "I'll play hostage instead."

No one moved. Jazz's optics twitched toward Ironhide, guessing at what the larger mech might try. Ironhide's surprised gape lasted only a moment, and then his faceplate became a flat mask that betrayed nothing. He took a step back as if giving Jazz a clear path to Bumblebee.

Jazz watched him for several seconds, hefting Prowl again as the heavier bot weighed at his frame. The long crack up his arm felt like it would split in two, and his unbroken pede groaned as tiny fractures compressed and slid against each other. The little yellow mech was right. Jazz could barely drag his bad leg along, let alone carry Prowl with him.

"Deal," Jazz said. He glanced at Ironhide, frowning. "Turn around."

"You aren't gonna hurt him," Ironhide said, not quite a question or a demand.

"And you ain't gonna try to stop me," Jazz replied. The larger mech could have lunged or shot at him in the split klik between dropping Prowl and grabbing Bumblebee, and there was no way Jazz could fight him. "Turn around."

"Just do it," Bumblebee said softly, turning his head. "And when we're walking, don't let anyone get in the way."

Ironhide's comm pings rang like bells in Bumblebee's cortex, but he didn't answer them, and after another moment, Ironhide grumbled and turned around.

Prowl dropped with a rattle and hiss of static. Stepping over him, Jazz came up behind Bumblebee and put his left arm over his shoulder, pulling him flush against himself as he brought up the knife—

Bumblebee suddenly turned with him, stepping closer to the knife so that the blade's edge struck his armor instead of his cables. Jazz tried to jerk back and, as if Bumblebee had known what he would do, the yellow mech thrust backward against Jazz with all his strength. Badly balanced on one breaking pede, Jazz went down with Bumblebee's weight falling with him.

As soon as Jazz landed on Prowl, already he was reaching for Bumblebee again, stabbing at his throat. The smaller bot's armor lay in plates pressed more tightly together than larger mechs, and the blade refused to simply slide into his cables. Out of the corner of his optic, Jazz spotted Ironhide turning, coming towards them, and his stabbing turned desperate. If he could just find one chink in the armor, one joint, even a pelvic joint—but Bumblebee wriggled painfully on top of him, denting cracked plates while he struggled to find some kind of leverage.

A hand came up from beneath Jazz, grasping his throat in a tight grip that wormed steel fingers into the joint under his jaw. Jazz turned his head, dropping his knife as he reached for that hand, and the Enforcer's optics came online in a flash, simultaneously delivering a synaptic charge directly into Jazz's neural links.

With a faint hiss and a snap of sparks, Jazz went limp, sprawled messily between Prowl and Bumblebee. Prowl vented deeply, groaning as Ironhide yanked Bumblebee to his feet and then pulled Jazz clear, rolling him onto his hood.

"Neat trick," Ironhide barked at Bumblebee, kneeling next to Prowl. "Next time, lemme in on it, you little Spec Ops slag."

"Sorry, I didn't know if he could hear our comms," Bumblebee said. He dug out a pair of stasis cuffs from subspace and snapped them on Jazz, then gently turned him on his side to hold him against himself. "Jazz says never assume anything."

"Prowl," Ironhide said, ignoring Bumblebee as he caught sight of the Second's crushed doorwing. He sent an gentle ping even as he asked "Can you talk?"

Prowl shook his head once, then winced as that sent his balance gyros spinning. My vocal processor will reboot in a few kliks. Was anyone else hurt?

"Nope," Ironhide said. "'Bee's got him in hand. I'll drag him down to the brig's med—"

No, Prowl said. He stays.

Gritting his denta as he sat up properly, Prowl leaned forward so his doorwings didn't rub against the berth. Ironhide extended his hand. Prowl glared at it, then brought his arms back and grabbed the edge of the berth, hauling himself up enough to sit. His fans kicked on as numerous subroutines started one after the other, cooling his overheating cortex and processors.

"Stubborn 'bot," Ironhide said, standing straight. "Jazz needs containing and you need to go to medbay."

Ratchet is overclocked, Prowl said. He stared at a single point on the floor to give himself a false sense of equilibrium. And Jazz...the brig medbay would not have what he requires.

"An' your chamber does?" Ironhide snorted.

Ratchet thought so. Prowl gave Bumblebee a look, nodding once toward the berth.

Bumblebee held still, hands resting lightly on Jazz's arm. He looked from Prowl to the berth, the berth to Jazz. And frowned. The red optics should have made his commander look frightening, triggering his combat processes, and instead he held Jazz as if he'd suffered a deep cortex wound.

"Are you sure?" Bumblebee asked. "I don't think he can take another hit like I gave him."

The smaller bot's internal comm pinged Prowl, asking communication but afraid to demand it. Prowl chuckled once, devoid of humor, at such a gentle contact after all the pain.

If you restrain him better than Ratchet did, he answered, he won't have to. Can he be secured reliably?

Bumblebee's nod was confident, and he bent and eased his hands under Jazz's frame. His fingers brushed a dozen cracks, however, and after a moment, he withdrew his hands, shaking his head.

I can't lift him up," Bumblebee said. "I'm afraid I'll hurt him worse."

"Well," Ironhide sighed. "If we're gonna be hard headed about this..."

He came up beside them and bent, scooping Jazz up easily. As he stood, he met Prowl's optics. For a moment he didn't move, tempted to take Jazz back to Ratchet, the overcrowded medbay be damned.

It'll be fine, Prowl tried to reassure him.

He's already hurt you, Ironhide said internally, not wanting to hear Bumblebee's opinion. You know I love the little slag, too, but we both know what he's really capable of.

Exactly, Prowl nodded. If that was really our Jazz, we'd be dead and Bumblebee would be halfway to Ratchet. Which means right now he doesn't remember us, but when he wakes up again, Ratchet won't be here to alter his data recall.

Ratchet's messing with his memory archives? Ironhide asked, not noticing how he held Jazz a little more firmly.

It stands to reason, Prowl nodded. And when Jazz wakes up, either way, he'll be confused and afraid. Do you want him alone in the brig that way?

Ironhide stared at him, then huffed a long vent and came close, setting Jazz down on the berth.

"Rotten mech's more trouble than he's worth," Ironhide grumbled. "'Bee, get over here and help me keep him down."

Thank you, both of you, Prowl said, this time including the other bot on the conversation. Can it be done without harming him further?

"No prob," Bumblebee said, gathering up the sliced straps. "Most of these are intact. With my stasis cuffs, it'll be more than enough."

Prowl nodded, lowering his head as both of them began to work around him. He moved to give them room, but Ironhide's hand touched his shoulder, nudging him back down.

"Stay put," Ironhide said. "You ain't in the way."

I am— Prowl tried to argue. He reached up to swat Ironhide's hand away but he flinched as his shoulder refused to bend properly.

"You ain't," Ironhide insisted. "Unless you wanna fall over?"

Grimacing at Ironhide's overly considerate tone, Prowl turned his head and watched Bumblebee work. Already he was unlocking the cuffs and pulling Jazz's arm straight to the side and up toward the corner of the berth, where he snapped the other end of the cuff around the same ringlet Ratchet had used. As the steel clicked, the familiar hum of the cuffs turned steady.

Bumblebee had to move around the berth, passing Prowl as he came around and knelt by Jazz's broken pede. Prowl had the intense awareness that Bumblebee was gingerly avoiding any contact lest even the slightest touch shatter Prowl's self control. He didn't comment on it. His back felt numb and lighter than before, but a sore ache deep in his shoulders left him afraid to move. Prowl didn't often end up injured, but he recognized bedside manner all the same.

"He's gonna be a bit stretched out," Bumblebee apologized.

Will he be in pain? Prowl asked.

"Will he be able to get free?" Ironhide asked over him.

As Prowl shot Ironhide a look, venting lightly, Bumblebee looked between them with growing unease. Ironhide looked ready to simply drag Jazz away, standing with his arms crossed and his fingers drumming on his armor, and Prowl...Bumblebee was glad he couldn't hear what might be said between the officers.

"Um, no and no," Bumblebee said, answering them both in turn. He gave the straps another twist and yanked hard, leaning his whole weight on the mesh weave. It creaked under the strain but didn't move, and he stepped back in satisfaction.

"It shouldn't hurt him," Bumblebee said, motioning toward the missing section of Jazz's pede. "But that part's gonna be dicey, and if he's desperate, he might be able to kick it free. There's just not much for the restraints to hold without hurting him more."

"Do it anyway," Ironhide said, and he jerked his head at Prowl. "Ignore whatever he says."

Prowl tensed but didn't argue. Being Second in Command gave Prowl the authority to set tactical goals and logistics for the Autobots, but Ironhide had been Optimus' Second before the war had even exploded and still held rank when it came to strategy and the day to day discipline of the faction. If Ironhide put his pede down, then Prowl would acquiesce. But he didn't have to like it.

I think you just volunteered, Prowl said, for deep penetration duty in the south-eastern swamps of this country.

Ironhide glanced sideways at him. Swamp work was nasty, muddy, sticking work, with bugs that gummed up joints and snakes that liked to nest between a mech's cables as he recharged. He couldn't suppress his shudder but he smirked anyway.

If you order it, I won't even complain, Ironhide said with a little salute. 'Cause your logic chip would never send me anywhere that I didn't serve the most use, you glorified calculator.

Opening his comm line again, Prowl nearly threatened to tell Optimus. Playing the likely conversation out in his head, however, he closed off his communication array and sat still, ignoring Ironhide. The older mech hadn't let Bumblebee in on his scolding, and Prowl couldn't say that he was wrong. There was no point in arguing further.

"You almost done?" Ironhide asked Bumblebee. "Ratchet still needs help and apparently Jazz is fine where he is."

"Done," Bumblebee said, standing straight. "I set the strap over his pede. If he kicks, it won't be pretty, but hopefully the pain'll make him stop."

Prowl nodded once. Bumblebee and Ironhide exchanged a look, clearly saying something on their internal comms, and then Bumblebee vented and gave Prowl a quick salute.

"Um, just call if you need help with him," Bumblebee said, turning to go.

"Leave your comm on," Ironhide said, his arms crossed, glaring down at Prowl. "I wanna hear anything that happens in here."

Prowl's engines rumbled. He sent an affirmative ping, refusing to answer Ironhide directly. The older mech didn't comment on his sulk, used to his rare moods.

"And you send a ping every breem," Ironhide said. "I don't hear from you, I'm coming back with a full squad."

Narrowing his optics, Prowl looked at Ironhide, then at Jazz now tightly bound to the berth. A little energon bled through the bandages around his mutilated pede, and even in recharge, his vents came in painful rasps. Prowl glared back at Ironhide.

"Whatever," Ironhide growled, "he's still dangerous. Every breem, got it?"

Somehow Prowl made his responding ping sound like an insult.

"Yeah, yeah, see ya later," Ironhide said, waving his hand as he left.

Once the door shut, Prowl heard Ironhide punching the keycode and locking him inside. He vented and slumped his shoulders. His wrenched doorwing left his internal gyros unbalanced, and a deep soreness spread through his hood and frame. Even if he couldn't feel his doorwings, his circuits knew he was hurt.

He ran his hands along the edge of the berth, venting again and closing his optics. It would be another joor at least before Ratchet could come see him, and the medical officer would not be pleasant. Ironhide was angry, Bumblebee had seen him incapacitated, this was sure to make its way to Red Alert and Prime, if for no other reason than Prowl himself had to file the report...

An alarm sounded in his cortex, startling him straight. He blinked. Had he set a reminder for himself? He didn't remember doing so...

The message flashed at him, Ratchet's schedule blinking to catch his attention. Jazz needed energon.

Prowl cursed a string that would have made Jazz proud.

Chapter 12: Biting the Hand that Feeds

Not sure of how he would go about feeding an unconscious mech, Prowl winced and got to his feet, leaning against the berth as he wobbled. Ratchet's supplies lay by the far wall, only a couple steps away, but he took several kliks to move along the walls, far enough to grasp the table and vent deeply.

With one hand, he tore the edge off a medical packet and spilled it into a cube. He didn't care where he dropped the packet, instead pouring the energon in with a trembling hand.

His frame trembled. He couldn't keep standing for long. Holding the cube against himself, he carefully moved back to the berth, one hand against the wall so he wouldn't fall over.

He sat down in relief, swirling the energon a few times, gingerly rolling his shoulders as if that would get rid of the ache. Sitting ramrod straight didn't hurt, but turning to lean over Jazz would, and he looked over at him.

The spec ops mech lay still, optics shut, securely if haphazardly bound to the berth. Bumblebee had done an admirable job lashing him down with the tattered remnants of Ratchet's medical restraints, but the random lengths of the straps forced Jazz's frame to bend or stretch. Several bands of kevlar went across the berth over Jazz's midsection, then around him right arm, then disappeared off the edge again. Jazz's left arm lay outflung toward corner, bound by short lengths of restraints that Bumblebee had knotted together.

Similarly, his left pede stretched toward the corner with half a dozen straps sliced too small to reach anywhere else. His mangled pede lay flat with longer straps over his ankle joints and above his knee, unwrapped, simply pinioning it down. Only one strap around his thigh would have to keep him from trying to kick out and hurting himself further.

The only intact straps, one across his waist and one across his throat, were pulled so tight that they creaked with Jazz's vents. Prowl touched them lightly, following the line of the strap along steel. Jazz didn't move.

With a deep sigh, Prowl leaned over, setting his fingertips on Jazz's mouth and gently opening it wide enough to accept the cube. The move sent one of his balance gyros off kilter, and he closed his optics for a moment to restabilize himself.

Sharp pain drove into his fingers. Yelping, he jerked back in surprise but found his hand trapped, fingers caught between Jazz's denta. Jazz, wide awake, narrowed his optics.

"Hey, 'rincess," Jazz growled around a nasty grin.

Prowl frowned, forcing himself not to try to jerk his hand back again. "How long were you awake?"

Jazz tried to reply, but scowled when he couldn't form more than a garbled nonsense. When Prowl lifted the cube of energon again, Jazz stiffened and shook his head, his whole frame twitching against the straps. He bit down in warning.

Prowl's confidence rose. Jazz couldn't get loose, couldn't even budge. Even if he somehow bit through Prowl's fingers, he couldn't do any other damage. Prowl's lips quirked into a smile, pained as it was.

The Autobot chief tactician set his thumb under Jazz's jaw, then curled his fingers and pulled. Jazz squawked static as his mouth opened, then bit down again. When Prowl lifted the cube, however, Jazz found his mouth kept partly open by the tactician's fingers. The cube rested against his lips, and Jazz wailed as it trickled past his teeth, down his throat.

"Don't fight me," Prowl said, resisting Jazz's attempts to turn his head. "I don't know how much you remember, but you're one of us, and you're going to feel guilty enough when you come to your senses."

Jazz's engine revved, then inadvertently released Prowl as he coughed as his systems strained. His whole frame shuddered once, and with the last drop of energon flowing past Prowl's fingers, Jazz groaned as pain and deep soreness flared at the edge of his disconnected servos.

Prowl let him go, leaning back and letting the satisfaction overpower the ache in his shoulders. The cube tumbled to the floor and rolled out of sight.

Another alarm pinged. Prowl stared at the ceiling and vented. He'd taken so long that Ratchet's schedule had caught up with him.

"Sealant polished into his injuries every half joor," Prowl grumbled to himself.

Fortunately the sealant and applicator lay at the foot of the berth where Ratchet had left it. Not leaving his seat, Prowl leaned enough to grab the cloth, doused it with gel and faced Jazz again.

Not sure of what he was doing, Prowl touched the cloth to the cracks in Jazz's less mangled pede, lightly sliding it over the sensitive rends in his armor. Sealant filled the hairline cracks and deeper breaks, drying swiftly with his own armor's warmth.

Jazz hissed, squirming so that the straps holding him creaked. He tightened, then whimpered at how his frame ached and fell limp again.

Pausing, Prowl held the cloth up off of him for a moment.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Does it hurt?"

"Whaddayou care?" Jazz muttered, venting so that his hood rocked. "Why ain't I dead? Where's medbay?"

"Medbay is occupied," Prowl said, still paused. "Ratchet is—"

A gasp escaped out of Jazz, loud enough to drown Prowl's answer. The smaller bot groaned, twitching in spasms as something in his circuitry clicked into place. Prowl heard his servos rattling, neural receptors knocked off kilter and realigning themselves.

"Jazz?" Prowl leaned closer, grimacing as his doorwings shifted. "Are you—?"

"Ratchet...?" Jazz murmured, optics shut. "Izzat you?"

"Prowl," he corrected.

"'Prowl'?" Jazz repeated without any recognition. "Am I in medbay?"

"Medbay is full," Prowl said slowly. "For now, my berth will have to do."

Jazz groaned, choking once as his engine hiccuped.

Prowl frowned. Jazz had not been so distressed just kliks before, and suddenly now he was close to twisting himself into knots. Only the pain kept him from fighting the straps, and Ratchet's medicine probably cut that pain in half. The smaller bot had to have been in agony. Jazz whimpered in the back of his throat, and Prowl's tactical logic chip searched for a reason, found multiple suggestions. Only one suggestion rated a likelihood of over fifty percent.

"Ratchet's reprogrammed you with some security subroutines," Prowl reasoned. "What if I said 'yes, this is medbay. You've reached medbay'."

A long, cooling vent slipped from Jazz, and he relaxed on the berth. His inner processess went quiet, just soft hums in the sudden silence. With a long, weary blink, Jazz shut his optics and his helm tilted with the unmistakable cant of an unconscious bot.

"You're not recharging," Prowl accused him, applying the sealant again. "I know what you look like unconscious."

"Not trying to hide it," Jazz murmured. "Just tired to my core."

"That, at least, I will believe," Prowl said. "Your injuries are extensive."

"S'just a pede." Jazz tried to breathe deep, coughing out flecks of energon instead. "Think I got a leak up under mah hood."

Wary of any movement Jazz might make, Prowl leaned forward, running his fingers up under Jazz's chassis. He frowned, and when he pulled back his hand, he found pink energon on his fingertips.

"You do." He swiped underneath the hood, leaving generous amounts of sealant until there were no more traces of glowing fuel. Instead of sitting up, he hesitated. "Does that help?"

"Let'ya know inna minute," Jazz slurred, coughing again. "Leaks...take 'while to patch up."

Silent, Prowl watched as his vents eased and his temperature began to cool. With such deep wounds, even his uninjured systems had overstressed themselves. Prowl would consider himself lucky if none of Jazz's O-rings split or ruptured.

"Hey..." Jazz breathed, no longer coughing. "S'you a ghost?"

Prowl reset his optics. "A ghost? No...?"

"Can't hear you," Jazz said, squirming under the restraints. "S'like you ain't there."

"Your audios are damaged," Prowl answered. "And I don't talk as much as you do."

"Huh." Jazz reply came in a meaningless low murmur. A moment later, his vents came in a steady, deep rhythm, and even his mangled pede finally lost its tension.

"Not sure I believe it now," Prowl whispered, returning to his work. "But if you are, then I don't think you'll wake up anytime soon."

Hopefully not until Ratchet finally came back. Prowl continued applying sealant in Jazz's armor, scooting along the berth to better reach his helm without having to jostle his doorwings. He grimaced. Even along Jazz's interface ports, the reinforced steel had cracked. Prowl didn't want to imagine how badly out of alignment his cortex servos were.

He found his hand lingering at Jazz's face, lightly tracing his scarlet optics. Jazz didn't look innocent as he recharged—far from it. He looked like a fallen enemy, broken and badly crushed along the edges.

An impatient ping sounded in his head. Prowl huffed and sent an answering ping to Ironhide.

Stupid Decepticon finally went offline? the older mech said. Maybe he'll stay out for an orn.

He is in recharge, Prowl nodded.

Primus let him stay that way.

Prowl nodded again, now leaning forward with his doorwings dragging down on his back. He vented, resting on his knees.

Ironhide?

Yeah?

A vent. He's very badly hurt.

On the other side of the ark, watching Ratchet finish clamping off the last critical patient, Ironhide took a moment to rotate his stiff shoulder and knees, aching after being bent for so long. Ratchet didn't move for a moment, nodding only as Red Alert came back for the patient. Energon and oil and fluids covered the floor.

Yeah, Ironhide said. I know. Just...sit tight. We ain't forgot about ya.

Chapter 13: Fade to Black

When Jazz came back online, he peered through slitted optics, figuring out where he was while taking stock of his injuries. The sheer length of his damage report startled him—multiple ruptured and hastily patched systems, overheated circuits, and was half his pede missing?

The lack of pain reassured him. Decepticons wouldn't have disconnected some of his pain relays. He had to be back on base...but this wasn't medbay.

Bare walls with support beams in the right spots, the dim glow of lights in familiar corners, the feeling of a firmly padded berth so much like his own...the Ark? He gave the tiniest of tugs on each limb. Yes, restraints, although not the kind Ratchet usually used—

"I've told you before, I can tell when you're awake."

Jazz grinned, too relieved to mind how he hurt. That voice meant he was back on base, safe. He opened his optics, slowly lifting his helm. Prowl sat beside him, a white blur raising his helm from the datapad in his hand.

Jazz's optics widened, and his core temperature dropped without even venting.

"Your doorwings..." he whispered.

Prowl shook his head. "Don't worry. I can't feel it anymore. And Ratchet will take care of it soon enough."

Jazz squeezed his optics shut, turned his helm away. Something about Prowl's voice, the way he brushed off the heavy crimping of his wings, even the way the wings were canted inwards, told Jazz exactly where the damage had come from. Worse. It explained why the restraints were different.

"Did...did I kill anyone?" he whispered.

"No." Prowl set the datapad down with a click. "I was your only casualty."

"I..." Jazz found a glitch in his vocal processor, roughly forcing his reply through it. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."

"Don't," Prowl said, cutting him off. "It wasn't your fault."

Cold comfort. The silence lingered, and Jazz wished he could view it as logically as Prowl.

"Suffice to say," Prowl said, "you owe me. And I do intend to collect."

Despite himself, Jazz chuckled once, almost without humor. "Now see, that wouldn't worry me coming from any other mech. But you? I don't think anyone knows how crafty you can get."

"Nothing too bad," Prowl promised, focused not on Jazz but on adding more sealant to the cloth. "You were not yourself. Or rather, you were too much yourself."

Jazz watched him intently, following the cloth in his hands. As Prowl drenched it, Jazz began to squirm, tugging at the straps around his wrists.

"Uh, Prowler, tell me that ain't—"

"Sealant alloy," Prowl said, showing him the cloth. "For the breaks in your armor."

Chuckling without humor, Jazz made himself lie still, staring at the ceiling.

"Ain't Ratchet here? He's the one who usually—"

Prowl's hand fell on his hood, sweeping the cloth along his headlights and across the flat expanse of steel. His attention to detail brought the cloth into every crevice and curve, leaving a trail of cool sealant over the cracks as the cloth pressed into the dark recesses of Jazz's frame.

"Ratchet is still tending the wounded." Prowl angled his fingertips to reach higher into Jazz's armor, brushing sensitive cabling that rarely felt any outside sensation. "And the schedule he gave me is strict about your care."

"Y-yeah," Jazz whispered, hissing very shallow breaths as Prowl touched him. As the damp cloth left a wet line deep within him, Jazz arched back as far as the restraints allowed, thrusting up his hood and pressing his helm down against the berth. "Tha'ts Ratch'...strict."

Prowl paused. His hand still lay up under Jazz's hood, resting on his cables, and his fingertips lingered on the sealing rings affixing those cables in place.

"Does it hurt?" Prowl asked. "You weren't acting like this before, but then you were in pain from Ratchet's reprogramming."

"I...s'fine," Jazz vented. "S'cool. Ain't no thang. Ain't...oh geez..."

Prowl's optics narrowed. His cortex raced, factoring in Jazz's reactions, Ratchet's overly gentle straps that had nearly gotten Prowl killed, the hiss as Prowl slid his fingers under Jazz's hood...

He pinched a cable just enough to compress the thick insulation between his fingertips. And a ripple of electricity coursed over his hand and up along Jazz's frame, crackling into harmless static as Jazz gasped, shuddered and slumped on the berth. His helm fell back, his mouth slack as he vented heavily. His engine hiccuped and rumbled unsteadily before falling back into a normal rhythm.

Startled, Prowl looked down to see if anything had ruptured, if any systems were leaking energon. None of Jazz's injuries seemed any worse. If anything, Jazz was running quieter, soothed into near recharge by his overload.

With a faint groan, Jazz blinked, his red optics scanning and finding Prowl looming over him with a satisfied smile.

"Oh Primus," Jazz whispered. "Have mercy."

"Primus might." Prowl leaned close, brushing Jazz's faceplate with his lips, then softly vented across one audio horn. A rush of warmth flooded the sensitive equipment, and Jazz grit his denta, thrusting his hood up against Prowl's. The kiss that followed, hard steel on delicate mesh and wire, drew a faint keen of feedback from Jazz's lips.

"But I won't."

Chapter 14: Performing for the Audience

A patch of kevlar weave held secure by two heavy steel belts did not hide the torn edges of Jazz's pede. With one arm over Prowl's shoulder, Jazz limped down the hall from the officer barracks toward the medical bay. Mechs stepped out of the way, staring with wide optics at the terrible wound Jazz had to drag along the floor, and they murmured out of pity when they saw him stumble against Prowl's side.

"Stuff it, Prowler," Jazz grumbled, refusing to look at him.

"I didn't say anything." Prowl hefted him up and readjusted his grip.

"I can still hear ya," Jazz said. "Ain't that bad. I got home in one piece, didn't I?"

"Only because you left several broken pieces strewn on the road," Prowl said. "You are putting more weight on the wall than you are on that leg."

"Good. Maybe Ratchet won't yell at me for wearing it out." Jazz grabbed the edge of a doorframe and held himself for a moment, venting once. "When's the next pain killer?"

"Half an orn," Prowl said. "And no sooner."

"Tyrant." Jazz took his offered hand and leaned on him again. "Monster. Power-crazy taskmaster."

"Your commanding officer," Prowl said mildly, walking him down the hall.

"So demote me," Jazz said with a broad grin. "Pick some other fool bot to be Third in Command. Bumblebee, he could manage it. Kinda. When he remembers he can turn into a car."

"Your confidence in your own team is an inspiration," Prowl said.

"Or there's always Hound," Jazz said. "'Least he wouldn't have to put up with debriefings and reports. He'd just stay out in the field so long no one'd remember to send him files."

"Do your bots know you talk about them like this?" Prowl asked.

"'Course there's Mirage," Jazz said. "Almost as sneaky as me. But unless he's got a direct order, I don't think he'd have the spark to pull a trigger, know what I'm saying?"

"Unfortunately." Prowl let him pause to vent again. "We could say the same about many other Autobots."

"And the other half think they're traitors," Jazz sighed.

The medbay stood only a few doors down. Prowl gave him a nudge, ignoring Jazz's dirty look, and helped him hobble the distance. At the entrance, however, they found the door locked with a security intercom accessible only by officers.

"Huh." Jazz tilted his helm. "Top brass only. You know what's up?"

"Red Alert gave me some idea of it," Prowl said. "Ratchet has several special operations bots in here, enough to warrant a security lockdown. The rest of the Ark's medical needs are being seen to by First Aid in the lower ward."

"Curiouser and curiouser." Jazz unlocked the intercom with his personal code. "Yo, my mechs. Got room for one more busted up spec ops bot?"

Ratchet's voice responded. "'Bout time you showed. Starting to think I'd have to post a sign-slow moving mechs."

The door buzzed and opened, and Smokescreen stood at the side, holding one arm out. His other arm was wrapped in its own kevlar sheath and locked to his hood to keep it immobile. Behind him, most of the medbay was dark, leaving only Ratchet and the side hall in light. As Jazz's optics adjusted, he spotted Hound on a recharge bay, venting deep, but from the look of the bay monitor, he was only in a light defrag cycle.

"I can take him from here," Smokescreen said.

"You look like you already have one hand full," Jazz said, but he took the offered help, leaving Prowl's side.

"Just a fender bender," Smokescreen said with a grimace. "Won the bet, though."

Prowl cast a disapproving glare at his fellow Praxian but let it pass. Nothing he could say about the risks of gambling or racing would be as forceful as Ratchet.

"I will return after shift," Prowl said. "If you're allowing anyone in at that time."

"You're always welcome," Jazz said, flashing a smile. "Just let us know a breem ahead of time so we're presentable."

"Understood," Prowl said, ignoring Jazz's undertone as he returned to his own office.

"'So we're presentable'?" Smokescreen echoed.

"So's we can hide the good stuff," Jazz said. "It'd be awkward for him to have to arrest a room full of broken mechs."

From across the room behind his workstation, Ratchet snorted and continued typing out a report on his datapad.

"You remember you're busted," Ratchet said. "'Else I swear I'm disengaging everyone's pedes."

"I can live with that." Smokescreen helped Jazz move toward the hall. "I got a couple card decks—"

"And your arms."

"...yes, sir."

Smokescreen scowled as they headed for the two back rooms. I swear, that 'party wagon' has no sense of fun.

Mech, Jazz said, how come I'm just now finding out all my bots are busted? And no sit-reps in my last messages?

"I hope you're feeling better," Smokescreen said conversationally as if Jazz hadn't asked. "Prowl, Optimus and Ironhide all said to let you rest. And Ratchet said he'd lock us all in recharge if we bothered you."

Uh-huh, Jazz said. And the real reason?

The last door opened. Mirage sat in one medical bay and Bumblebee looked up from the seat beside it. Jazz realized in an instant that they were waiting for him. From the main room, Hound didn't wake but his signature joined into the group conversation.

We got ourselves banged up, Hound said. So we'd all be in here.

We need to talk, boss, Bumblebee said.

Jazz vented a full cycle. Damn. He knew it would happen one day, but not like this and certainly not with a broken pede to keep him from bolting. His consolation was that Bumblebee still called him boss and that Smokescreen hadn't dropped him the moment they were out of sight.

So what'd you see? Jazz asked.

You, coming back from your last mission, Bumblebee said. And then later when you were...in Prowl's room.

Jazz nodded once. So when he'd woken up thinking he was still a Decepticon trapped on an Autobot base, Bumblebee had been there. Had probably seen Jazz rampage all over Prowl, and had probably been the bot to help put Jazz back on the berth and strap him down proper.

Prowler didn't tell me that, Jazz said.

No one's told us anything, Mirage said. Even 'Bee won't tell us what he saw. But it was enough to rattle him and...

And SpecOps couldn't work if they couldn't trust their commander implicitly.

Jazz let Smokescreen help him to the free medical bay, sitting up on its edge so he could slowly turn and rest his pedes. He didn't question their decision.

SpecOps functioned much differently than other units. Close-knit, tight as a family, they had to trust that no matter how deep they penetrated into an enemy base, they would come back as loyal and devoted as always. They had to. They were also the first on a rescue and the last to extract, and if one of them called for help halfway back to base, they had to trust that their wounded comrade wouldn't put a round through their spark on some lonely highway. And his mechs had to trust each other never to tell what happened on some missions where the regular troops would never understand some of the decisions they'd had to make.

Smokescreen pulled a cube of medical grade energon from the counter and offered it up, half as a show of support and half as a show of trust on Jazz's part.

Then I guess I got some s'plaining to do. Jazz took the cube and downed it in one go. Hound, get in here. Ain't going over this again.

Hound's pedes immediately hit the floor, and as he came closer, Ratchet's voice came over the comm.

"Anything I need to know about?"

"Ain't no thang," Jazz said. "Just letting a few bots in on an old secret."

Ratchet was silent for several kliks, and when he responded, his voice was artificially light. "You tell anyone else you're doing this?"

"I know my bots," Jazz said. "It'll be okay. Just...not the way I was planning on spending the afternoon."

A pause, and then the comm clicked off.

"Ratchet knows?" Bumblebee asked, his optics wide. "I mean, Ironhide knows, but..."

"'Bot," Jazz chuckled. "Ratchet's put me back together more times'n I can count. I ain't got a serial number he ain't know about."

The door opened and Hound came in, sealing the door behind himself. With five mechs crowded inside, Hound shuffled around to the edge and sat on the side of Mirage's berth.

"Did I miss anything?" Hound asked.

"Nope," Jazz said. He put his hands up to the visor and began disengaging the multiple locks holding it in place. "Just in time for the grand show."

Safeguard after safeguard clicked off. A dozen firewalls temporarily went to sleep. Physical locks released. One by one, Jazz painstakingly undid protocols designed to withstand battle and Decepticon hacking attempts, all up to Red Alert's precise specifications. Only once their security bot was satisifed could Jazz leave the base and risk his optics being seen.

"Now I dunno what Ironhide tol' ya," Jazz said as they waited. "Probably the same thing when he dragged my aft to the promotion ceremony."

"He said you were still you," Bumblebee said. "That you never changed—they just saw you being wasted and grabbed you and just kept running."

"Pretty much," Jazz chuckled. "And I didn't even know it then. You 'member how I said the first time I met Optimus, I saved him an' everyone with him?"

Mirage nodded. "Yes, but everyone believes that is simply your usual bluster and joking."

Jazz grinned, hesitating at the last lock. "Nah, it's legit. It's just...wasn't quite on the same side yet."

The visor detached, and he lifted his helm to face them with his own optics.

No one spoke, but in the stillness, several subroutines whirred and whined as each SpecOps bot fought the urge to draw, aim and fire. Jazz waited, venting in relief that he wouldn't have to try to fight off four other bots on a busted pede.

"Well," Mirage said finally. "If Cliffjumper ever finds out, we're all dead."

From their expressions, none of them knew what to think. Jazz looked from Bumblebee to Mirage, Smokescreen to Hound, and no one said anything else. Impossible to read their looks beyond shock.

"Geez," Jazz said, turning aside and replacing the visor. "Red was right. I been wearing this visor for so many vorn I sometimes forget what I see like without it."

"Why didn't you get them replaced?" Mirage asked. "I've had my optics redone twice already."

"They're original model," Jazz said. "Lets me see stuff that Ratchet just can't replicate, like reading old codes, and...well, other things. Red would kill me if I started blabbing everything."

"I'm surprised that little bundle of paranoia hasn't hit your off switch already," Hound chuckled.

On cue, Jazz's internal communications array clicked on.

That 'little bundle of paranoia', Red Alert commed, is aware that SpecOps needs to trust its commander. Also, Prowl might be in here, too.

Jazz laughed despite himself. You're one good 'bot, Red. Mind if I spin another story in here?

...you are the Third in Command, Red Alert said. I've been told that I should let the commanding officers act with a little more leeway than most.

Is Prowl blackmailing you? Jazz said.

I am capable of letting my officers act like officers, Red Alert said. Just don't spill any more classified secrets.

I will be the very soul of discretion, Jazz said. Just a little history, I promise. 'Bout the old Kaon beta base.

Ah.

Red Alert's transmission port remained open, then clicked off. Jazz figured the security bot was still listening in over any of the multitude of recording devices he kept hidden even from Ratchet, who probably wouldn't like knowing his patients were being monitored as they recovered.

Their entire conversation had taken only a klik. Jazz scooted back on his berth, resting against the wall, and he felt the vents along the side open to shunt warmer air along his cables, easing the kinks and loosening his stiff joints.

"Tell you what," Jazz said, "one of you get me a good pain blocker outta Ratchet, I'll let you in on the second time I saved everyone's afts."

"On it," Hound said, leaving to ask the medibot. "Be right back."

The rest of them gathered closer. Mirage rose and limped off of his berth, which spared more room as Smokescreen hopped up and relaxed. Bumblebee dragged his seat along so that he could put his pedes up on the berth, and when Hound came back, he'd be able to sit on the floor and easily stretch his own pedes out.

"How much longer 'till you need another go of sealant?" Mirage asked, moving to sit on the side of Jazz's berth, holding his hand. "That patch must be hiding one awful mess."

"Awful enough," Jazz said, taking his hand and pressing a light kiss to the back. "Sure you wanna offer? Noble mechs usually don't like to help out with the dirty messes."

"You might court like one," Mirage said, "but you clearly don't know many noble mechs."

"I think I know one pretty well," Jazz said.

Smokescreen huffed. "Hound better get back here soon, or else I'm laying five to one these two start sharing cables in another breem."

"I wouldn't take that bet," Bumblebee said. "They'd do it just to scandalize poor Red."

"What makes you think he'd watch?" Jazz said. "Red Alert ain't that much of a voyeur."

Hound returned in time to save everyone from scoffing and unknowingly aggravating their security bot. Hound shut the door and handed Jazz one small cube of energon, turned blue from whatever Ratchet had put inside.

"He wouldn't give me much," Hound said as he sat down. "Just one dose. Said you'll have to walk down there yourself later."

"So evil," Jazz said as he threw the energon down in one go. It tasted terrible, but almost immediately he felt the pain blocker take effect, slowing the neural linkage pathways so the pain didn't have a chance to reach his cortex.

"So when did you save everyone again?" Bumblebee asked. "After you were made an SpecOps bot?"

Jazz laughed. "Nope. One decacycle after they hauled me in. I wasn't even patched all the way up yet..."

Chapter 15: Memory File - Blind Mech

Still confined to the back of Ratchet's medbay, Jazz tapped a steady rhythm against his pelvic joint. His vents came quick and shallow, and his other hand gripped the edge of the berth.

"Are you feeling any pain?" Ratchet asked, glancing up at the screen displaying Jazz's cortex activity.

"Nah," Jazz said. "Just don't like seeing those things come right at my optics."

Leaning over him, Ratchet gingerly tweaked the long nano-elevating forceps to ease up the thin, red crystal of Jazz's first optic lens. In the space only microns wide, he clasped a tiny focal gear and adjusted it back into place, listening for the faint click as it set properly.

"It isn't the most pleasant operation," Ratchet said. "There. Better or worse?"

"Kinda better," Jazz said through grit denta. "Clearer. Still don't wanna rotate right."

"Yeah, I can feel the rotator mechanism jerking in there." Ratchet slid a second lens out of the way, removing a mote of dust from between two gears. "I take it back. Good thing Ironhide put your optic in shut down. This could've scratched the inside of your lens to hell and back."

"Y'know," Jazz said, "I wouldn't mind being half-blind. Ain't gotta finish this on my account."

Ratchet chuckled. "You're quite the agreeable patient, but I'd hate to leave you half done."

"Be kinda sad to do all this," Jazz said, pausing in his tapping. "Just to end up killing me after all."

"...true." Ratchet would have heaved a sigh except that might have disturbed a stray bit of dust, even in a clean room like his surgical berth. "I don't get to make that decision. I just put bots together again despite your best efforts to tear yourselves apart."

"So I get the see the execution bots," Jazz said. "Do...do you all use smelters, too?"

"Is that what Megatron says?" Ratchet asked.

"He says you take bots apart for spare—" Jazz yelped as a lens slid back into place and locked with a solid click. "Spare bits."

"Don't move," Ratchet said. "I don't deny I've taken pieces off of grayed out bots. Not many machinists left to make new parts."

Jazz heard the undertone of disgust in Ratchet's voice. "Grayed out? Not someone with a spark left?"

"That'd be murder," Ratchet said lightly.

A loose connector was slid back into place and its O-ring tightened down. Jazz watched the tools over his optic turning clearer and clearer until he could make out the minuscule writing along the side, Property of Praxus Community Clinic. A free clinic, Jazz thought, which explained Ratchet's brusque but honest manner. A free clinic medibot didn't have time for any mech's slag.

"Hook does it sometimes," Jazz said. "Megatron says some bot ain't a true believer, so he'll help the cause out some other way and get stripped for parts."

Ratchet paused. "You've seen that?"

"My..." Jazz swallowed a bit of gastronic dissolution fluid that threatened to rise. "My last batch mate. Speedy little femme."

"Huh." Ratchet started working again. "Wanna talk about it?"

He ran the risk that Jazz might start twitching or shaking, or that he might start rapidly blinking away a flood of optical coolant as his cortex started to overheat. But Jazz must have had time to process her death because he spoke as calmly as before.

"She sang pretty good," Jazz said. "Better'n me. Two-Six loved opening up full throttle, but there weren't many opportunities to race, y'know?"

"No highways?" Ratchet asked.

"Kaon's got highways," Jazz said. "Just not for a bunch low-caste workers. We only came out of the tower center when Megatron killed off the functionalists."

Ratchet quietly nudged one more lens back into its setting and used a puff of canned air to clear any hidden specks of dust. Then one by one he eased his tools free and put the optic in full reboot.

"How many of you were there?" he asked. "I heard once Kaon workers were sparked in batches of fifty."

"Just six of us," Jazz said, wincing as his optic whirred through a diagnostic. "We were s'posed to be maintenance bots. Get into all the tight corners, climb up those rickety ol' struts. It was the maintenance shafts we used to fly down. Had a lot more fun than the rest of the workers."

"And when Megatron set you free?" Ratchet said.

"...he had Shockwave smelt Three-Six and One-Six right then," Jazz said. "Said they supported the Functionalists. Decacyle later, Four-Six and Six wound up falling off a maintenance overhang during a carpet bombing. And Two-Six...she didn't wanna shoot nobody after that."

Ratchet put his hand on Jazz's shoulder tire, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "We have a few bots like that. Pacifists—soldiers that don't fight. Medics and couriers."

"Courier," Jazz echoed. "She would'a liked that."

The optic finished its reboot and beeped a tiny all-clear. Ratchet locked it into a medical shut down, then added a blue polycarbon visor over Jazz's face, easing the edges into the magnetic grooves along his helm. With a touch, the visor snapped into place, its own back-light drowning out any red glow that might have escaped from beneath.

"So," Ratchet said. "Your original designation was Five-Six, then? When'd you get the name Jazz?"

A soft laugh. "S'weird, y'know? Ain't no one ever asked for my name before. Always just designation. When Ironhide asked...I didn't wanna be a number no more. Jazz just kinda popped out."

Ratchet smiled. "I like Jazz. I think it—"

A claxion blared overhead, cutting him off, and the lights dimmed before turning completely red. Ratchet stood, listening to a quiet comm on a personal frequency.

"Stay here," Ratchet said. "I'm going to lock the door. Just stay quiet—"

"What's happened—" Jazz said, sitting up.

"Someone got a lucky hit on us," Ratchet said. "Don't worry, we'll mop it up quick so you can get some real rest. Don't restart your optics until a full joor's gone by, you hear me?"

Jazz heard him flip the lights off and leave, closing the door and locking it. All alone, Jazz strained to hear anything over the alarm.

"Ain't no lucky hit," Jazz whispered. "You wouldn't turn the lights off on a mech 'less you're trying to keep him hid."

A darkened room meant no one would come in looking for either a stray Decepticon or a traitor turncoat. If the situation had been reversed, Jazz would have been thrown into the front lines as cannon fodder to slow down the attack, if he'd been repaired in the first place at all.

Ratchet was trying to protect him.

Jazz felt the last bit of doubt vanish. If Decepticons were storming the base, he wasn't going to go down hiding in a dark corner.

Turning sideways, he sat on the edge of the berth, his pedes dangling above teh floor. He wasn't sure how tall Ratchet was, but he doubted his frame was much larger than Jazz's. Besides, his knee joint was all fixed up, if a little sore.

Venting in, he slid off the side and fell only a meter, landing on his pedes. He knew he'd heard Ratchet handling tools around here, so he carefully put his hand out and found the edge of the shelves, then the edge of the wall. He jostled a few bottles and long instruments, but nothing felt sharp enough to—

Ah. His fingers closed on the edge of a scalpel, scraping his steel surface. He picked it up and took it with him. Hopefully if fighting started, he could find something better, but for now, it was better than nothing.

He found the line of the door, swept his hand down the wall for a keypad. It was impossible to open without the passkey, but with the lights off, perhaps the electricity to the door had failed, too.

When he accidentally brushed the keypad, though, the door slid open with a hiss. Jazz froze, then half-smiled and stepped through. Or maybe Ratchet, in his hurry to leave, had forgotten to lock this door. Or maybe the attack was going worse than he thought and the silence in the area just meant that the security had collapsed.

"Ratchet?" someone called out. "That you?"

"Sorry, bot," Jazz said. "Just a patient. Got tired of sitting alone in the dark."

"I hear ya on that. Say, I don't think I've seen you around here before. New recruit?"

"You could say that. Name's Jazz." He took a step and knocked against a berth. "Sorry if I hit ya. Kinda flying blind here."

"No prob'. You an' me, we're the only ones left. Everyone else could fight." The mech coughed and took a drink of something. "Name's Blaster. The berth you hit is empty if you wanna rest."

"Jazz." He slowly eased around the berth and walked straight, moving past Blaster toward what he hoped was a door. "And...well, I don't really wanna stick around for when any 'Cons get here, know what I mean?"

"'Cons?" Blaster sat up. "Why you think they'd show up here?"

"Think about it," Jazz said. "The alarms went off, Ratchet runs off, takes his patients with him. Everyone who can fight is already out there."

"Yeah," Blaster said. "Out there, not in here."

"You know that," Jazz said, "and I know that. And I'd bet anything that the 'Cons know that, too."

Blaster vented, then audibly stood and came towards him, his steps unsteady. "Damn. I wouldn't take that bet. Medbay would be a nice, soft target for 'em."

"'Zactly." Jazz shrugged. "Maybe not a main target, but for a bot hauling aft through the base—"

"A sweat treat on the way out." Blaster coughed again. "Hey, you can walk steady, right?"

"Mech, I could dance backward if I didn't think I'd trip over something—"

"Good enough." Blaster put his arm over Jazz's shoulders. "You're short, but you'll do. My gyros are still spinning after that fight. You walk, I'll lead."

"Sounds good." Jazz turned slightly as Blaster angled him to the left, and then another door slid open. "Got any idea where to go?"

"Anywhere but here for a start," Blaster said. "I'm gonna guess that if the door locks aren't working, then the turbo lifts probably aren't, either. So we'll head to the access shaft, go down a level. My little terrors should be in the barracks."

"Huh. You a carrier?"

"Yup," Blaster said. "I was the worst off, so Ratchet sent 'em off to rest without me. But between you and me, I think it was more because without 'em, he could shut off my speakers so they couldn't turn 'em on for me again."

"A little music would go a long way right now," Jazz sighed. "'Cept for how it'd let anyone hear us coming a mile off."

"Figure we're talking loud enough for that already," Blaster said. "'Sides, thinking about music just depresses me anyhow. Ain't nothing good coming out anymore. Orphemy's vanished, Essuul stopped singing, and Acrylicca's never gonna put out another album."

Jazz smiled. Not many mechs would talk about music now, not when the last song had been recorded several vorn ago before the war. But not only did this mech know his bands, Blaster knew some of the independent artists, too.

"Aw mech," Jazz said, "her Insilico album was okay, but you gotta admit after that, Acryllicca was going downhill."

"Lies," Blaster mock-gasped. "She was just going in a new direction."

"She was setting scraplets on fire," Jazz said. "Or her back up singers. Hard to tell at that point."

"It was a new genre," Blaster insisted. "Just like Eurythran was playing."

Jazz snorted. "StarDust played it better."

"Not as good as the Alphatecs."

"I still got that in my memory banks," Jazz sighed fondly. "But I stand by the fact they ain't as good as StarDust."

"You got them in your memory?" Blaster asked, stopping short. "What quality?"

"328.2 zps," Jazz said. "Standard, ain't it?"

"Are you kidding, mech?" Blaster held him a little tighter as if afraid he'd vanish. "Most mechs only record at 22 zps, if they even recorded anything at all. I've been looking for Alphatecs for vorn. What else you got in there?"

"Uh, some Kaon stuff, some Praxus—"

"...I ain't letting you out of my sight," Blaster said. "Praxian tunes went dead with the city. I had to dump some of my repetoire and I lost my whole file of it in the defrag."

"We'll have to spend an orn trading files," Jazz said, then tensed as the whole base shook with a dull crump somewhere far in the distance. "But maybe after we survive this fight?"

"You read my mind."

Jazz listened to the hall—their heavy, hollow steps, the low hum of emergency power trying to turn on—and heard the echoes down other hallways that Blaster passed by. He traced a vague map in his cortex, but the farther they went, the more he realized that he'd be lucky to find his way back to the medbay.

"Here we go," Blaster said, and his weight lifted off of Jazz's shoulders. "Gimme just one moment—I'll get these doors open in a jiffy."

"How we gonna get down?" Jazz asked. "If the turbolifts ain't working..."

"My little terrors know this base's every nook and cranny," Blaster said, his voice distorting as he grunted. "The lifts go up to the top when the power goes out. We'll just slide on down to the barracks and pick up my cassettes. I ain't leaving 'em."

"You can't, like, call 'em or nothing?" Jazz asked.

"Nope," Blaster said, and metal began to screech over his voice as he pushed at something. "I would have been playing a stream for 'em, and Ratchet decided that broadcasting ain't resting."

Jazz chuckled, then lifted his helm as he heard steel sliding against steel. "You got the doors?"

"Yup." Blaster took his hand, then carefully guided him to lean out slightly into nothingness. "Can you feel the cable?"

"I can feel my ball joints clenching up," Jazz said, but he let Blaster put his hand on a thick cable. "This the way down?"

"Down, down, doobie doo down," Blaster said. "There's two of 'em, so we'll head down together."

If Blaster hadn't taken a little hop right then, Jazz would have suspected that Blaster knew what Jazz was and had found an admittedly humorous way of killing him. Instead Jazz gripped the cord and followed, putting his pedes around the cable as well.

"Just slide on with me," Blaster said. "And I'll let you know when to stop. Wouldn't want you busting up when we land."

"No worries," Jazz said. "Been riding maintenance cables since I was sparked. Bottom floor?"

"Bottom floor," Blaster said.

And then they were sliding down. For as large as the base felt, the trip wasn't far, only three flights. Jazz heard Blaster drop down onto the floor, and a moment later, he dropped after him.

"...well, shoot."

"What's wrong?" Jazz asked.

"Sometimes I forget that where I can go and where my cassettes can go are two very different things," Blaster sighed. "The lift vent's too small. I mean, not by much, but I ain't taking off my helm just so I can squeeze in there."

"...can I get through?"

Blaster paused. "I think so. But are you sure you wanna do that? I can't go with you. And you got no reason to get my bots for me."

"You got me out of that medbay," Jazz said, already crouching and feeling the edges of the vent. He sat and eased his pedes through, then slid out and landed quietly. "Which way am I headed?"

"...if you give me your personal frequency, I can stay with you," Blaster said.

Jazz froze. That kind of offer wasn't easily made. Usually only between close friends, it let someone contact him past most of his firewalls. But moreso, would Blaster recognize his frequency header? Kaon wasn't all that unusual...but Jazz was already out of the maintenance shaft. If Blaster decided to try to attack him, Jazz had a head start.

"Well, usually I like energon and a movie first," Jazz said, "but I guess this is kinda special circumstances. I'm at Ka-No.119.1919.190009 Ghz."

Almost instantly he felt the signal touch at his cortex, asking access. Jazz opened up his communication array.

That was quick.

Used to be in radio broadcasting, Blaster said. Kaonite receptor, huh? Lemme guess, maintenance bot.

Got it in one.

Jazz put his hand on the wall and started walking, turning when Blaster said to, skipping halls when told. The walk was faster than he expected, but impossible if he'd needed instructions. He stopped at the last door and knocked.

No answer. He didn't expect one. A handful of cassettes in a base under lockdown? They'd be especially wary, at a disadvantage without their carrier. He gave three quick knocks, then three heavier knocks.

"Begging your pardon," Jazz called, "but there's a certain carrier who'd like his cassettes to rendezvous through a rather smaller than advertised vent."

"...who's there?"

Jazz smiled. The tinny voice coming through the door comm sounded suitably small.

"I'm called Jazz," he answered. "Your buddy Blaster couldn't come through the vent that someone might have made sound a lot bigger than it actually is. Dunno who that could be, though."

There was a sigh and a grumble, and then voices that Jazz couldn't make out.

"How do we know you're not a Decepticon?"

Jazz would have laughed but he squashed it quickly, listening to Blaster's reply. "Um, he says to tell you that 'there's no spark pulse in his beat that ain't got you dancing in time, and if you burn down that street to see me there...'"

"...'then our broken sparks might rewind'," the cassette finished. "Okay...could you tell him we're coming? We'll head up through the ventilation shaft here. I think it's safer that way?"

"You do that, little mech," Jazz said. "He says meet you soon, and..."

Jazz paused.

Something had scuffed very quietly at the far end of the hall and tried not to be heard.

Chapter 16: Memory File - Warzone

Pivoting, Jazz ran blindly back down the hall, turning sharply and sorely tempted to change into altmode if only to put more distance between him and whatever now revved its engines, roaring after him without caring about being heard.

Jazz! Blaster called out. What is it? I don't recognize that sound—

Sorry, mech, Jazz said. But you're gonna have to sit this one out. Can't dance with someone in my audios.

Abruptly closing their connection, he followed his internal map while forcing his optics to wake up. Sharp needles in his lenses made him stumble backward and land on his aft, venting harshly. No wonder Ratchet had said to leave them off. Looking through his lenses while their steel settings were still hot and healing made everything blurry, as if he was seeing through layers of rust grinding his gears.

The steps were coming around the corner, rapid and intent. As if crawling through sand, Jazz turned on his hands and knees and stood, taking one step, then another, then picking up speed. He kept one hand on the wall as he ran, but the steps were gaining. Whatever was after him was heavy, making the floor shake, and as he turned another corner, Jazz spotted the bright flash through the blurs.

An energy knife.

As Jazz turned down a new hall, he realized that he'd lost track. There was no way to know if this was a dead end, and even if he found a door, there was no power to unlock anything.

As Jazz turned the corner, he whirled around and flicked out the scalpel he'd palmed. The light of the energy knife gave him just enough warning as he stabbed out towards where the mech's midsection would probably be.

There was a scrape of the shape edge against steel, sliding down armor plating into a vulnerable joint. And then the satisfying snickt of soft rubber and plastic severing, the splash of hot energon and oil across his hand.

"Fragger—"

The mech growled and brought the knife up to what would have been Jazz's spark chamber if he'd moved any slower. Instead the knife slid into Jazz's shoulder, leaving a melted mess that hissed over Jazz's scream.

Looking back on the fight, Jazz would realize that he should have grabbed the other mech at that point, forced his knife to stay fixed in place while he drove the scalpel deeper into the mech's sensitive systems. Instead, Jazz stumbled backward in a pain-filled haze, losing his balance and falling on his side.

"Hey, loser! Unnecessary roughness right there!"

Jazz blinked at the new voice, and then what felt like a half dozen miniature pedes ran over him, a handful of blurs that jumped in front of him and began firing what had to be the cutest arsenal Jazz had ever seen.

His attacker cried out as the small lasers cut through his armor and faceplate. Jazz could see the bright flashes aimed high up at the blur in front of him, and he realized that Blaster's cassettes liked to shoot for the optics.

"Can you stand?" came the same voice from the door.

"After that save," Jazz said, pushing himself up to his pedes, "I think I could dance."

"I wouldn't dance with that cut to your wheelwell," the voice said. "Can you run? We're going back to the turbolift."

"Gimme a klik to vent," Jazz said, suddenly aware of two tiny mechs climbing up his pedes to ride on his hood and good shoulder. "Whoa, whoa, tell me y'all are the good guys?"

"I'm Rewind," said the voice on his shoulder. "That's Steeljaw on your hood, and Eject is the one who just jumped right through my aim and nearly got his helm blasted off."

"No harm, no foul," Eject said, coming close and hitching a ride on Jazz's pede. "Just ain't sporting to go after a wounded mech."

"I'd like to think I got him good, too," Jazz said.

"Of course," Rewind said, patting him reassuringly.

When they arrived back at the turbolift, Jazz suffered through climbing up on a half-crippled arm, venting hard when they finally pulled themselves up onto the main floor. After stowing his cassettes, Blaster let Jazz lean on him as they headed down emptied halls.

"How big is this place?" Jazz muttered, still catching his vents.

"It's not so bad when you aren't busted," Blaster said. "We'll go up to the—"

The base rocked with an explosion that shook the walls and floor. Jazz stumbled to one knee, and then a heavy shove from behind pushed him flat as something screeched overhead.

When Jazz could look over his shoulder, he found a section of the ceiling caved in and sparking wires over the rubble. Blaster was nowhere to be seen.

"Blaster!" Jazz turned and started pulling at the twisted steel. Blaster, are you there?

I'm good, I'm good, Blaster said. 'Side from all the ringing in my helm. You okay on the other side?

I'm still blind and busted, Jazz said, but he sighed and leaned back. Don't s'pose we could hook up easy again?

'Fraid there ain't a route from here to there, Blaster said. My little cassettes'll get me outta here. But you better hightail it, see if you can find where Ratchet's set up a triage. He'd probably appreciate the help.

As good an idea as any. Not like I can fight in this condition, Jazz agreed. Okay, any idea which way I'm going?

Straight ahead, Blaster said. Then up the ramp. You'll probably hear the shooting by then if you don't trip over Ratchet first.

Dunno if I wanna trip over that grouchy bot, Jazz said. You be careful, right? We got music files to share.

Damn straight! I want a shot at mixing that party!

Chuckling, Jazz pushed himself back up and started walking.

Forced to start his optics up too early, he found the edges of the hall becoming more distinct, the light of his visor coloring the walls around him. There were other spots that had collapsed in, but nothing he couldn't climb through.

"...ow..."

Jazz winced. In front of him, a steel reinforced beam had warped and snapped, spearing the red and white mech on the floor. As he came closer, Jazz saw the way the beam had pierced through the mech's pede, pinning him straight through.

"Hey, mech," Jazz said, kneeling next to him. "You still awake?"

"I wish I wasn't..." His faceplate didn't have a mouth but rather painfully shut optics and a grill that flashed in time with his vocalizer. "It went right through me."

"Ain't pretty," Jazz said, and he looked up to see if anything heavy was pushing the beam. "But you don't seem to be leaking bad, neither."

"Medical override shut down my cables in that pede." The mech pushed himself up on his arms, taking deep, shuddering vents. "I'll need you to help me pull it out."

"...whoa," Jazz said, pulling back as if burned. "You sure that's smart? I can go get a medbot—"

The mech laughed weakly. "Okay. Here I am. Ready to start pulling?"

Jazz tilted his helm. "You're a medbot?"

"First Aid," the mech said. "Ratchet's right hand bot for the last half vorn."

"Oh, you work with grumpy bot," Jazz said, gripping the pole. "Well, if you're used to working for him, this won't be no thang. You ready?"

Laughing again, First Aid nodded and braced himself. "On three. One, two—"

Jazz pulled. The beam slid out covered in a purple sheen of energon. He had to heft it higher and higher, shocked at how much had stuck through the floor. When it finally cleared, First Aid pulled himself out of the way so Jazz could drop it again.

"Ratchet's going to be so angry at me," First Aid sighed. "He said to watch myself and look what happened."

"Kinda hard to dodge a bomb," Jazz said. "Here, take my hand."

"Thanks." First Aid groaned as Jazz helped him up, then leaned hard against Jazz's good shoulder. "Sorry, but I think I'll take your arm, too. I can kill the pain, but there's no way I can walk on this."

"Just tell me where to go," Jazz said. "Kinda lost here myself."

"I need to get some things from medbay," First Aid said. "And roust a couple patients out. We're leaving the base."

Jazz winced. If the Autobots were leaving, that meant that they'd lost and were running. They would have run anyway, since guerilla fighters worked best when no one knew where their bases were, but a retreat from a battle did not bode well.

"'Fraid the medbay is cut off from here," Jazz said, "Unless you know any shortcuts. But if you're worried about patients, I can tell you Blaster went with me and got his cassettes. We just got separated a couple kliks ago."

"That..." First Aid paused. "Ratchet said there'd be a patient, though, in the back..."

Dammit. Jazz figured talking to mechs was a lot more comfortable when they didn't know what symbol used to be on his hood. Or maybe First Aid didn't know? Jazz decided he wouldn't say anything if the medic didn't.

"That, uh, that would'a been me," Jazz said.

"Oh," First Aid said, venting in relief. "Thank Primus. I didn't think I could walk all the way—anyway, can you get me back to the triage? I didn't have access to your medical records, so I don't know what might overstress your systems."

"Ratchet fixed me up pretty good," Jazz said. "Only my optics are still coming back online. It's one big bright blur right now."

"So acute optical distortion brought on by forcing a reboot," First Aid said. "Anything else? Cortex ache?"

"I got a pretty nasty cut from some mech 'bout three levels down," Jazz said. "I figure it was a Decepticon, but Blaster's cassettes handled him good."

"A 'Con?" First Aid winced. "Down here?"

Jazz didn't answer, covering his silence by shoving some rubble over to one side so First Aid could limp with him. Another explosion rumbled overhead, then another, and the floor shook so that First Aid yelped, grabbing Jazz hard enough to dent.

"Sorry," First Aid said, relaxing as the shaking stopped. "Circuit dampers don't block everything."

"Would they work better if you weren't walking?" Jazz asked.

"Yeah," First Aid said. "But—whoa!"

Jazz bent and scooped First Aid up into his arms, taking a moment to let him fidget into a comfortable position. Jazz grinned.

"There we go—no walking needed."

"Your shoulder is wounded," First Aid complained. "This is placing unnecessary stress on your systems."

"Ain't unnecessary," Jazz said. "I'm getting a medbot back where he's needed, ain't I?"

First Aid huffed, then tapped the side of Jazz's helm. "More to the left or you're going to walk into the wall."

"Gotcha."

First Aid redirected him a few times, stopping him to turn down another hallway, up another corridor. Jazz felt a growing ache in his frame as First Aid's tonnage pulled at his wound, but he refused to show it, keeping up a steady banter.

"Just goes to show that quality construction's really gone to the pit since the war," Jazz said. "Bases falling apart, 'Cons who can't even catch one wounded bot." He laughed. "In Starscream's Cybertron, ambulance gets carried by you."

First Aid chuckled despite himself. "Don't think I'll live this down. Ratchet's got a long memory."

"Ain't no dodging a ceiling when it's falling on ya," Jazz said. "If you want, I'll tell Ratchet you got hurt leaping to push me outta the way."

"Oh no," First Aid laughed. "Ratchet thinks medbots who throw themselves on grenades are the worst. Then who's left to fix everyone else?"

"Okay then," Jazz said agreeably. "You heroically shoved me into the blast and I just kinda bounced back on top of ya."

First Aid laughed again, almost forgetting to turn him down another hall, but as they grew closer, his laughter died down. The sound of gunfire and shouting came faint at first, then grew louder until they finally turned a corner and found a row of mechs on the floor, all of them groaning and leaking energon or oil, and Ratchet on his knees furiously wrapping kevlar bandaging around one's pede.

"Stupid mech just strolling across a damn battlefield," Ratchet muttered, tying the bandaging none too gently and slapping it secure, ignoring the mech's yell. "Go—the pain blockers'll kick in soon."

Jazz sat First Aid on his pedes but held him so he wouldn't fall, and held him so he'd have something to do with his hands. He could barely see anything, but the sound... Surrounded by mechs coughing and screeching, another mech stumbling in with a groaning mech in his arms, Jazz couldn't make sense of anything going around him.

"Great," Ratchet grumbled. "My own mech gets his pede run through. Great timing, First Aid."

"Throw me some bandages and I'll get started on these ones," First Aid said, knowing better than to argue.

"Sure," Ratchet said, tossing a bolt of kevlar. "Wrap Jazz's shoulder up first. I'm not letting him bleed out after all that work I put into him. And Jazz—you stay glued to First Aid like your life depends on it, got it?"

Jazz heard the implied threat and nodded once. "Sure thing, bossmech."

"Help me down," First Aid said. "This'll be easier if I'm on the floor."

As Jazz set him down and knelt with him, wincing as the medbot set his cracked armor back in place and wrapped it tight. He clenched his denta and leaned his helm on First Aid's, jolted as the kevlar was pulled taut.

"Sorry," First Aid said. "Field medicine isn't pleasant."

"Whatever keeps me alive," Jazz muttered. "You do what you gotta do."

"All done." First Aid patted the kevlar into place. "Help me over to the mech next to you."

Putting the medbot's weight on his good arm, Jazz maneuvered him around and waited, holding whatever First Aid told him to hold, moving him again when told. And Jazz realized that Ratchet had taken care of two problems at once, getting more use out of his assistant while also keeping Jazz busy. If Jazz chose now to reveal his real Decepticon colors...

No. That didn't feel right. Jazz frowned in thought, absently holding the kevlar. No, Ratchet had given Jazz an opportunity. With so many injured mechs around them, Jazz had the chance to prove that he wasn't a danger to them.

"Listen up!" Ratchet suddenly barked. "Word from the front, we're moving out! Those of you who can walk, grab someone who can't."

"You gotta be kidding," someone said. "I can't transform—"

"Transport's coming," Ratchet said. "And if you argue my orders one more time, I'll rip your vocalizer out and leave it for the 'Cons. Now move!"

Jazz took that as his order to pull First Aid back into his arms. They had to wait for the other mechs to rise up, and then they followed at the very end of the group, pushing along any stragglers as they slowly left the base.

The sound of bombs and missiles screaming through the air grew louder and louder, and Jazz tightened his grip on First Aid. The last battle field he'd been on, he'd heard the screams of the dying amidst those same missiles and lost all of his comrades in a well placed Autobot bomb.

"It's okay," First Aid said, touching his hand. "We'll get out of here."

Jazz nodded but couldn't answer.

In his experience, if the Autobots needed a carrier, Jazz had to bring it.

Chapter 17: Memory File - End

When they came to the main entrance, they found the thick steel blasted open so that the doors lay twisted and melted on the ground. Plumes of black smoke billowed across the horizon, impossible to see through, and Jazz spotted the bright flashes of tracer rounds following mechs in the sky. It felt wrong to stand so close to the door, like he should drag everyone back inside—

A screech of tires came first, followed by a truck that turned as he stopped, drifting his trailer around so that its open end dropped its ramp to allow them in.

"Here it is," Ratchet yelled. "No one boards unless the bot in front of him boards!"

That was the worst part, knowing a bullet could come out of nowhere in those moments waiting to climb. Several bots stood around the truck, laying down heavy cover fire that even pushed back any jets who tried to come close. Jazz thought he saw Starscream's wings once, and a heavy concussive wave washed over them, nearly making him stumble, but Thundercracker couldn't fly close enough to do real damage.

As soon as they were inside, he set First Aid down against the wall and sat beside him, taking Ratchet's warning to stay glued almost literally. Behind him, one of the mechs laying down fire now stopped shooting and came up into the trailer, hauling it shut behind him.

"Hold on tight," the mech said, and Jazz took a moment to realize that the familiar voice was Prowl. "This is a running retreat."

"Think we got that," Ratchet said. "Hey, did Blaster call in?"

"He is ahead with Hound," Prowl said. "He and his cassettes are fine."

"Overheating and unbalanced ain't fine," Ratchet said, but he didn't protest further.

The explosions continued around them, swallowing anything Ratchet said so that he had to use internal frequencies to talk to the wounded. Jazz put his hands on the wall, trying not to slide or jostle First Aid, and after a loud crack and the sound of a jet making a crash landing, the ride smoothed out again. The truck's rear doors opened and a ramp lowered, allowing two mechs to drive up and transform to altmode.

Jazz felt someone sit next to him, heaving a vent and relaxing.

"Behaving?" Prowl asked in a low voice.

"I am the very spark of proper behavior," Jazz said just as softly. "'Course I'm also kinda blind here."

"Ratchet informed me of your helping First Aid," Prowl said. "And Blaster contacted me to ensure that you were accounted for."

"Sweet of him," Jazz said with a faint smile. " Mech just wants my music collection."

"His exact words were 'please, he got my cassettes, I can't leave him behind'." Prowl coughed. "I admit, I was relieved to hear that you made quite the positive impression."

Jazz half-shrugged, wincing when he moved his wounded shoulder. "Just glad you decided to take me along with you all. Might not've been enough room in the get-away car."

"I am not certain how retreats were conducted in your old unit," Prowl said, avoiding specifics around the other mechs. "But we do not leave mechs behind."

"Huh." Jazz thought about that, then shook his helm once. "I won't argue the save, but I gotta admit, don't right get why you'd risk so many good bots on a buncha busted up mechs."

Prowl didn't answer right away. Jazz wondered if the other bot did a lot of calculating in his cortex before saying things. Or if Prowl was simply trying to parse out his accent. A lot of bots had a hard time understanding Jazz's dialect when he got going.

"You should know best," Prowl said. "Or else why did you fly a captured transport over a battlefield in acid rain to find survivors?"

"I..." Jazz paused. He hadn't thought about that decision even after it landed him in the lap of his enemies. Decisions, once made, just didn't matter much as the decisions he'd make next. "Dunno. I guess."

Even if he couldn't see, he could tell Prowl was staring at him. His reasoning sounded so empty, and adding to it just made himself sound emptier to his own audios.

"It just seemed like I oughtta do it, at the time I mean."

"I suppose that is a suitable reason," Prowl said, venting. "I think I would like to examine your decision tree logic sometime. You-"

Prowl stopped midsentence, listening to something Jazz couldn't hear—an officer frequency, perhaps. And then Prowl was up, firearm raised, snapping orders to the mechs to crowd in toward the front, that the 'Cons were—

A concussive blast hit the trailer, throwing Jazz against the far wall. As the trailer came off the ground, the roar of the explosion followed and drowned out any of the orders around him. The trailer landed hard, skidded, tossing mechs around, and then lights flooded the trailer.

Jazz looked up, dimming his visor against the light. The trailer's doors had flung wide and a dozen headlights swept across him and Prowl—Decepticons spotlighting them as the jets banked vertically, coming around for another pass.

"Down!" Prowl bent to push Jazz to the floor and stumbled as the trailer swerved a missile. The explosion rocked them again and Prowl sprawled across Jazz.

"Not really a fighter, huh?" Jazz said with laughter in his voice, shoving Prowl to the side. "Anyone we know out there?"

"You might," Prowl snapped, gathering his pedes under himself again. "We're the last—"

"S'all I needed to hear," Jazz said, turning on his side. "If I don't make it, say sorry to Blaster that he didn't get my tunes."

"Stop!" Prowl yelled. "What are you—?"

Prowl's hand slipped off his doorwing as Jazz tumbled off the edge of the trailer, transforming as he fell so that his wheels landed on asphalt. Despite the shooting pain in his stabbed wheelwell, Jazz revved hard in reverse, almost bumper to bumper with the trailer as he drove backward. The dust from the trailer gave him no cover—bullets peppered the ground as he moved.

"Is your cortex fried!" Ratchet yelled somewhere behind him. "Put it down—!"

Jazz couldn't look, but he guessed that Prowl had started to aim down at him, assuming Jazz was going to rejoin the Decepticons. Not that this maneuver made much sense that way—it didn't make much sense any which way, which was why the Decepticons didn't realize this wasn't suicide. But maybe Prowl thought Jazz was a Decepticon infiltration expert—he chuckled. Prowl's cortex must have started frying with all the possibilities.

He opened up his sonic array, took the extra klik to shield the trailer from any backwash of sound, and then—in honor of his new friend out there somewhere—blasted Acrylicca's Insilico single at top volume.

holo-light is hollow love

running insilicium

my spark is burning overdrive

your empty chamber's hollow, love

Electronic notes resonated through Decepticon armor and played haywire with their internal functions. Energon lines cracked and broke, filters shattered and pumps rammed into place, locked tight as everything seized up. Headlights swerved aside as Decepticons crashed into each other, and without them to lead the way, the jets above resorted to blind carpet bombing where they thought the trailer was.

Jazz shut down his sonics, wincing as he watched the bombs dropping towards him in a rush, destroying pavement a dozen meters away, ten meters away, five, four, three—

The bombs stopped and the jets veered away. Jazz whooped, then shut up and focused as his wheels started to skid. His bumper nudged against the trailer, and he realized that the transport unit was slowing down. Had it been hit? Jazz slowed with it, finally turning to face it as it came to a stop.

He revved down his engine and quieted, painfully aware of the growing silence in the fading echoes of Decepticon engines behind them. In his headlights, the mechs all stared at him with a mix of admiration and shock, and in front of them, Prowl held one hand against his helm as if he'd suffered a hit, looking at Jazz as if he was a Decepticon gone crazy and following the wrong army.

"Transform into altmode," Prowl said, stepping off the trailer onto the street. "Now."

Oh, that was not a happy tone. Jazz kept silent and transformed, doorwings bent back out of arm's reach in case Prowl wanted to wrench one of them.

Instead the other mech stopped in front of him, staring at him for a long moment.

"That was a sonic array," Prowl said. "Overcharged and weaponized."

Jazz didn't move. In his blurry vision, he could make out Prowl's other arm raised up toward him, no doubt aiming his particular firearm. One helm tilt or pede shuffle and Jazz could end up with a hole through his spark.

"Yes sir," Jazz said. "Usually just used it to shake off carbon."

"'Carbon'?" Prowl repeated.

"In the Kaon superstructure," Jazz said. "Maintenance. My buddy Wheeljack souped it up for me before—"

"Wait," Prowl said, seizing on that name. "Wheeljack. That is his designation?"

"Uh, yeah," Jazz said.

"Describe him."

"Um..." Jazz reset his optics, recalling his friend's image file. "Bit bigger'n me, white and red, ain't got a faceplate 'cause he likes his grill too much, audios flash when he talks 'cause he crossed the wires once but he said the reception was too good to try fixing it, and...well, he's smart and all, but I was kinda scared I'd blow up first time I tried my speakers."

Prowl didn't reply. A long silence stretched, and in the trailer, Ratchet audibly smacked one of the wounded mechs as he started to ask why they were still there. Jazz wondered who Prowl was talking to, and just how high ranking was he to be able to command the whole transport stop on a whim?

"Interesting." Prowl lifted his helm, his unheard conversation complete. "We are en route to our next base. On the way, you will permit Ratchet full control to disengage your sonic array. You will remain under my guard. And you will permit myself full access to your cortex upon our arrival."

Jazz nodded dutifully once, then again, but then his jaw dropped at the last demand. More than just a frequency exchange, Prowl was demanding a full interface through Jazz's thoughts and systems at gunpoint. Jazz's systems locked up, freezing him in place at the thought of it.

Before he could say anything, Ratchet slammed his hand against the side of the trailer and leaned out. Prowl barely tilted his helm to acknowledge whatever conversation was raging between them, and then he suddenly raised his helm as if hearing Primus himself. Someone else had joined their talk, someone that made Prowl stand straighter as if at attention. Prowl listened for a long moment, then turned his helm again.

Jazz wished he could tell what was being said. Probably telling Prowl to just give in and shoot him as more trouble than he was worth. They could just leave his grayed out frame behind, after all.

Prowl vented, then lowered his arm. "You will permit myself limited access to your cortex...please."

Jazz almost laughed at how ridiculous the other mech sounded, like a scolded newspark who still wanted his way. It would have been funny if Jazz's life wasn't on the line.

"Well..." Jazz said, venting out a little hysterical laugh, "I guess since you asked all nice."

"...thank you," Prowl said between grit denta. "Now get inside before they come back for another pass."

Moving slowly so Prowl wouldn't spook, Jazz climbed into the trailer and sat down beside First Aid, who looked at him like Jazz had grown a second set of wings. Then the doors closed again the trailer moved again down the road, racing to catch up with the convoy. For the rest of the way back, Prowl sat across from him, his gun lowered but clearly ready, even after Ratchet locked down Jazz's array.

---

Centuries later, on earth in Ratchet's medbay, Spec Ops laughed and vented at hearing their second in command's early orns.

"Yup," Smokescreen said, flipping a chip in his hand, catching it, then flipping it again. "That sounds like Prowl."

"Did he used to be more high strung?" Bumblebee asked. "I can't imagine him demanding full access, not even now that we know each other."

"Mechs, you don't know the half of it," Jazz said, and he shrugged and leaned against Mirage's shoulder. "But cut him some slack. He'd just been promoted to second not even a vorn before all that. Ain't no wonder he was seeing enemies everywhere."

"I remember that fight," Hound said, thinking back. "I was ahead with Blaster. Yeah, that wasn't long after we lost Rotator, the old second in command, and everything was a mess for awhile 'till Prowl got the army sorted."

"'A mess'?" Smokescreen asked.

"Like 'couldn't find parts, always low on energon' kinda mess." Hound shrugged. "Prowl's a hard-aft, but he got us a lot better organized than before."

"'Rotator'," Bumblebee said, considering the unfamiliar name. "How'd he die?"

"Slagged if I know," Hound said. "Above my paygrade. I just heard something about sabotage and figured he got hit by a double agent."

"One previously sneak-attacked Second makes for a paranoid Prowl," Jazz said. "Can't rightly blame him."

He gave a little stretch, easing the kink in his wings and giving Mirage a kiss to the back of his hand.

"Now, have I soothed the savage beasts or do I gotta worry about a shot in the back?" Jazz asked far too casually. "'Cause I'd rather get it done now while Ratchet's here to fix me up."

At once, his bots began protesting in wounded indignation, demanding to know how he could ever think that about them or why they'd do so when they'd worked so long with him. In the cacophony of their voices, Jazz grinned and opened a quick group comm to the officers.

Did I keep a lid on enough state secrets? Jazz asked.

I cannot approve of officers inviting their troop to shoot them, Prowl said.

Noted, Jazz said. But I'm good?

I have told you before, Prowl said. Of course you are good.

Jazz would have made a face if he had been looking at Prowl dead on. Ain't 'xactly what I was meaning.

He means, Ratchet said, that if you ever tell anyone to shoot you, I'm gonna make good on that offer. I've fixed you up so damn much that your armor belongs to me, got it?

Everyone wants a piece of my shiny aft, Jazz said, sending a datapack image of himself sticking out his tongue.

Treat him gently, Prowl said over Ratchet's growling. I require his assistance later.

Jazz lifted his helm, curious, and the move just happened to let Mirage help put his visor back on.

Anything I should know 'bout now?

Not over an unsecure line, Red Alert said.

Jazz vented—if Autobot officer comms were not secure, and secured by Red Alert himself, then what the hell was secure?—but didn't argue.

Then Prowler, come on down here and save me from myself before Ratchet really does take my pedes off. Jazz winced as he heard Ratchet coming down the hall, his steps heavy enough to dent the floor. His mechs looked up in surprise, and Jazz spared a little mercy to them. They had no clue what Jazz had just called down on himself.

"Mechs," Jazz said, "scatter—go on, skedaddle!"

Ratchet found himself in the center of a fleeing SpecOps unit, all of them refusing to meet his optics as they ran by and out of the medbay. A lone poker card and a bit of dust floated to the floor as the door shut.

That shiny aft, Ratchet muttered, is way more trouble than he's worth.

Chapter 18: Best Laid Plans

SpecOps had no manual. That alone could drive Prowl to glitch. Hard enough to tell Jazz to act by the book when there is no book. Also horribly annoying that Prowl had to learn human terms to understand Jazz, who took to new cultures like Hound took to four wheeling. Human terms, human music, human holidays... Prowl would shudder at it if he'd ever let himself examine Earth culture for more than a moment.

Instead, while he waited for Jazz, Prowl reviewed the current layout of the Autobot forces on the planet. Unused to seasons or natural phenomena like hurricanes or snow, Prowl made far more calculations here than he had on their homeworld. In comparison, war on Cybertron had felt so steady. On Earth, a squad could not afford to wait for more than a few weeks before becoming bogged down in sand or mud. Worse, the mythical element 'water' was useful, but a few days near the shore led to noticeable signs of rust.

His hologram of the globe, half his size and mid-air, spun in a slow circle, letting him see all of the troops and scouts and technical bots spread across Earth. Every single mech was a piece in the vast war game, and he balanced them against the known Decepticon units, matching them in strength and force, struggling to keep as many alive as he could. To kill as many Decepticons as he could.

In the center of the map, the Ark lay within the mountain, and all of the mechs inside were likewise tiny pieces moving around the ship and the surrounding plateau. With a positronic nudge, he brought the small dot representing himself out of the Ark and several hundred miles south, to the very edge of section of the map lined in red.

"Prowler, I know you ain't gone mad, so why you putting yourself somewhere completely insane?"

Prowl looked up, not surprised that he hadn't heard Jazz come in. Jazz stood with his arms folded, his helm tilted, mouth quirked so that Prowl could read his displeasure. As teasing as he was, Jazz was serious.

"We have no information on this sector."

"Sure we do," Jazz said, putting out his hand and forcing the hologram to spin. He touched each spot as he described them, leaving tiny red marks where his fingertips ended.

"These corners here? That's prime ambush territory. Probably five or six patrols on rotation. And this canyon here? Small enough to hide a munitions dump, maybe some berths dug into the rock for the grunts. And all this empty space around it?"

He waved his hand at the mountainous terrain, running one finger along the only road in.

"That's a perfect kill zone. It's a regular ol' lion's den...all the footprints go in, ain't none come out."

Prowl stared at the map dispassionately, not arguing.

"It's just bait," Jazz said. "A very tempting bait, what with all the little energon flare-ups. Almost like there's a natural energon conversion going on in there. So a curious 'bot..."

A single claw emerged from Jazz's fingertip, lightly touching the white dot that was Prowl. He hooked the edge, manually dragging the dot closer.

"...wanders on in, too busy calculating figures..."

Prowl narrowed his optics with an indulgent vent.

"Bam!"

Prowl flinched as his dot vanished, torn in half by Jazz's claw.

"Ambush. Capture. Torture. Execution."

Jazz let his hand fall so the the globe could go back to spinning. He gave Prowl an apologetic shrug.

"You ain't going anywhere near that place."

"We have one spy already embedded within that area," Prowl said. "And we still do not have adequate information on it."

"They only moved him there a few weeks ago," Jazz said. "Give a mech time. He can't send anything overt—they're too close to him."

"I am not faulting your mech," Prowl said. "He is our best long-term double agent. However, that spot of land will become crucial for the staging in that theater for the next set of maneuvers."

"'Crucial'?" Jazz echoed. "It's one canyon and mountain range."

"It is a ten mile stretch of cover centrally located between three Decepticon outposts and one base. I can take those out of commission, but all of my stratagems revolve around a logistics and support anchor there."

Jazz frowned, glaring at the map. As far as he was concerned, Prowl's calculations on top of calculations bordered on overly rigid. Prowl often needed a hinge to pin everything on, a single fixed point by which to swing the entire army in complex patterns. Knock out the pin, knock out his whole plan, and Jazz would have been a lot less confident if he hadn't known that Prowl always planned for several fall back anchors. But still...every plan needed a fixed point, and Prowl had chosen this one.

"You ain't getting within a hundred miles of that place," Jazz said.

"Fifty," Prowl said. "With no escort."

"And Optimus'll have to bury me in a tiny box after Red gets through ripping me apart. Seventy miles, and all of spec ops."

"That would be overly indulgent and risky..."

Their haggling went back and forth, giving and taking. As they argued, Jazz stepped closer into Prowl's space, positioning and repositioning the map until he was sitting on Prowl's desk, leaning to one side to better see the canyon. Prowl eased into Jazz's space, lightly resting his hand on the spy's upper pede.

Jazz glanced at his hand, set just beneath his pelvic joint, and he smiled ruefully.

"Um, sir? Not sure this is in the manual for planning field work."

"I believe it was you who brought to my attention," Prowl said, offering a small smile in return, "that Spec Ops has no manual."

"Well, now, Second in Command..." Jazz let Prowl turn him so that he was properly sitting on the desk, pedes spread to accommodate him. "I think you're just taking advantage of your position."

"I will not deny that I do find some satisfaction in my higher rank."

Prowl reached up, lightly touching Jazz's audio horn, cupping his face so that Jazz could turn, nuzzling his palm.

"I have to be there," Prowl said softly. "I have to see it."

Jazz heaved a long vent. In the privacy of Prowl's sealed office, he removed his visor, setting it aside to better let Prowl hold him close. As Jazz let his optics half-shut, red light peeked out against Prowl's hood.

"I ain't happy about it," Jazz said. "Too many things could go wong."

"Roughly ninety-two different scenarios," Prowl said, "each with a range of differing outcomes."

"Ain't helping none," Jazz sighed, but it was a foregone conclusion. If Prowl trusted Jazz to run missions off record and on the fly, then Jazz had to trust when Prowl's processor had to experience input firsthand.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," Prowl started, but he stopped as Jazz laughed.

"Oh, Prowler...you know you only apologize when you don't mean it."

Chapter 19: Memory File—Mental Touch

"So," Jazz said, leaing back in his seat and staring at the ceiling. "What're the odds he's gonna smelt me?"

When they arrived at the new base, which Jazz had not been told the name of, he'd found himself stepping out of the trailer in front of two rough looking mechs who already had their weapons drawn. The golden one looked downright homicidal, as if he was doing Jazz a favor by not shooting him, and the other, a slimmer red and silver model, smiled as if he wanted an excuse to put a round through his helm.

"Sideswipe," Prowl said, stepping off after Jazz. "Sunstreak, take Jazz to the interrogation room in Zeta 6-1. No contact, no engagement, just escort."

The gold one—Sunstreak?—vented out in annoyance, but Sideswipe gave a weak salute and nodded at Jazz. Falling in step between them, Jazz walked around the trailer and—

"You gotta be kidding me," Jazz murmured, staring at the base. "We just left better digs'n this."

The base was low, one-level and nearly covered in black dust and old carbon particles. Maybe at one time it had gleamed silver, but now it looked like it might cave in. Long cracks ran the length of the wall, and a crew of bots had already started melting down tar to seal them up.

"It don't look like much," Sideswipe agreed, "but at least the Cons ain't hitting it. Keep going."

Jazz felt a little gratified that the bot didn't smack him with his rifle to encourage him.

Walking to Zeta 6-1, wherever that was, took longer than he'd expected. Turning at the first turbolift, they descended for several kliks, past numerous floors, and Jazz started to wonder if Autobots preferred tunneling deep into the layers of the planet. After all, bombs couldn't fall this far and they wouldn't have to worry about jets tunneling up under them.

Zeta turned out to be a hall and the 6-1 was one of several offices in a group, which Sunstreak locked as soon as they were all in. Jazz went in, sat down and put his pedes up on the table. Aside from another chair, there was nothing else in the room, only white walls that had tarnished to gray edges.

Sideswipe and Sunstreak took positions on either side of the door. From the sounds in the hall, two more bots had been stationed outside. Four bots for little ol' Jazz? He didn't think he was that scary.

"You ain't getting smelted," Sideswipe said, sounding friendly for all that his firearm was still drawn. "We don't do that."

"No smelter on base," Sunstreak said.

"I mean," Sideswipe said, giving his comrade a look, "Autobots don't smelt anyone, not even Cons, 'specially not neutrals."

"So..." Jazz frowned. "What, you two here to beat me up for information?"

Sunstreak rolled his optics. "As if I'd ruin my polish on you."

"No engagement, no contact," Sideswipe said. "We don't touch you unless you start something. It means Prowl's gonna talk to you personally. Pretty cushy, actually."

Jazz lifted his helm in surprise.

"Then—?"

The door's lock clicked open. Prowl stepped inside, listened for the lock turning closed again, then glanced at his two guards, saying something to them on a private channel. Both of them snapped a quick salute and moved to the corners, relaxing slightly.

Prowl gave a pointed look at Jazz's pedes.

"Sorry," Jazz vented, taking his pedes off the table and sitting straight. "Figured if I'm gonna go, I'ma go comfortable."

"You are not going to 'go'," Prowl said, sitting across from him. "But you are more of a threat than I initially believed. I cannot let you remain so close without further scrutiny."

Jazz didn't argue, although he frowned slightly. "I guess I get it. Can't really mention saving your prime since that was kinda coincidence."

"We have survived tighter spots without you," Prowl said, his doorwings rising defensively. "Reinforcements were already enroute and no seeker can hit an Autobot on a clear straightaway."

Jazz's frown deepened. "Wait, but y'all—"

He cut himself as Prowl stiffened, and Jazz's processors raced. Prowl had mad a mistake, thinking Jazz meant this particular battle, while Jazz had meant their first meeting. Prowl had meant the fight they'd just run from. Which meant the Prime had either been among the wounded, or else—

"Oh, you have got to be slaggin' kiddin' me," Jazz whispered. "The trailer was your Prime?"

Whatever information Prowl was afraid had slipped, that wasn't it. Prowl blinked, resetting his optics as Jazz's question. Behind him, the two guards likewise gave him a look.

"You...didn't know?" Prowl asked. "I thought everyone knew about Optimus Prime."

"That he's like the old primes," Jazz said, but slowly, guaging their reactions. "Lots'a grandiose speeches, wants to go back to the old Senate...'till all are one under his rule..."

His voice trailed off as he saw their faceplates grimace. "Huh. Guess, uh, you don't really listen in on what Decepticons say about him?"

"It is...difficult to receive reliable information," Prowl said and refused to speak further.

Now wasn't that interesting? Prowl, a high ranked officer who accompanied the Prime, who ordered these front-liners with comfortable authority, had little intelligence on Decepticon chatter. That would have been laughable if the Decepticons didn't clearly have the same problem.

Prowl seemed to realize his slip and busied himself instead with preparing for an interface connection. Jazz watched him reach into subspace and retrieve a datapad, a stylus, a second datapad with a heavy casing around it, and—Jazz leaned back—a set of cables with a firewall bank box in the middle.

"Aw geez," Jazz said, leaning on the table and putting his hands over his faceplate. "With an audience? Mech, I gotta insist on energon and a movie first."

"It is not that kind of interface," Prowl snapped, giving Sunstreak a glare when the golden bot snickered. "We will connect through the firewall, I will examine your logic path and your memories regarding the Decepticons, and that is all."

Jazz picked up the end of a cord and stared at the edge, all the little prongs waiting to slide into his port. An interface like Prowl described was cursory, cold and impersonal, something that felt like a worm program eating through his cortex without so much as a 'hey, how are ya?"

"An' I just gotta trust that you ain't gonna load me up with some kind of cortex-wiping virus?" Jazz said, tossing the cord onto the table. "Think I'd rather let your mechs shoot me than end up a shiny drone."

"Hey!" Sideswipe snapped before Prowl could answer. "We ain't Decepticons! We ain't the ones enslaving mechs!"

"Sideswipe," Prowl said over his shoulder, silencing him. Prowl looked back at Jazz. "Autobots do not turn mechs into drones."

"I ain't naive," Jazz said, all humor gone. "I saw what y'all did to Impactor. They brought him out, all sparking from the shorts in his circuits. The Autobot that went against your prime and you all left him a clean slate. I get it—it's war an' all, but damn, that's still cold."

Prowl narrowed his optics. "'Impactor'? You are certain his designation is Impactor?"

Jazz half-shrugged. "Ain't much of him left to ask. So you tell me, boss bot. Why should I trust you enough to cross cables?"

Not answering for a long moment, Prowl looked down at his datapad, entering new information, compiling new results. Jazz watched him, not moving, keenly aware of the two mechs holding firearms and staring at him as if they were no longer sure that he was a neutral. Then Prowl pushed his datapad aside and took the master end of the cable.

"Impactor...is complicated. I cannot convince you now that we did not turn him into a drone. Nor will I force you into this," Prowl said. "But neither can I allow you any sort of freedom without verifying the safety of my mechs."

"Why would I hurt you?" Jazz said, a little frustration coloring his voice. "I just fought for you like twice."

"Once by accident," Prowl said.

"Once down with a Decepticon assassin in your own base," Jazz snapped.

"Ah." Prowl tipped his helm. "Rewind did mention something about that, although he made it sound more like they came to your rescue."

"Pft." Jazz rolled his optics, but he couldn't help a small, sheepish smile. "Okay, okay, let the little bots think they saved me if it soothes their egos."

"I am sure their egos are fine," Prowl said. He tapped the box that the cords ran through. "This is a firewall bank. There are numerous defenses built into this so that viruses and worms are slowed down, allowing you to disconnect both mentally and physically. If you feel that you are in danger, you may disconnect."

"...really?" Jazz said.

Prowl nodded once. "Although if we cannot establish a solid connection so that I can examine your specifics, I still will not be able to trust you. The brig would be your most likely berth."

Jazz stared at him for a klik, considering that, then vented and reached across the table, taking up the slave input.

"I ain't happy about this," Jazz muttered, sliding the connector into his wrist port.

"Noted," Prowl said.

Jazz noticed that Prowl did indeed note that down on his datapad, and then he plugged himself in as well. While his systems introduced themselves to the firewall bank, Jazz sat straight and set his hands on the table, wincing as the program began to tap at his cortex, testing for hidden viruses.

"Is it hurting you?" Prowl asked, leaning forward. "I can slow it down—"

"Ain't nothing," Jazz said, his optics shut tight behind his visor. "Interfacing just kinda feels like chewing tinfoil."

Prowl's frown deepened. "That is unusual."

Jazz didn't answer. The program had swept through half of his cortex and was signing off on the rest of him. The tool worked swiftly, faster than anything he'd experienced before, and the cold feeling finally eased, allowing in tentative code from Prowl.

Jazz fidgeted.

Prowl's code did not feel like chewing tinfoil. Quite the opposite. There was a warmth there, a tentative push that presented itself and then waited for acknowledgment.

For an interface all but at gunpoint, the connection seeking entrance to his cortex was...polite. At least Prowl didn't batter down his defenses, waiting for Jazz to lower his shields and allow him in. Jazz disabled two firewalls, opened a port and then—venting deep—gave Prowl low level permissions to access his systems.

As Prowl peered in, examining the outer edges of Jazz's consciousness, small alerts sounded in Jazz's cortex. He silenced them, raising his doorwings as if he was off balance, keenly aware of the alien thoughts in his own mind.

And then what he'd thought was Prowl vanished as if deleted. Jazz startled, wondering what had happened.

"My apologies," Prowl said, "but I had to use a proxy to be safe."

Jazz's brow knit over his visor. "Huh?"

"There was a chance that you might harbor a virus or even a suicide program," Prowl said, "possibly without your knowledge. But you are clean. Please brace yourself as I examine your logic tree."

"Uh, okay." Jazz put his hands on the table and held tight.

And then he felt Prowl again, and he would have sworn his spark skipped a beat.

No longer small and tentative, this time Prowl swept in, heavy as titanium with processing power that ran circles around Jazz's internal clocks. Jazz squeezed his optics shut tight, squirming in the chair as Prowl moved over him. If the other mech had wanted, Prowl probably could have forced a download of everything Jazz knew, easily nudging aside the small programs that tried to put a quarantine around some sections of his cortex.

The sensation of Prowl sifting through his memory felt too similar to Soundwave. Jazz curled back in his seat, folding his doorwings tight, bringing his pedes up as if he could hide from the mech isolating and examining code in his mind. Prowl planted little points of contact throughout the systems he wanted to examine, rooting deeper.

Jazz's vents came tight and fast. His spark began to beat erratically—

"No, no panicking," Prowl said, and Jazz's coolant swept through his system, calming him and forcing him to breathe deep. "I will not hurt you."

"How deep you planning on going?" Jazz said, a high pitched whine escaping from his throat. "You're almost in my base system."

"...perhaps I should have asked Ratchet to do this," Prowl said. "You feel safer with him. Or First Aid."

Jazz would have replied, but sudden relief washed over him as Prowl began to retreat, retrieving each and every contact he'd made. Systems that had been delayed gave a quick rush to catch up with where they should be, and after a brief sensation of floating, Jazz felt all of his systems synch back up. Then Prowl withdrew completely and terminated the connection with a soft click.

Prowl opened his optics, finally seeing Jazz curled up on his chair. He'd known that Jazz had done that, had felt him move and could have described the precise angles of his bent pedes and arms. But that didn't have the same impact as simply seeing him turned around, refusing to look up.

"I..." Prowl looked down at his datapad. "I did not mean to cause you this distress."

Jazz turned his helm further, optics still shut. "Ain't no thang. You get what you need?"

"Yes." Prowl entered a long flow of data, adding multiple notes that ran in long columns down his screen. "Your memory files are exactly as you have told us. Your programming is clean of any malicious files or hidden programs. And your logic tree is...well."

Jazz looked at him over his shoulder. "Well?"

Prowl tapped the datapad a little harder than needed. "Fluid. To be charitable."

Fluid? Jazz didn't know what that meant, but Prowl didn't seem to want to elaborate. Prowl looked at him for a moment, looked like he was about to speak...then snapped his stylus along the side of his datapad and stood.

"Sideswipe, Sunstreaker," Prowl said, "please escort Jazz to Delta C-6. Until further notice, he has status of free neutral."

As the two mechs stared at him with widening optics, Prowl left, leaving the door open. He waved his hand at the guards in the hall, who followed after him until their steps vanished.

"What the...?" Jazz vented. "Mechs, your bossbot is—"

"Okay," Sideswipe said, stepping in close as he subspaced his rifle. "What the hell did you do?"

"Huh?" Jazz leaned back. "I didn't—"

"Free neutral?" Sideswipe said. "You have to do something huge to get that kind of rating out of him."

"Wait," Jazz said. "What's that even mean? Am I in trouble or something?"

"'Trouble'?" Sunstreaker repeated with a snort. "There's only one other free neutral on base. Everyone else gets, like, limited or something."

"Unverified usually," Sideswipe said. He put his pede up on the chair as he leaned on the table. "What'd you do, kill a hundred 'Cons?"

"I..." Jazz shook his helm. "Hang on. What is a free neutral?"

"It's a—" Sideswipe vented and held up four fingers, counting them off as he went. "Okay, it's like this. Neutrals we don't know nothing about, that's unverified. Not 'Cons, but that don't mean they're on our side, neither. Limited neutral means they're refugees or Praxians or on the run. Pretty sure they're not gonna shoot you in the back, but we can't trust 'em yet."

"Okay," Jazz said slowly. "With you so far."

"Then there's neutrals that have shown they're safe," Sunstreaker said. "Like, they've run messages or helped out."

"But they won't take the decal," Sideswipe said, putting a hand protectively over his Autobot sigil. "Cowards or pacifists or whatever."

"And then there's free neutral." Sunstreaker nodded once at Jazz. "You."

"Well," Sideswipe said, "there's the other one, but it's just you and Wheeljack. So what'd you do?"

"Wait," Jazz said, sitting up straight. "Wheeljack? Wheeljack's here?"

"Yeah," Sideswiep said. "He's our other free neutral, although between you and me, I think he'll be taking the decal any orn now."

"Wheeljack, though?" Jazz said. "Little taller'n me, red and white, ain't got a faceplate, everything goes boom around him?"

"That's him," Sideswipe laughed. "You know him?"

"'Know him'?" Jazz said, grinning. "That rotten mech's the only reason I'm still alive. Where's he at? Can I see him?"

"I guess," Sideswipe said. "Probably shouldn't take you to his lab, but everyone meets in the mess hall anyway. Come on, we'll swing by your berth, then take you down to the mess."

"You'll take him," Sunstreaker cut Sideswipe off, already slinging his rifle back and walking out. "You can do that at least, right?"

Sideswipe sighed as the other mech left. "Yeah, yeah, whatever...jerk."

"He always like that?" Jazz asked, standing and stretching out his wings. "Must be fun at parties."

"Haven't been many parties lately," Sideswipe said as he led Jazz out and down the hall. "Anyway, he's not always that bad, but we've been running more than we've been winning lately. He's just sore we haven't been on the front."

"You're front liners?" Jazz almost missed a step.

They'd never seen him, had they? Of course he didn't think any Autobot would recognize a single Decepticon thrown out as canon fodder, but if he didn't recognize these two, then they'd probably never seen him, either. Not that he planned to do anything awful, but uncomfortable questions were best avoided.

"I know, I know," Sideswipe sighed. "Everyone thinks front liners are big, dumb brutes with tons of scars. But that's just 'cause other bots are too slow. Ain't no 'Con scratching this finish, know what I mean?"

If there had been any less steel in Sideswipe's voice, any less resolve in his words, Jazz might have thought that he was way too young to have been in many fights. But over his smile, Sideswipe's optics were old as slag—tired, bored, and just cold enough to be able to pull a trigger and not care about energon splattering out of a mech. And his question wasn't really rhetorical.

"I think I do," Jazz said. "Thought I ain't a fan of shooting no one, myself."

"Ironhide says that's best," Sideswipe said, but he laughed at the thought as he led Jazz down the hall. "Not wanting to fight. Not quite sure how that feels, not wanting to shoot 'Cons."

"You don't ever get scared?" Jazz asked. "When you're out there fighting?"

"'Course not," Sideswipe said. "All I gotta worry about is my dumb twin getting his golden aft blown off."

Jazz fell silent. When he'd lost his little group of mechs sparked with him, he'd felt like his own spark had dimmed a little. Now he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if they'd all been linked like twins, so that when Three-Six died first, they'd all gone with him.

Following quietly, Jazz looked at the rough hall numbers hurriedly sprayed on the walls, keeping track of the hand-drawn arrows pointing new routes to medbay or the wash racks. Everything about the base seemed hurriedly slapped together, as if they'd just recently taken it and didn't expect to have it long. Mechs rushed by, sliding past as they carried supplies or worked to shore up their defenses.

Jazz hoped this was just an outpost. If it was a base...then he needed to visit the medic and get roadworthy real damn fast.

Chapter 20: Lost in the Machine

Darkness.

Pain, blossoming in at the base of his helm.

Prowl reset his optics, clearing them once, twice. All he could see was light and faint blurs—grains of sand were caught in the gears of his optics. Burning dust billowed in plumes across his frame, and he coughed his filters clear. He was overheating—the desert sun blazed down so that his circuits flowed sluggishly and his coolant hissed along his armor.

Had he crashed? He didn't think so—he would have remembered the crash code. But the last thing he remembered was hiding beside Jazz, nestled in among the rocks overlooking the target site. The rest of Spec Ops had vanished into the terrain around them, fanning out to provide cover and advanced warning. Prowl had focused on the canyon and the flares of energon flickering along the sandstone.

Then there had been—

The blurs were beginning to sharpen up. Dark shapes. Laughing shapes.

He was still in pain. Something hurt in his helm, his right pede felt like it was twisted around at the knee, and his right hand was shorting out. He'd been in a fight.

No.

He'd lost a fight.

Dark shapes with purple marks.

Probabilities lined up in neat rows in his cortex.

35% chance – Jazz's team had been spotted.

60% chance – Jazz had been ambushed.

90% chance –

No, he refused, he refused to believe it, his cortex had to be glitching—

One of the dark figures before him sharpened into focus, a familiar frame in gleaming silver and black, standing beside a tall white and red figure with broad wings.

95% chance as his math refused to spare his feelings.

Jazz, with red optics, stood beside Starscream, laughing with something the jet had said.

99% chance – Jazz had betrayed them.

They were laughing again. They must have taken Prowl's badly muffled keen as his despair at being captured.

In retrospect, he should have aimed his rifle at his own helm. Or at the much larger target of Starscream. Instead his emotions betrayed his logic center and he took the shot at Jazz, who simply stepped out of the way, then came close and stomped hard on Prowl's hand. Cords crumpled—his armor dented and tore through wires—

Jazz knelt on his chest, his hand closing around Prowl's throat and digging into the vocal cords—his claws sliced into Prowl's energon line—

Then Jazz stopped, looking over his shoulder. Starscream had said something Prowl couldn't hear, but he could read the jet's mouth.

They wanted Prowl alive.

Emergency Protocol Z999-9 came online. It held commands to shut down his cortex, to slam locks and firewalls in place, and then to completely unravel Prowl's code. Every plan, every calculation, every scrap of data about the Autobot forces lined up to await deletion and the destruction of every byte that contained Prowl's soul.

Panic and a second's hesitation cost him the chance to use it.

Jazz looked back down at him, grinned with sharp denta beneath glittering red optics, and sent his fist into Prowl's faceplate.

Darkness again.

---

"I warned you, Prowler, I really did."

The words warbled in and out. One of Prowl's audios was damaged and his frame felt like he was lurching to one side though he never actually fell. One or more of his gyros had been ruptured. He was seated, probably the only reason he hadn't collapsed, with his hands cuffed behind him and locked to the chair. He gave it a token push and found it riveted to the floor.

"But y'all just never listen to me—hell, you never listen to anyone when it really countin'."

His repair cycle worked furiously, burning up reserves that Prowl didn't think he had to spare. He scanned his systems and found himself locked out of his functions. He could lift his helm, he could move his hands, but his code and diagnostics were blocked.

"Ambush. Capture. Torture. Execution. I tol'ya."

Prowl winced, squeezing his optics shut.

"I might have listened," Prowl whispered, "if you'd told me I would die at your hands."

Jazz chuckled. "Well, to be honest, I didn't know Bossmech would gimme that privilege. But he was just so pleased that he granted me something of a reward for a job well done. Minus my chaperone, o'course."

Prowl took a deep vent and shuddered when he felt his filters scrape against dented tears in his armor.

"Who's 'bossmech'?" he managed.

Jazz came close and bent down, clasping Prowl's shoulder in a parody of friendly camaraderie.

"Not you, Prowler, not no more." Jazz gave him a rough jostle and moved away again.

Prowl took the opportunity to scan his surroundings—a room of black walls, a high ceiling, a single light somewhere above them. There were no doors that he could see but he heard Jazz sealing them tight—no one would be coming in or out. There were no windows, a work station with a large monitor, another Decepticon quietly watching a monitor on the other side of the room, and—

A torn mech on a table in the middle of the room.

Prowl had seen death before, many times—battlefield casualties and mechs who grayed out despite Ratchet's best efforts, as well as the occasional spy who got too close and took a bullet in the spark. But he'd never seen death laid out neatly and spread like a work of art, with the armor peeled back and broken in sections, the optics set beside the helm along with a cracked faceplate, with pedes and arms dropped in sections on the floor. Oil and energon dripped off the edge and splattered on the floor, running in lazy rivulets to the drain.

Prowl suddenly felt lightheaded, his sense of gravity turning upside down.

"Any…" his voice wavered, and he struggled to get it under control again. "Anyone I knew?"

"Huh?" Jazz glanced back at the table and shrugged. "Some 'bot named Torque somethin' or other. Just another 'Con what pissed off Starscream."

Prowl latched onto that, ripping his attention away from the mess of what used to be a mech.

"Is that what you are to me now?" Prowl asked. "'Just another 'con'?"

"You wound me, Prowler, you really do." Jazz touched something else on the workstation, turning a dial, patting the other mech on the shoulder. He wiped his hands clean of dust. "I ain't never gonna be just some 'con to ya."

Jazz moved out of sight. Prowl listened to his steps behind him, expecting to be grabbed or struck. But no—he heard Jazz lightly touchtyping on another terminal . Then Jazz was coming up close, bending so close Prowl could feel warm vents on his throat, and Jazz was nuzzling his scratched cable and the energon trickling from the tiny cut.

"I'm the 'con what pulled one over on the entire Autobot army," Jazz whispered. "Even had their Second in Command all up in my cortex, and he never even guessed."

Prowl didn't respond. He remembered Jazz's logic tree. He almost brought up how disorganized he'd found Jazz's systems to be, but there was no point now.

"How deep were you?" Prowl asked.

Jazz frowned, standing straight. "What?"

"How deep were you hidden?" Prowl asked. "Is this just a flipped personality? If I delete you, is my Jazz still in there?"

Jazz gave a small scoff, but his look softened a fraction. "You're something, know that? Izzat what really bugs ya?"

"Did you know what you were?" Prowl demanded, sick to his core. "Was everything a lie?"

"Aww…"

Laughing to himself, Jazz went to the slab and used one arm to sweep the wreckage to the floor.

"Are you just sad you couldn't fuck the 'con outta me?" Jazz sighed to himself and began cleaning the fluids from the rusted blade he would use first . "Love didn't cure all?"

"I want to know who I was holding," Prowl said. "Was that you?"

The other mech shrugged.

"I 'unno. Jazz is Jazz." He lay out one torture implement after another— rusted blade, force download kit, virus matrix, spot welder, poisoned energon that glowed blue .

"Not Five-Six?"

Jazz's hand tightened around the blade so much that it snapped. He stared at the damage to his hand for a moment, then heaved a vent and tossed the ruined knife aside.

"Stopped being Five-Six when the rest of 'em couldn't keep their damn thoughts to themselves." Jazz muttered something else under his vent, something Prowl couldn't hear. "Y'know, we never saw the damn city 'till Lord Megatron killed the functionsts 'n let us out? And they try to run? Fuckin' ingrates."

"Hard to keep thoughts to yourself around Soundwave," Prowl said softly.

"Shockwave, actually," Jazz said far too cheerfully. "Megatron tore open the access tunnels and we all tumbled out, and I saw the city lights and the stars and...it was perfect. So perfect. I could'a bowed down and worshipped him right then and there."

"And your batch mates?"

Jazz shrugged with a tilt to his helm that didn't suit him. "Cowards. Ain't me. They stopped meaning anything soon as they got split in two."

"Two-Six?" Prowl pushed. "'Speedy little femme, sang pretty good, loved opening up full throttle.'"

Jazz ran a search function and found that description from millennia ago, painfully presented to Ratchet as a tearful remembrance of his former crew. He gave a low whistle.

"You pulling out all the stops, huh?" Jazz nodded once. "Seeing death coming down the highway does wonders for focusing the mind."

Jazz came around the slab and hopped up, scooting the last debris of gray screws and grimy steel shavings to the floor. Bringing his pedes crosslegged, he arched his back and stretched, getting comfortable. Then, as if he were back in the Ark mess hall regaling his bots with his latest adventure, he raised his hands to begin the story.

"Lemme set you a scene, Prowler," he started. "Kaon, the grand superstructure of towers and highways and runways. S'a gem of a city, not as pretty as Praxis, too industrial to be Iacon, but a gleaming ruby of red hot molten steel and black pavement, with smoke curling all the way up to the clouds."

Jazz, whose hands had risen up and up, now let his arms drop back into his lap.

"And none o' y'all never seen it. You been stuck inside dark maintenance shafts big as a five lane highway and long as forever, and all your life, you've never once been let out. Your energon comes down the pneumatic tubes. Your oil's delivered in hydraulics. Hell, you ain't even got a repairbot to visit you. You just run over the old crews who crashed and slagged somewhere in the darkness. And when you die, they'll just spark another bunch."

Prowl didn't answer, but he gave a nod of acknowledgement. Maintenance bots were the unseen defrag code of the cities, or at least that's how the functionists had justified walling mechs up forever.

"And after a lifetime—a lifetime, mech—suddenly there's explosions and heat and light so strong you can't see, and there's a jet ripping open the walls of your prison." Jazz stared up as if reliving the moment, his face full of innocent wonder. "And there's Lord Megatron, huge, covered in scratches and dents and energon, and he puts his hand out and says 'welcome to the world'. What you think I'd feel, huh?"

"Freedom. Gratitude," Prowl murmured. "Confusion. Fear."

Jazz's smile faded.

"Huh. Yeah. Well. One an' Three screamed and turned and ran. Shockwave tore 'em apart for being cowards. Functionists running back to their little cages."

"They were afraid they were going to die," Prowl said. "Were they wrong?"

"I tol' 'em not to run," Jazz said. "I said...but hell, ain't no one listening to me never."

Prowl's gaze flickered over to the Decepticon at the far workstation. The mech's back was to them, so Prowl couldn't see his faceplate, but the 'con didn't seem interested in anything they were saying. Whatever he was staring at must have been fascinating.

"You weren't scared at all?" Prowl asked, risking another question. "Kaon was a massacre."

Jazz shrugged. "Didn't know no better. Thought maybe the streets was always filled with dead mechs. Always running over 'em in the shafts. Why would some dead bots be so scary? Right, Shrapnel?"

Presumably the Decepticon with them, Shrapnel didn't acknowledge the question.

Jazz's smile came back.

"'Sides, there was so much out there! One of the 'Cons gave me a visor 'cause I couldn't see so good in the light, and then I could get all the radio stations and streams and news and history and.."

Jazz sighed. "And...look at me, doing all'a this talking. Ain't got time to spare. Boss wants results and here I am just blabbing."

He hopped off the slab and gathered up the force download kit.

Prowl sat straight, pressing back against the chair as Jazz came closer. The kit was two-fold, a prong for inserting into a mech's seals and a jack that fit into the helm port, and Jazz held each in his hands, standing over Prowl, putting his knee between Prowl's and leaning against him.

"I hope you don't think this too forward of me," Jazz murmured by his audio.

Prowl couldn't access his port locks, but he felt them lift, felt the sharp prong lightly brush the soft edges. Then Jazz drove it home with a swift thrust that spilled code into his systems. The jack slid into his helm like a knife, pouring static and white noise that dulled his responses even further.

Jazz read the output on the force download and grumbled.

"0.0000001% done. Even locked out, you got some serious firewalls, mech."

It didn't feel like that to Prowl. The code tumbling through him was slight, miniscule, and impossible to stop. A little juggernaut, it tapped insistently at his programming and demanded entrance with insistent whispers that began to stack on top of each other. Hours, days, weeks—eventually they would win. The code would worm its way in, alter all of his permissions, drag out every bit of data, and leave him riddled with strange fragents.

"Let's hurry up the process."

There was a cube of energon pressed to his mouth. Prowl clenched his denta—Jazz's fingers wrapped around his chevron and pulled his helm back, and there was enough sudden pain that his mouth parted briefly. Jazz managed to put two fingers in, prying his mouth wide enough to pour in poison.

"This should slow down some of your processors," Jazz smiled. "Move that counter a litt—"

Prowl bit down hard on Jazz's fingers, refusing to let them slip free.

"Okay, now you're starting to tick me off, you slag." Jazz snarled, using his free hadn to smack Prowl's optics, cracking the nasal ridge. "You think I won't rip your faceplate off for—"

With a firm click, Prowl's denta came together, severing two of Jazz's fingers so that they scraped down his throat. Oil and energon splashed his mouth.

There was a satisfying shriek before Jazz squelched it, stumbling back and clutching his hand close to his hood. He vented in a rush, gulping air, and his vents turned into shaky laughs that grew loud, louder, faster, increasingly hysterical until he was shrieking in laughter.

For the first time in his life, Prowl's processors failed him.

It wasn't the poison or the alien code in his systems. He couldn't have made sense of what he was seeing if he'd been in full command of himself. The noises coming from Jazz were not sane.

Jazz was the coolest mech on the battlefield that Prowl had ever seen. Jazz never panicked. Jazz never even stumbled.

The mech in front of him now was broken, painfully broken.

The thought gave him no comfort as Jazz turned, swept up the spotwelder and ignited it in the same motion, and thrust the blue flame deep into Prowl's shoulder.

White pain ignited all through Prowl's hood and back. Pain incinerated the sensors in his doorwings. The overload burnt the edges of his optic servos and the world turned into a dark blur with only Jazz's glaring red optics in the haze.

"I'm trying here," Jazz hissed in Prowl's audio, creeping up onto his lap and digging his claws deep into Prowl's other shoulder. "I'm tryin' so damn hard...and you just making it a thousand times worse, I swear to—"

Something crackled, and Prowl heard the high squeals of a strange voice before he recognized it was Starscream. The torch suddenly withdrew as Jazz whipped around, the flame held up high.

"Hi, boss!" Jazz said, too happy to see him. "You rang?"

"...you sealed the doors," Starscream said, staring at Prowl's wide optics and his helm thrown senselessly back. "And cut the access frequencies in there. And—is Shrapnel asleep on the job again?"

"Oh, sorry boss, I just don' like being interrupted when all'a the screaming starts." Jazz jerked his claws against Prowl's shoulder, slashing a sensitive doorwing cable, and lifted his hips as Prowl bucked involuntarily. "Something this intimate demands privacy, yeah?"

"You better not be tearing him apart before the download," Starscream said. He glanced around the room until his glare rested on Shrapnel, who was still focused on his terminal. Even Prowl's screams hadn't shaken him. Starscream opened his mouth to call him, then groaned as someone called for him outside of view. He snapped at them from his seat.

Jazz's laughter was soft but constant, a steady undertone as he spoke. "No way, boss, just uppin' the download time is all. Shrapnel there gave me the idea—he tuned out the music we making and taking a quick recharge. A li'l pain makes the code flow quicker, ya dig?"

Starscream yelled at a mech over his shoulder, demanding to be left alone, grumbling as the outpost demanded his attention. He vented and favored Jazz with a half smile.

"At least I have one mech doing his job. I haven't seen you this ecstatic since we pulled you from the shafts."

Jazz gave a salute, still laughing deep in his engines, and Starscream clicked off.

Jazz watched the monitor as if he expected it to flip back on, venting hard as if he'd sped a hundred miles. When he was satisfied that they were alone again, he gave a low, tired laugh.

"Just a li'l pain…" he murmured to himself.

And he pressed the blowtorch against his upper pede.

Prowl's vocal processor shut down on itself. This close, he saw the bright flare of blue light diving deep into Jazz's thigh armor, saw the paint flash and catch fire and die out again, watched molten steel bubble up over the sides and leave scalded welts down his pede.

Jazz stiffened, straining with static, and let the blowtorch tumble to the floor.

"Tha'ss a li'l better…" Jazz slurred, slumping heavily on Prowl's bad shoulder.

Long seconds passed. Nothing in the room moved, save for Jazz's vents.

Slowly Prowl recovered his senses. He couldn't lock out the pain, but the wreckage of his shoulder had gone numb and now simply felt frozen.

Jazz was venting heavily, shrieking static underlying his voice. Prowl glanced sideways, afraid of what might happen if he caught him looking, but Jazz's optics were shut tight.

Blue energon flecked the other mech's mouth.

Prowl froze. Had Jazz drank the cube as well? Prowl knew he hadn't swallowed all of it. But why? None of this made sense. None of this...his sense of balance shifted and spun. He started to feel the sick nausea in his core processor that was his warning that he might crash. The only thing anchoring him was Jazz's weight nestled on top of him. The world was going mad and no one seemed to notice except him and—

Stop.

Stop and think.

Prowl had been given precious minutes, maybe seconds, to do the one thing he held in advantage over almost every other mech in the war. Gather data, analyze, and draw conclusions.

Data:

Jazz had betrayed the Autobots. Had betrayed Prowl. Had admitted such. This was not in question.

Jazz had begun force-downloading Prowl. Had engaged in one instance of torture to do so.

New information—Jazz had watched Decepticons destroy his batchmates.

Further information—Jazz had been ecstatic to be freed at the time.

Jazz—

Pause. All stop.

Starscream had said that Jazz was ecstatic at the time. But he'd said that after looking at Jazz just now. Assume nothing. Assume nothing. Analyze. Analyze.

Jazz was broken. Jazz was shrieking in laughter at having his fingers bitten off. Jazz had swallowed poisoned energon and engaged in one instance of self-mutilation, laughing as he did so.

Prowl imagined the scene—Jazz, surrounded by the torn, ragged wreckage of mechs in Kaon. A bot used to the quiet, dark shafts, he had been violently thrown into the overwhelming stimuli of an entire city, of the roaring of bombs and screaming, dying mechs, of Decepticons tearing his batchmates apart. And this was what Jazz had looked like—laughing, wheeling wildly through dizzying lights and a thousand new voices and songs and explosions.

Jazz had narrowly escaped death by reacting the only way he knew how—in wonder at everything in the world, even if that wonder had been frenzied . Probability—85% and rising. It made sense with what Prowl knew of his personality. Jazz blasted music at top volume in the war zone, came back shredded at the edges, then laughed and went out to court death yet one more time. Jazz cherished every mech he knew. Jazz felt every emotion so intensely...stepping out of the darkness must have been sublime torment.

Prowl glanced at Jazz again and found that red gaze returned. Jazz was watching Prowl's move. And knew Prowl well enough to guess at what he was thinking.

"Let me in," Prowl whispered, for fear someone might somehow overhear them. "I will help."

Jazz gave a long, slow reset of his optics. "Why'd you shoot at me, Prowler ? Why not 'screamer?"

Prowl's spark clenched. Jazz sounded like a weary sparkling wondering why his best friend didn't want to play the game anymore. Prowl had to walk a fine line between honesty and igniting Jazz's anger. One optic glowed brighter than the other, a tell-tale sign that something had burned out in his cortex.

"You were... are the most dangerous," Prowl said. "You can still return to base. No one would be the wiser."

Jazz didn't move.

"And…" Prowl couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. "You hurt me. I'm angry."

Jazz glared and furrowed his eye ridges . "You'd still shoot me."

"To escape," Prowl agreed. "If I had to."

Jazz k eened deep in his throat.

"I'm trying so hard," Jazz whispered. "An' you just making this so much harder."

Prowl nodded once, tilting his helm so that he brushed Jazz's faceplate.

"I know. But i f you let me in, I can help."

Silence. Prowl despaired of someone breaking the lock and entering, or of the monitor coming on again. Or Shrapnel finally looking up and—

Prowl's mouth parted. Shrapnel had fallen sideways out of his chair, and the front of his frame had twisted just enough to reveal the melted slag of his faceplate.

There were two plans at work here, and Prowl was no longer sure who the players were. Or at least who Jazz was playing for.

Jazz leaned up in his lap, shifting to take the weight off of his slagged pede. And then Jazz bent and pressed his mouth against Prowl's and forced a deep kiss.

This...was not what Prowl had had in mind. It was rough, scraping denta, and then one of Jazz's denta came loose and hit the back of Prowl's throat. He coughed, trying to kick it out, but Jazz clamped harder on Prowl's mouth, refusing to let go, and the denta was swallowed.

Prowl's vents caught. This wasn't just a scrap of metal. There was a signal—Jazz had just dropped a wireless access port deep into Prowl's systems. The circuit was caught up, integrated, and immediately opened.

Following the signal like a beacon, Prowl piggybacked via the port being used as a force-download access and tapped into Jazz's cortex. He was allowed in before he could ask, and all the firewalls and defensive viruses lay down as he moved in deeper, until finally he touched the core of Jazz's self.

Ages and ages ago, Prowl had accessed Jazz's logic tree. At the time, he'd found it fluid in its wild loops and stray wisps, flowing in a broad spiral like a sparkling galaxy of connections, pulsing in time to Jazz's spark.

Now the logic tree was a tall, looming obelisk, dark and dull, rigid and restrained. Chunks of data were chained together with commands and protocols that were completely alien to what Prowl knew of Jazz. His friend was meant to be chaotic, free. Not locked in place like this.

Tapping, a sound like steel on ceramic. He couldn't find the source—it seemed to echo in all directions. And he couldn't find Jazz's self, the bit of awareness that focused their souls in this place. Where was Jazz?

He followed the dark obelisk down to its center and found him...what was left of him.

Jazz was unraveling himself.

Confronted with the locks and chains of Decepticon commands, Jazz had begun slashing through the codes, inadvertently smashing the core underneath until he was surrounded with fragments of his personality, with splotchy glitches of emotion and random memory files. Jazz himself was a mess of white and black armor , fangs and claws and red optics and a long wail erupting out of his vocalizer.

"I'm tryin' so damn hard, I swear..."

Prowl came up behind him, studying his efforts. There were stars inside the darkness, the endless galaxy of infinite variety that was Jazz, but the pulsing was muted and muffled. Nothing could escape the void of code commanding Jazz to work, to obey, to extract, to mend.

Prowl made a soft sound of understanding.

These were not Decepticon commands. They were Kaon commands—for a maintenance bot. Decepticon high command had simply repurposed those program strings into chains to ensure Jazz's obedience.

"Did they give you a command code?" Prowl asked. "Or were you aware that you were undercover?"

Jazz keened and leaned hard on the darkness, prying at the edges with his hands. Code fragmented and crumbled under his fingers.

"I need to know," Prowl said. "To help you. Tell me—"

"'Screamer said 'command code override coin flip'." Jazz keened again, and his pedes slipped on nothing as he put his whole weight against the darkness. "I tried it over and over, but ain't nothing changing."

"Of course not," Prowl said. "You were never programmed to revert. This is your base programming. What you built yourself into over the vorn of being with us is deleted...to be erased with the next defrag cycle. The Autobot Jazz is now a ghost lost in the machine."

Prowl watched that ghost wail again, clawing at what lay before him. Jazz was fighting to regain his self, both literally and figuratively.

The poisoned energon had slowed down the deletion process. The torture helped focus his mind by burning through the static.

But Jazz was attacking something far greater than he could hope to destroy—the process would be complete before he destroyed even a fraction of the original coding. And what he wanted to replace it with was locked in a shell of his original functionist design. Jazz could not sit and edit his code while he compiled.

Prowl came close, putting his arms around Jazz and drawing him flush against himself. He knew they were not actually touching, that this was a construct made by their minds to make sense of being aware of their own programming. It didn't matter. Jazz drew into Prowl's comfort, hiding inside his arms.

"Do you trust me?" Prowl asked.

Jazz didn't answer, pressing himself into Prowl's hold as if that would make all the bad things go away.

"I can't make it like it was before," Prowl said. "I can't destroy this. But...I can save you."

Jazz stared at the monstrous dark thing in front of him and the crystalline chaos locked inside. And he nodded once, trembling.

Prowl reached out, put his hand on the darkness, and issued a string of commands.

The surface of the structure shuddered.

Prowl read the reaction as code, as process, as numbers. He steeled himself, tightened his grip on Jazz, and issued a final command.

The darkness shattered.

Jazz glitched and vanished.

The galaxy inside pulsed in a violent burst of bright energy and exploded out in all directions, and the slower stars (memories, thoughts, emotions) began to tumble out, looking for a lodgment.

The darkness did not fade. It spread thin, became a frame and background, to highlight the new world that it had become.

The light that had exploded out began to coalesce, coming back into itself. Prowl put his hands out and held it close. The spark was familiar and warm, still trembling, still hiding in Prowl's hold.

Taking a deep vent, knowing he had precious little time, Prowl began gathering the fragments of code and data, soothing the fear and pain back into something resembling Jazz.

---

In an hour, Starscream expected to have Jazz's update on Prowl's download.

He did not expect the fury of the entire Autobot air force scrambled over his base, nor all of the Autobot snipers camped out on the cliffs overlooking his canyon, nor the regular forces fanning out to cut off a full Decepticon retreat.

Shouting commands and sending mechs out to meet the enemy, Starscream ran through his small outpost and smashed down the door to the interrogation room. Instead of a delirious Prowl and all of the Autobot secrets, he found a grayed out Shrapnel sprawled on the floor and Prowl finishing burning through the rear door.

At hearing the crash, Prowl turned. His shoulder was still smoking and bleeding, and he struggled under the weight of an unconscious Jazz under one arm. But the normally taciturn, sober tactician saluted Starscream over a triumphant smirk.

"You lose, Decepticon," Prowl said over the sound of overloading electronics. "You lose."

And he escaped out just as the workstation and terminals exploded, the ceiling collapsed in, and Starscream's rage was swallowed in a futile burst of missiles against scrapped rubble.