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Stretching out his joints, Ironhide cringed as some of his gears audibly groaned. He was lucky none of his Prime Guard rotation heard that, especially Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. It wouldn’t matter how many drills and sentinel duty he’d slap on them. The ribbing about his age would have been ruthless.
Gotta schedule an appointment with Ratch. Ironhide mentally added to his list of tasks for this cycle. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He knew the Autobot CMO would yell his audial off about improper maintenance. Hypocrite.
Ironhide finally made it to his office. Datawork was his least favorite thing about being a helm commander. It was bad enough before the war truly started, and Ironhide was just the Prime’s First. Now he was both Optimus’s helm of security and weapons specialist. He barely got to go out to the range and shoot his frustrations away anymore. Ironhide would try to slack off on the ridiculous datawork, but Prowl was a Primus-damned turbohound when it came to officers not getting their work done. He did not need the SIC venting down his own ventilation.
Requesting his office door to open, Ironhide walked through it once it fully slid into its retractor. He froze just at the threshold when he saw none other than Jazz lounging in his chair, peds propped up on his desk.
“Jazz, whad in the pits are ye doin’ ‘ere’?” Ironhide demanded, barely acknowledging the door sliding shut and locking.
“Ah, Ironhide, finally,” Jazz exclaimed in faux joy. “I was wondering what was taking you so long. The officer's lounge this busy in the orning? We need to get another energon dispenser in there or something. I’ll get Prowler on it. He hates inefficiency. Can’t stand it.”
“Righ’,” Ironhide deadpanned. He tilted his helm, narrowing his optics at the Spec Ops commander. “Whad ye wan’? Ye don’ do social calls of’en.”
“That’s debatable,” Jazz muttered before shaking his helm. “Why’s everyone always think I want something? You know I’m the Moral Officer too. Maybe I just want to check in and see how you’re doing. Or I could just wanna hang?”
“Jazz, look a’ meh,” Ironhide said, raising an optic ridge. A thick armored war frame that used to be a gladiator right alongside Megatron. A finish that hadn’t been taken care of since he first came out of a Sigma (to Sunstreaker’s horror). Weapons and weapon holders cover his entire armor. “Do Ah look like some mech who ‘hangs’?”
Chuckling, Jazz’s visor shone in the dim light overcasting Ironhide’s desk. Another thing he had to look into. “Fair, fair,” Jazz relented.
Ex-venting exhaustedly, Ironhide slumped into one of his guest chairs. Other commanders might have been stiff when it came to proper etiquette. He just knew some of his fellow officers would either be berating Jazz for being in ‘their spot’ or just automatically throwing the light stealth frame out of their chair, but Ironhide didn’t really care.
“Out with i’, den,” Ironhide said, sprawling out. “Whad gossip do ye think Ah possess?”
Jazz just looked at Ironhide for a moment, field and faceplates blank. “I want to know more about Bumblebee.”
Ironhide immediately tensed, but he didn’t say anything. He just gave Jazz a severe look.
Bringing his servo up, Ironhide’s optics snapped to the datapad Jazz wiggled at him. “I did some digging into the scout. I must say, for someone without any credentials, he’s pretty competent. I looked over his debriefings and how he interacted with his fellow squadmates. I think he would have made a good spy. I almost wish I scooped him up before you got your servos all over him.”
“Ah figured,” Ironhide muttered.
Jazz immediately latched onto it. “You figured, huh?” Jazz set his peds down and leaned over the table, elbow joints on the servo, servos holding his helm. “You and I both know that you’ve trained a lot of cadets over the vorns. I’m surprised you can even remember all their designations. Thousands of squads. Hundreds of divisions. Even if you weren’t a Primal commander and just a drill sergeant, I’m sure a lot of mecha would remember you. Fondly even.”
Standing up, Jazz perused the awards that either hung or stood on shelves in Ironhide’s office. Personally, Ironhide didn’t really care about all of them. He didn’t give a scrap about them. He’d rather just throw them in the smelter, but apparently that wasn’t allowed. This was the only place Ironhide could put them besides shoving them under his berth.
“All these mecha, trained under you. Wherever you’re stationed, there’s likely to be a squad or two that you forged yourself. But there are too many to always be at your side. The average soldier would likely see you every decavorn or so.”
Jazz turned back to Ironhide, visor gleaming. “Except a special few. The twins, of course. Without you, who knew how they would have turned out. Basically, your sparklings, at this point.”
Ironhide winced at the reminder. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker… they had it rough. When they first joined the Autobots, they had barely been in their final frame upgrades. They had been gladiators almost the moment they emerged from the Kaonian Sigma. It was rare for Pit-forged mecha to choose the Autobots. They weren’t really welcomed either. When prejudiced acts were started against them, of course, it was the war frames that were blamed.
It only got worse when some lower-ranked officer thought it was smart to separate split-spark twins into different units. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were galaxies away from each other by the time Ironhide was told about their situation. By then, a lot of damage had been done to and by the twins. If Ironhide had been a vorn late, he wasn’t sure they would have been around for him to train.
Their permanent presence at his side wasn’t supposed to last. Ironhide was just supposed to be their rehabilitator, but both parties grew fond. And Ironhide was happy to have both frontliners a part of the Prime’s Guard. Helmaches they may be, they were still his till the end.
“The twins are expected. You're never getting rid of them, though I doubt you want to.” Jazz summed up, sitting back down again with a smirk. “However, there is a third mech that sticks to your side almost as often. Somehow, he stationed with you more than he isn’t.” Jazz slid his datapad over to Ironhide, showing Bee’s credentials. “Bumblebee. Scout B-127 of Division 177. Huh, funny, he has no squad number.”
“It was Squad Chi-60,” Ironhide rumbled, “their first post was outside of Kaon. This was early in the war, when Optimus still had some of Sentinel’s mecha in his command force. Proteus used Chi-60 as bait.” Ironhide looked away, trying to stop the full memory files from loading. He didn’t see the dark expression fall over Jazz’s visor. “Let’s just say, they didn’ make it.”
There was a moment of silence as Ironhide tried to put himself back together. He wouldn’t look at Jazz.
“Except Bee,” Jazz ended up neutrally correcting.
Ironhide slowly nodded, optics locked on one of those ridiculous awards. “Except Bee.” He ended up agreeing, finally looking over at Jazz.
The sabatour leaned back in his chair, nodding. “I can see why that’d make you protective of the scout.” Jazz’s frame stilled. Slowly, his helm tilted, looking at Ironhide as if he were a puzzle. “But that isn’t the reason for your protectiveness… is it?”
Ironhide tried to keep a straight field, but he knew it wavered. His optic twitched too. It took everything in him not to snap and snarl as his programming told him.
Primus, sometimes Jazz could be a curse. Everything that they talked about now, the mech already knew. Even the Chi-60 incident, Ironhide was certain. Although it pained the weapon specialist to think it, he was glad that the stupid ex-senator stuck the squad there. It made Optimus wake the frag up and gave him a reason to stick Bumblebee close.
He should have been phased into another squad. Instead, the scout hopped around Division 177 postings whenever an extra pair of (scouting) servos was needed. Ironhide would just happen to be there, too.
If anyone else had looked into the case, they would have brushed aside any suspicions. Ironhide’s reasonings were plan and dry as the Autobot handbook. No interrogation was needed.
But, of course, Jazz had to get interested. Without any evidence, he was able to sniff out a mystery. It had saved the Autobot’s afts over the decavorns. However, Ironhide cursed it now that Jazz’s suspicions were turned on him.
The office was swallowed by silence again. Ironhide knew Jazz would say anything again. The TIC was content to stare at him. Ironhide also knew there was no way he was walking away without saying something. If he tried to lie, it’d only drag this process out and earn him a black and white shadow.
“Ye know Ah was a gladiator,” Ironhide started, “those who don’ know either have processor damage or are plain stupid.”
Jazz stayed silent, only tilting his helm in curiosity. His field was blank, basically nonexistent.
“Ah was there when Megatronus had just made a name for himself,” Ironhide gave Jazz a quick look, derma twitching upward, “literally. Ah only ever conversed with him as D-16. Ah was bought before Megatronus became a regular thing, but he still had a lot of centi-vorns before he was the Pit Champion. We were still in the tail end of Nova Prime’s reign.
“Did you know that’s who bought me? Nova. He saw one of my matches. Ah don’t know what he saw, but he seemed to like it. Snatched up my contract quick and shipped me off to Iacon. Ah was a Prime’s Guard soldier before the vorn was over.”
Ironhide paused for a moment, thinking back to those old times. If he knew what he did now, the Prime’s First had no idea if he would have fought harder to stay in Kaon. He likely would have been dead if he had. Primes before Optimus didn’t like to be questioned.
“Ah wasn’t around Nova much, even though he was my master. Ah mostly patrolled the grounds. Was never put on the rotation that stayed near Nova often. Ah do know he was a paranoid mech. He claimed he could see the future. Had visions. They weren’t good. It drove him crazy, saying Cybertron was going to die.” Ironhide chuckled while shaking his helm, “Guess we should have listened to him. Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess now.”
“Mmm, maybe,” Jazz commented. His tone sounded bored, but Ironhide knew he was anything but. There was a sharpness hiding before his bland features. “This is all very interesting, ‘hide. But what does Nova Prime have to do with Bumblebee?”
Ironhide stilled, looking Jazz over. “You know, just about anyone can register as a Creator. The forge masters and priests would have been beside themselves to get a Prime to donate their CNA.”
Jazz didn’t move for a long moment. He then untitled his helm and leaned his helm into his servos. “Interesting.”
Nodding, Ironhide looked away. He couldn’t look at the TIC for this next part. “Yeah, and Nova was really special, being a Praxian. His city-state were real sticklers about keeping their kind pure. No Praxian has ever been forged outside of Praxus. Well, until Nova wanted a Primus-blessed kid.
“But protoforms take time to grow, especially when you're grafting specific CNA with the sentio metalica. That’s not even mentioning how long it takes for a spark to finally choose the frame. I accompanied Nova on his last trip to visit his protoform. That was something. To give the protoform his CNA to absorb, he had to essentially initiate a spark bond with it. Almost like having a spark transplant, but the spark just hovers while the liquid metal of the protoform soaks up the light rays coming from the spark.”
Ironhide had never been more in awe than in that moment. If he hadn’t known CNA donations to protoforms were highly vetted, expensive as slag, and that the priests had a lot of prejudice against low-caste mecha, Ironhide might have dreamed of donating his own CNA to a protoform. Donors usually had some say in their creation’s upbringing in the forge (for an additional fee, of course). Then they got a discount if they ended up wanting to end up adopting the youngling once they’re old enough. Ironhide would have liked that civilian-esque life.
(In the end, he couldn’t be happier with the mecha he kinda raised. Besides the twins and Bee, he literally had an army of creations at his disposal… and that thought always killed the mood.)
“Since the protoform was of Iaconian origin, it didn’t take on all of Nova’s Praxian features. Though the priests were surprised by just how much it had integrated. It just made Nova even more sure that destiny or Primus was intervening.”
“...are you saying,” Jazz asked, slowly rose from his chair, “that Bumblebee is some secret Primal heir?”
Ironhide winced. Jazz was a mech who kept a tight grip on his composure. The way his field flared with indescribable emotion for a klik really drove home how big an issue this was.
And Ironhide knew that it was. Not a lot of Primes end up having heirs. The Matrix made donating CNA trickier, apparently it had a temperament. Technically, all heirs that have been produced have gone on to take on the Primal mantle after their creator. Bumblebee was very likely to take up the Matrix after Optimus. If he lived long enough to see it. Ironhide had no idea what Megatron would do if he knew of Bumblebee’s origins.
“Now hang on,” Ironhide tried to protest when Jazz started to pace. “I’m not entirely sure Bumblebee is Nova’s protoform. It all happened so long ago. Honestly, I thought he had been destroyed long before a spark could ever settle.”
Jazz paused, servos clenching into fists. He looked back at Ironhide, visor glinting. “Sentinel?”
Ironhide nodded grimly. “Sentinel,” he confirmed. Shaking his helm, Ironhide looked away. “That mech was crazy. Any threat to his ‘claim’ to the Primacy would have been wiped out. If he knew about Nova’s protoform, I’m sure he would have ripped it out of Vector Sigma himself.” Ironhide ex-vented. “I forgot about the whole incident until…”
Again, Jazz paused. This time, he faced Ironhide. That blankness fell over him again as he tilted his helm. “Until Bumblebee showed up as a fresh recruit?”
“Yeah,” Ironhide said, frame slouching.
“Yet you said nothing?” Jazz accused.
Ironhide glared at Jazz. “I was ordered by my master to keep quiet.” The Spec Op commander had the decency to wince. The black and white knew all too well what slave coding could do to a mech.
Going back over to his chair, Jazz threw himself into it. It barely moved, made for Ironhide’s frame. Jazz placed his helm in his servos, shaking it slowly. “What changed?” He said after a moment, putting his servos down, and looked at Ironhide expectantly.
The weapon’s specialist shrugged. “Nova was paranoid, but he also knew he couldn’t let everything get snuffed with him. He had it instilled in our programming contracts that we could only tell trusted Primal officers with government secrets if he would have trusted them with it.” Ironhide shook his helm, “that meant everyone during Sentinel’s reign was out. Afterward, the coding had a hard time easing its restraints.”
Even with the slave coding gone, the old commands had fully integrated into his processor. The moment Ironhide saw Bumblebee, he wanted to tell Optimus. Nova’s paranoia was once again his downfall. The only thing Ironhide could do was keep Bumblebee close. There was an override in place, of course, but on the slave coding’s conditions. With the programming gone, it took Jazz flat-out asking Ironhide to get the command to finally deactivate.
Jazz just hummed his acceptance. He pinched his nasal ridge, visor offlining for a moment. “You're getting checked out by Ratchet,” he said without moving from his position, “then we’re debriefing. Nova better not have any secrets left hidden in you by the end of the session.”
“Yes, sir,” Ironhide accepted. He’d also tell Optimus everything personally himself (in case his assassin tried to twist some things).
Groaning, Jazz suddenly stood up. “C’mon, let’s get this over with. While you're getting checked out, maybe Ratchet can run some CNA tests. We should have both Nova and Bumblebee’s samples on file.” Jazz stilled again, looking severely down at Ironhide. “No one can know about this, outside of Optimus. This cannot get out.”
Ironhide nodded. “Agreed,” he said gravely before getting up and leading the way out of his office.
Datawork could wait.
- - - - - - - - -
“My sparkling,” Nova whispered to his developing protoform when the donation transfer completed. Technically, the protoform didn’t have a spark yet, so it wasn’t considered a sparkling, but that was just semantics. “You will be the key to reviving Cybertron.”
At this stage, the protoform was just liquid metal, easily molded. Discreetly (the priests would be hysterical if they knew what he was doing), Nova took a dataslug from his subspace and pressed it into the protoform just under the gaping spark chamber (the sight used to be disturbing, but now it just filled Nova with hope).
The protoform easily swallowed the dataslug into its void, disappearing like it was never there. After researching, Nova knew the protoform would likely cannibalize the dataslug before the next donation. However, the information encoded on it would be absorbed into the beginnings of the processor. It would be the first thing the spark would learn, but hidden amongst layers of base coding. The perfect hiding spot.
The Matrix had given Nova another horrific vision. This one was of his successor throwing the Allspark through a spacebridge, leaving their planet to die an agonizing and slow death. It was the most horrifying one it's shown him yet, up there with the Pretender Prime that rules between him and Optimus.
However, there was hope. The Matrix also showed him the location where the Allspark ends up. The exact coordinates. It’s a long jumble of code. Space was a vast place. This will especially be clear when the inevitable space bridges collapse. His sparkling will have to travel far to find the Allspark, but Nova knew they could do it.
His only regret was that he wouldn’t live long enough to see his creation online, but it’ll be worth it. It had to be. He’d greet his lovely in the Well after they became a hero of Cybertron.
“Live long and prosper, young one,” Nova continued to whisper his blessings, even as the priests came to escort him and the Prime’s Guard out, “you will do great things.”