Shards VI
Title: Shards VI
Author: AotA
Rating: T
Warnings: Cliffhangers (This fic is not going to have a feel good ending. At all. They will have a chance, but it’s still not a nice/happy ending. It’s actually going to be sad and/or sparkbreaking.)
Characters: Ironhide, Ratchet, Jazz, Mentions of Wheeljack, Prowl
Setting: very AU tf-bayverse
Summary: Allegiances fluctuated at the beginning of the war, some voluntarily… some not so much.
Notes: This is not beta-read so go ahead and point out something that I need to correct. I’m thinking that this is going to be a bit longer than I was expecting, and I won’t be making my wishful goal of wrapping this up before NaNoWriMo hits unless I go absolutely crazy with my writing.
Shards (I), (II), (III), (Prequel), (IV), (V)
Ironhide continued his looming all the way to the med bay, and despite Ratchet’s dirty looks continued to loom inside the med bay the entire time Ratchet was running his tests again. Jazz was glad that the medic chased the mech out before he said anything about the results. The contents of Jazz’s processors were Jazz’s alone, and viewable to medics only grudgingly. Jazz was especially glad when Ratchet’s first words were, “You’re fragged.”
Jazz twitched. “Are you talking literally, metaphorically, or asking wishfully?” he asked mischievously to cover his unease. He hated medical bays and he hated checkups. He could maintain himself just fine, and the medics were always bitchy about his upgrades and quibbled about them, and tried to mess with them. It was too easy to fall into the familiar roll of playing “distract the medic.”
If he was clever about it, they tended not to catch on for a long, long time. If he was lucky, they never clued in.
Unfortunately, it looked as though he wouldn’t be able to play that game with this medic quite as easily.
Ratchet’s optics rolled, “Literally and more than likely metaphorically, but I wouldn’t interface with you if you asked, Decepticon.”
“That hurts,” Jazz laughed, “Right here.” He covered his chest plates with splayed claws.
Ratchet rolled his optics once more, fighting to suppress a grin. Slaggit, he was supposed to be objective about this, but Jazz was too likeable a mech not to warm up to. Now that he was being even more careful, Ratchet caught certain telltale reactions to some of the thing sthat he did over the course of the examination. Each twitch was a ruthlessly suppressed defensie reaction that could possibly offline him As soon as he realized it, Ratchet quickly implemented the spec ops medical protocols designed to calm down the more volatile agents.
The protocols simply telegraphed his motions and reduced extraneous, possibly threatening movements. Sure enough, Jazz’s firefight twitches subsided for the most part. Ratchet didn’t want to antagonize Jazz and he would bet that Jazz would really prefer not to be put in such a situation either. Above all though, it wouldn’t be fair to Prowl, and Ratchet for all that he thought that Prowl was a socially stunted idiot, he wouldn’t put Prowl in that position either.
“Hey, anyone online in there?” Jazz’s claws waved in from of Ratchet’s optics, jolting him out of his thoughts.
“Oh,” Ratchet shook his head, “Sorry about that.”
Jazz shrugged, “Looks like I’m not tha only one who’s fragged,” he suggested cheekily, “Run a defrag cycle lately? Or do you have a hot date later?”
Ratchet glared, “Whether I have a “hot date” or not is irrelevant. My processor is not the one being discussed.”
“So you do have a hot date. Nice.” Jazz gave a thumbs up.
Ratchet ran a hand roughly down his face, “Jazz? Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
“If you tell me who it is, I’ll listen.”
“No.”
“Tell me?” Jazz wheedled.
“…” Ratchet eyed the silver saboteur up and down, “Fine. It’s Wheeljack, alright? There. I said it. Now shut up and listen.”
“Wheeljack?” Jazz coughed in surprise, “Isn’t he that little explosives and demolition expert?”
Ratchet winced, “…Not exactly.” He huffed and glared at nothing. “Now. I want to run a defragmentation cycle again because I d not feel that it is running properly. I want to rule out common issues before we do anything drastic.”
Jazz looked at Ratchet pensively, the almost manic cheerfulness slipping away, an oddly calm expression replacing it. On Jazz, whom Ratchet had only seen as a wild, chaotic, insubordinate, pissy mech with an attitude, it was both serene and surreal, “You really are somethin’ Ratch.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he began the defragmentation cycle. Ratchet was beginning to think that trying to figure out Jazz would be an endeavor spanning vorns, and he doubted that even that would enough. He suspected that he would always have a surprise or two left in reserve to throw at unsuspecting mechs.
“Ya just can’t stop tryin’ ta heal a mech. Ya could have just gone for whatever it is that’s in my processors that’s freakin’ out tha command. It would be easier.”
Rachet gave a rude snort, “I’m a medic.”
“Don’t matter,” the saboteur said honestly.
Ratchet paused and looked straight at Jazz’s earnest face. He looked away. “Hmph, lousy medics you’ve had then,” he muttered gruffly.
-=/\=-
Ratchet exhausted all the usual avenues to try remove the anomaly and even a few of the rarer ones, then moved onto just simply trying to investigate it. Those attempts also failed and both he and Jazz were growing frustrated with their lack of any sort of progress.
“Just crack it,” Jazz said, “Ya obviously aren’t goin’ ta get it any other way.”
“You sure?”
“Go for it.”
Ratchet frowned and placed a newly tailored program around the now ugly and dangerous looking compact mess of codes. He looked at Jazz, “Ready?”
The saboteur nodded, “Go.”
Ratchet activated the program and it began slicing away, moving bits of code to an isolated file. The program was running fine as it devoured the code’s newer antiviral, nasty looking extraneous coding that formed its protective shell but just as soon as it scrapped past the initial camouflage, everything began to go wrong.
-=/\=-
In his cell, Prowl suddenly pressed a hand to the plates that protected his spark, a horrible, blinding pain almost surpassing his rigid self control. The unexpectedness had him bite back a whimper of pain. When another surge hit him, he flinched, curling over his hand, a white haze of static crackling his sensors and at the edges of his optics.
Disoriented, Prowl staggered upright, leaning heavily against the berth. Gyros shot and his senses addled by sensory overflow, he had to hold onto something so that he didn’t topple over.
He winced, something was wrong with Jazz. Something was very wrong with Jazz.
He took an unsteady step toward the comm., hand touching the wall for balance.
Prowl needed to get to Jazz. He had to.
Another step and more pain had Prowl muffling a cry.
Yet another wave brought him crashing to his knees. The last wave the he would feel consciously had him sprawling out on the floor of his cell, a hand outstretched toward the door, offline.
His spark would not stop feeling the pain until it was all over, whether his conscious mind was online to receive the input or not.
Prowl wouldn’t be found like that for several joor, when Ironhide came to update him on the situation.
-=/\=-
Prowl onlined in a daze with medics rushing about. Everything that he felt was dull, from his sensor wings, to his claws, to the tips of his pedes. His sensors were fuzzy and gave indistinct readings and his audials felt as though they had been desensitized almost to the point of muting. Confusion spawned in his processors as he tried to make sense of the din surrounding him, dulled and fuzzy as it was.
The sudden appearance of Ratchet’s distinctive face in his field of vision had him turning his head to see better.
Prowl blinked as Ratchet’s mouth moved but he heard nothing.
How strange…
The medic that Ratchet was talking to nodded and approached the machines that Prowl realized he was hooked up to, doing… something to them.
Ratchet looked at him, and seemed to notice that he had come online. Surprise, for the most part, flashed across his face. He took a step closer, mouth moving, but Prowl could only stare blankly. He didn’t hear a word that was said, and his attention was beginning to wander, no matter how hard he tried to keep it focused on Ratchet.
Something is wrong…
Prowl frowned and his optics slowly roved about the room.
Something is missing…
Ratchet’s hand landing on his shoulder had him frowning at it. After a moment, because apparently, Ratchet hadn’t gotten the response that he had wanted, the medic started shaking him.
Something is…
Prowl looked up, passed Ratchet and saw a silver mech laid out on another berth.
Jazz.
Prowl laboriously lifted an arm.
Jazz?
Audio began to filter in slowly, and the first thing that he heard was Ratchet bark, “--sedate him!” There was the cold sharpness of a medical cable, and the world cut out.
Author: AotA
Rating: T
Warnings: Cliffhangers (This fic is not going to have a feel good ending. At all. They will have a chance, but it’s still not a nice/happy ending. It’s actually going to be sad and/or sparkbreaking.)
Characters: Ironhide, Ratchet, Jazz, Mentions of Wheeljack, Prowl
Setting: very AU tf-bayverse
Summary: Allegiances fluctuated at the beginning of the war, some voluntarily… some not so much.
Notes: This is not beta-read so go ahead and point out something that I need to correct. I’m thinking that this is going to be a bit longer than I was expecting, and I won’t be making my wishful goal of wrapping this up before NaNoWriMo hits unless I go absolutely crazy with my writing.
Shards (I), (II), (III), (Prequel), (IV), (V)
Ironhide continued his looming all the way to the med bay, and despite Ratchet’s dirty looks continued to loom inside the med bay the entire time Ratchet was running his tests again. Jazz was glad that the medic chased the mech out before he said anything about the results. The contents of Jazz’s processors were Jazz’s alone, and viewable to medics only grudgingly. Jazz was especially glad when Ratchet’s first words were, “You’re fragged.”
Jazz twitched. “Are you talking literally, metaphorically, or asking wishfully?” he asked mischievously to cover his unease. He hated medical bays and he hated checkups. He could maintain himself just fine, and the medics were always bitchy about his upgrades and quibbled about them, and tried to mess with them. It was too easy to fall into the familiar roll of playing “distract the medic.”
If he was clever about it, they tended not to catch on for a long, long time. If he was lucky, they never clued in.
Unfortunately, it looked as though he wouldn’t be able to play that game with this medic quite as easily.
Ratchet’s optics rolled, “Literally and more than likely metaphorically, but I wouldn’t interface with you if you asked, Decepticon.”
“That hurts,” Jazz laughed, “Right here.” He covered his chest plates with splayed claws.
Ratchet rolled his optics once more, fighting to suppress a grin. Slaggit, he was supposed to be objective about this, but Jazz was too likeable a mech not to warm up to. Now that he was being even more careful, Ratchet caught certain telltale reactions to some of the thing sthat he did over the course of the examination. Each twitch was a ruthlessly suppressed defensie reaction that could possibly offline him As soon as he realized it, Ratchet quickly implemented the spec ops medical protocols designed to calm down the more volatile agents.
The protocols simply telegraphed his motions and reduced extraneous, possibly threatening movements. Sure enough, Jazz’s firefight twitches subsided for the most part. Ratchet didn’t want to antagonize Jazz and he would bet that Jazz would really prefer not to be put in such a situation either. Above all though, it wouldn’t be fair to Prowl, and Ratchet for all that he thought that Prowl was a socially stunted idiot, he wouldn’t put Prowl in that position either.
“Hey, anyone online in there?” Jazz’s claws waved in from of Ratchet’s optics, jolting him out of his thoughts.
“Oh,” Ratchet shook his head, “Sorry about that.”
Jazz shrugged, “Looks like I’m not tha only one who’s fragged,” he suggested cheekily, “Run a defrag cycle lately? Or do you have a hot date later?”
Ratchet glared, “Whether I have a “hot date” or not is irrelevant. My processor is not the one being discussed.”
“So you do have a hot date. Nice.” Jazz gave a thumbs up.
Ratchet ran a hand roughly down his face, “Jazz? Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
“If you tell me who it is, I’ll listen.”
“No.”
“Tell me?” Jazz wheedled.
“…” Ratchet eyed the silver saboteur up and down, “Fine. It’s Wheeljack, alright? There. I said it. Now shut up and listen.”
“Wheeljack?” Jazz coughed in surprise, “Isn’t he that little explosives and demolition expert?”
Ratchet winced, “…Not exactly.” He huffed and glared at nothing. “Now. I want to run a defragmentation cycle again because I d not feel that it is running properly. I want to rule out common issues before we do anything drastic.”
Jazz looked at Ratchet pensively, the almost manic cheerfulness slipping away, an oddly calm expression replacing it. On Jazz, whom Ratchet had only seen as a wild, chaotic, insubordinate, pissy mech with an attitude, it was both serene and surreal, “You really are somethin’ Ratch.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he began the defragmentation cycle. Ratchet was beginning to think that trying to figure out Jazz would be an endeavor spanning vorns, and he doubted that even that would enough. He suspected that he would always have a surprise or two left in reserve to throw at unsuspecting mechs.
“Ya just can’t stop tryin’ ta heal a mech. Ya could have just gone for whatever it is that’s in my processors that’s freakin’ out tha command. It would be easier.”
Rachet gave a rude snort, “I’m a medic.”
“Don’t matter,” the saboteur said honestly.
Ratchet paused and looked straight at Jazz’s earnest face. He looked away. “Hmph, lousy medics you’ve had then,” he muttered gruffly.
-=/\=-
Ratchet exhausted all the usual avenues to try remove the anomaly and even a few of the rarer ones, then moved onto just simply trying to investigate it. Those attempts also failed and both he and Jazz were growing frustrated with their lack of any sort of progress.
“Just crack it,” Jazz said, “Ya obviously aren’t goin’ ta get it any other way.”
“You sure?”
“Go for it.”
Ratchet frowned and placed a newly tailored program around the now ugly and dangerous looking compact mess of codes. He looked at Jazz, “Ready?”
The saboteur nodded, “Go.”
Ratchet activated the program and it began slicing away, moving bits of code to an isolated file. The program was running fine as it devoured the code’s newer antiviral, nasty looking extraneous coding that formed its protective shell but just as soon as it scrapped past the initial camouflage, everything began to go wrong.
-=/\=-
In his cell, Prowl suddenly pressed a hand to the plates that protected his spark, a horrible, blinding pain almost surpassing his rigid self control. The unexpectedness had him bite back a whimper of pain. When another surge hit him, he flinched, curling over his hand, a white haze of static crackling his sensors and at the edges of his optics.
Disoriented, Prowl staggered upright, leaning heavily against the berth. Gyros shot and his senses addled by sensory overflow, he had to hold onto something so that he didn’t topple over.
He winced, something was wrong with Jazz. Something was very wrong with Jazz.
He took an unsteady step toward the comm., hand touching the wall for balance.
Prowl needed to get to Jazz. He had to.
Another step and more pain had Prowl muffling a cry.
Yet another wave brought him crashing to his knees. The last wave the he would feel consciously had him sprawling out on the floor of his cell, a hand outstretched toward the door, offline.
His spark would not stop feeling the pain until it was all over, whether his conscious mind was online to receive the input or not.
Prowl wouldn’t be found like that for several joor, when Ironhide came to update him on the situation.
-=/\=-
Prowl onlined in a daze with medics rushing about. Everything that he felt was dull, from his sensor wings, to his claws, to the tips of his pedes. His sensors were fuzzy and gave indistinct readings and his audials felt as though they had been desensitized almost to the point of muting. Confusion spawned in his processors as he tried to make sense of the din surrounding him, dulled and fuzzy as it was.
The sudden appearance of Ratchet’s distinctive face in his field of vision had him turning his head to see better.
Prowl blinked as Ratchet’s mouth moved but he heard nothing.
How strange…
The medic that Ratchet was talking to nodded and approached the machines that Prowl realized he was hooked up to, doing… something to them.
Ratchet looked at him, and seemed to notice that he had come online. Surprise, for the most part, flashed across his face. He took a step closer, mouth moving, but Prowl could only stare blankly. He didn’t hear a word that was said, and his attention was beginning to wander, no matter how hard he tried to keep it focused on Ratchet.
Something is wrong…
Prowl frowned and his optics slowly roved about the room.
Something is missing…
Ratchet’s hand landing on his shoulder had him frowning at it. After a moment, because apparently, Ratchet hadn’t gotten the response that he had wanted, the medic started shaking him.
Something is…
Prowl looked up, passed Ratchet and saw a silver mech laid out on another berth.
Jazz.
Prowl laboriously lifted an arm.
Jazz?
Audio began to filter in slowly, and the first thing that he heard was Ratchet bark, “--sedate him!” There was the cold sharpness of a medical cable, and the world cut out.