[AU] Oubliette - Chapter Fifteen
Universe: G1/IDW AU
Characters: Optimus, Jazz, Ratchet, Starscream, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock, Wheeljack, Mirage, Rumble, Bumblebee
Referenced Pairings: Ratchet/Wheeljack, Mirage/Tracks, Rumble/Bumblebee
Rating: M
Warnings this chapter: referenced character death and rape, angst
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "The Scar," Broken Iris
Oubliette
Chapter Fifteen
It was over so quickly that by the time Optimus emerged from the back end of Shockwave's laboratory, there was nothing but clean up to be had. Which was good, because the moment he heard that Megatron was dead, that Grimlock had ripped out his spark chamber, Optimus' processor tripped into stasis lock and he crumpled into a heap, right then and there. His redlining energon levels might have had something to do with it, too.
For the next several cycles, he was in and out of consciousness in a medbay. He heard snatches of conversation, picked up bits and pieces of the goings on.
One time, he awoke to the knowledge that, at the moment, Ultra Magnus and Grimlock and Starscream were in charge. It was almost enough to give him spark palpitations until a dented but very much alive Ratchet shuffled over to give him another sedative and Optimus sunk back into blissful sedation.
He didn't dream. He was glad for it.
The next time Optimus onlined, it was to the same ceiling as before. He was in a medbay, but a quick check of his extremities proved that he was no longer shackled at any of his joints and a touch to his intake proved that the collar was gone. Another systems scan showed him at nearly full health with a fully functional communications system and transformation cog.
Megatron must have kept it as a souvenir rather than destroy it.
He wasn't alone. Jazz was recharging in the chair next to him, half slumped over Optimus' berth. He'd changed his paint and his armor so that he no longer resembled Ricochet and the sight of him sent an ache of guilt through Optimus.
He was content to let Jazz recharge and let himself bask in the novel concept of freedom. Exhaustion still weighed heavily on his frame and he knew he only had a short time before recharge claimed him again.
But then Jazz woke, probably sensing the shift in his resting patterns, and offered Optimus a tired grin. He patted Optimus' hand and Optimus did his best not to flinch. He wasn't much a fan of physical contact and hated himself for being relieved when Jazz tucked his hands back in his lap and didn't try again.
Optimus wasn't really up for conversation, but Jazz didn't seem to mind. He was content to fill in the silence with babble and Optimus was content to listen. He would fall back into recharge eventually, but that was okay.
They'd won, Jazz said. It was the first thing he said actually, not that there was much cheer in his vocals. They'd lost too much to really call it a victory. But, Jazz pointed out, it was better than dying or remaining a slave.
Megatron was dead, well and truly dead. They'd melted his frame down because there was no one desperate enough to use him for spare parts. Others had died with him, those that refused to surrender or were damaged in the explosions Trailbreaker and Smokescreen had so carefully put into place.
Optimus listened to the names and felt dull. Dirge and Ramjet. Wildrider and Dead End. Astrotrain. Roller Force and Ground Hog. Other names he didn't recognize. Names he couldn't match to faces. A lot of grunts.
Starscream had assumed command of the Decepticons with Soundwave assisting him. Anyone who didn't want to listen to him had been thrown into the Decepticon brig. Jazz was vague as to their future fate, and a part of Optimus didn't want to know. After all, it wasn't his place to say anything anymore.
There was also rumor that Grimlock was vying for leadership of the Decepticons, claiming it as his right for killing Megatron. Few were disputing him. Even, strangely, Starscream. Nothing had come of the rumor yet. Jazz was keeping an optic on it.
Several Decepticons were allowed to walk free. Optimus was surprised to hear that the Combaticons were among them. They'd been the ones who owned Bluestreak, though they'd taken care of him and never used him like the others. They'd protected Bluestreak.
“They were pretty much slaves themselves,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Made 'em lose the taste for it. All they wanted was for that code to be stripped out of 'em. Not sure if they're going to stay with Starscream though.”
Optimus couldn't blame them. Starscream was not Megatron, but that did not make him the better choice by default. Starscream might have been the one to free them from Shockwave's spark prison, but only so he could make use of their talents. Then, his failure proceeded to add another punishment onto what was already a disorientating experience.
Jazz kept telling him not to worry, too. That they had everything under control. That Ratchet had booted the Constructicons into the Decepticon brig and stripped the medbay of useful instruments, fixed up First Aid, and with Wheeljack's help, the three of them had been getting everybody back into working order.
He worried, Jazz admitted, about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Whatever Shockwave had done to them had left them shadows of their formal selves. They couldn't be separated from each other anymore. Sunstreaker had nightmares and Sideswipe had nearly ripped out Jazz's throat when Jazz had freed them.
None of those imprisoned by the Decepticons had left the medbay yet. Well, except for Bluestreak. Bumblebee had never been in Decepticons hands, though he'd been treated for malnutrition and general ill maintenance.
And did Optimus know that Bumblebee and Rumble were old lovers? No? Well, he knew now. It was both adorable and odd, but Jazz wasn't going to get in the middle of it. Every little alliance counted.
Things were tense, Jazz admitted. Starscream didn't know the meaning of tact, and Grimlock knew, but didn't bother with it. Jazz had never wanted to be this kind of leader, but everyone was looking to him for answers. And Ultra Magnus was twitchy, his team of Autobots having trouble meshing with Optimus' Autobots.
“You're not mine anymore,” Optimus tried to protest.
Jazz just popped an orbital ridge at him. “We'll talk about that later, boss,” he said.
The fatigue clawed at Optimus again. He felt his optical shutters drooping. He was exhausted, strut-deep, but it was a welcome fatigue. It was a healing fatigue. He apologized for drifting off, but Jazz just patted the berth in lieu of patting him.
“Recharge, OP,” he said with a tight smile. “Trust me. I'll watch over ya. Won't nothin' happen while I’m here. Promise.”
Jazz's field nudged gently against his, and it was so welcome, so familiar, that Optimus fell into recharge.
The next time Optimus onlined, he felt more like himself. The fatigue was gone as was the sense of unreality and he wanted nothing more than to be out of the berth. There were things to do. He had a responsibility. He needed to know what he'd missed.
He needed to know if the Autobots still trusted him to lead them. If they even needed a leader. They weren't at war anymore. There was no more need for factions. Except Optimus wasn't so naïve as to think that the separation and badges had been abandoned. Not after what Megatron had done.
He onlined his optics and glanced around the room. Jazz was no longer here, though that came as no surprise to Optimus. A quick check to his chronometer showed that he'd been out for several days. It would have been arrogant to expect Jazz to linger that long.
He also had no more monitoring wires connected to his frame. He was, by all accounts, free to get up and go about his business. If only he could bring himself to swing his legs over the side of the berth.
He didn't know what to expect when he walked out the doors. It was strangely intimidating and Optimus could not remember the last time he'd been so hesitant. It was disconcerting to be this anxious, and Optimus did not like it. Had Megatron broken him so thoroughly?
The door opened and Optimus startled, his helm swinging toward it. The tension bled out of him, however, when the familiar red and white of his CMO eased into the room. Ratchet looked much better than the last time Optimus saw him. Gone were the shackles and the collar. He'd been repaired, the dents and scuffs and scrapes gone from his paint. He carried himself a bit taller as well.
“I figured you'd be awake by now,” Ratchet said as he approached the berth, datapad in hand. He cast about for a seat and drew a backless stool, perching himself on it. “How are you feeling?”
What a loaded question.
Optimus hauled himself upright. There was a slight ache in his frame, but he recognized it as the heat and discomfort of healing. It would pass, he suspected, with movement. He needed to be up and about, no longer berthbound.
As for how he felt, well, Optimus wasn't sure there was a simple answer to that question.
“Repaired,” he answered. His gaze met Ratchet's. “You?”
“The same,” Ratchet admitted. He fiddled with his datapad and rolled his shoulders. “You're onboard the Xantium right now. I didn't think you would appreciate waking in the Constructicon medbay.”
“Nor would you enjoy working there.”
Ratchet ex-vented audibly. “There is that.” A shadow filled his optics and Optimus knew it had to reflect in his own. “They're in the brig right now, but if Starscream has his way, it won't be for long. The fragger's right. We do need them.” He sounded bitter and Optimus couldn't blame him.
“There are very few of us left,” Optimus murmured. “Starscream would be correct. It is an unfortunate necessity.”
“Pah. I didn't need you to tell me that.” Ratchet rolled his optics before he focused on Optimus again, tilting his helm. “You're fully repaired, Optimus. It's up to you what to do next. Except for the Dinobots, no one's felt comfortable being so close to the Decepticons so we're all sharing space on the Xantium. It's crowded but...” Here he shrugged again, the distance returning to his optics. “There are worse things.”
Indeed.
Optimus nodded. That was when his tank choose to gurgle and he pressed a hand over it. His energy levels only read forty percent. Curious.
Ratchet presented him a cube of energon, perhaps pulled from subspace. “Your tanks won't be able to handle full capacity for a while. Sip on this.”
“Thank you.” Optimus peered at the energon, which appeared to be standard mid-grade. It gave off the sweet scent of it as well. “Where is Jazz?”
“Ah.” The medic winced. “There was an incident. He had to leave to address it.” Ratchet's weight shifted, the stool creaking beneath him. “One of our Autobots executed a Decepticon.”
Optimus blinked. “What?”
Ratchet sighed and rose from his stool, rubbing a hand down his faceplate. “Sideswipe was redlining again. It was only after I managed to get him stabilized, that I noticed that Cliffjumper had left his berth. It wasn't until Jazz commed me that I knew where he'd gone. Straight to the brig. I don't even know where he got the blaster from. Or how he managed to get off the fragging berth.”
“Who was it?”
“I can't blame him, Optimus. None of us do. Primus knows that if I'd been damaged half as much as Cliff was when we found him, well, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot who did that to me either.” Ratchet's entire frame was tense. “No one can tell me Blitzwing didn't deserve what he got.”
Optimus' optics widened. His ventilations caught.
Oh, yes. He remembered Blitzwing.
But when had Cliffjumper been taken? Megatron had never announced this! He'd never taunted Optimus with the knowledge. He'd never made a show out of finding and capturing Cliffjumper. Optimus hadn't even known Cliffjumper was alive!
Optimus shuddered and bowed his helm. As much as he wished to think otherwise, a part of him agreed with Ratchet. Was a mech who thought it was okay to do that to another even capable of being redeemed? But then, were the Constructicons any better?
And Cliffjumper! He was smaller even than Optimus. How had the triple-changers not killed him? Optimus dreaded to think of it.
He worked his intake. “Where is Cliffjumper now?”
“Here. In Isolation. Frankly, he shouldn't have been able to get off the berth.” Ratchet signed. “The Decepticons are in an uproar, both those in the brig and those who agreed to Starscream's leadership. Unfortunately, they have a point.”
Optimus pressed his lips together and abruptly forced himself to his pedes. His legs held his weight, though his knees wobbled. The sharp motion made his processor spin but a quickly cycled ventilation forced everything back into equilibrium.
Ratchet whirled toward him. “What are you doing?”
“I have responsibilities. I cannot continue to hide in this medbay.” Optimus offered Ratchet a smile and only then did he realize the medic couldn't see it because he had his blast mask. Ratchet had returned that to him as well.
Optimus touched it with his fingers, the better to reassure himself that it existed. He had a defense against the world again.
“Optimus, you're in no state of mind to be dealing with those idiots out there,” Ratchet said, shaking his helm. “If it weren’t for the fact that so many of us were in terrible condition, I'd be holed up on a berth, too!”
Optimus inclined his helm, allowing his field to extend to Ratchet, who was looking more frazzled by the minute. “I am more than capable of a little conversation if you are capable of tending to our needs, Ratchet. I will be fine.”
Ratchet twitched, his field rippling with an irritation that was so familiar to Optimus, it was a comfort. It was like being in the Ark's medbay all over again, Ratchet's hands planted on his hips as he berated one of the Autobots for behaving against medical advice. Ratchet glared, pinning Optimus down with the force of it, but then it was gone in the next second, replaced by resignation.
“Fine,” Ratchet said and he stomped to the door. It opened ahead of him and he gestured to the hallway. “Have at it. They're meeting in the command room. Two doors down.”
“Thank you.” Optimus paused next to his medic, reading the unease and discomfort in Ratchet's field. He thought he ought to offer words, perhaps comfort, but he did not know if any of it would be welcome.
“Please think also of yourself,” Optimus said instead and he slipped past Ratchet into the hallway.
The medic snorted behind him. “Same to you, boss.” There was, in his words, a hint of the Ratchet Optimus remembered so well. Perhaps the Decepticons hadn't completely destroyed them.
Optimus followed Ratchet's directions down the deserted hallway. He passed two doors, neither of which were labeled, until he found the one that was. The door had to be thick, but even so, he could hear raised voices, though the words were indistinguishable. He tapped at the panel, and it opened to him without requiring a code.
As it slid open, Optimus was bombarded with noise.
“--unacceptable!” Starscream's distinctive vocal tones snapped. “I don't care what your justifications are.”
“I need only look into the medbay to see justification,” Ultra Magnus retorted, his plating ruffled with offense.
The room was full to the brim with energy fields, almost suffocating. Optimus had to steel himself before he stepped inside.
“And we should all suffer for the mistakes of those too stupid not to listen to Megatron?” Starscream snarled. His hands slammed onto the table. “By that argument, there are none of us innocent. We've all been party to the destruction of Cybertron and the death of millions. None of us are blameless.”
“We are not talking about the war,” Ultra Magnus stated, his optics narrowing. “We are talking about the gross mistreatment of prisoners, a treatment that defied both Cybertronian law and galactic law. We are legally allowed to seek redress in whatever manner we see fit.”
Starscream's wings went rigid, snapping upward. “Execution is not acceptable!” It was near a shriek.
“Allow me Grimlock solitude with Shockwave and see what me Grimlock finds acceptable,” Grimlock growled, his visor darkening with threat.
Primus. Clearly, Optimus had arrived just in time. He cycled his vocalizer and revved his engine, flaring the tattered remnants of his field to capture their attention. Sharp and cutting, none of them could ignore it.
Three helms swung his direction, though none of them were mollified.
“Optimus Prime, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, jerking to his pedes. “I apologize. I did not realize you were cleared from the medbay.”
Starscream barked a laugh. “Because he's not. Ratchet told me he won't be cleared for another few days.”
“Judging by the argument I witnessed, I cannot afford to stay in the berth that long,” Optimus said coolly. He stared at Starscream long enough for the Seeker to ruffle his plating and subside. “I may not be Prime, but I still have a responsibility. I am here to offer my opinion as well.”
“Great. Just what I need. Another Autobot.” Starscream sneered and threw himself back into his chair, arms folded over his chest.
Grimlock growled. “Me Grimlock not Autobot.” His armor rustled and only then did Optimus notice that the Autobot badges were gone from Grimlock's plating.
He couldn't blame Grimlock, he supposed. The Autobots had left him and his team behind on Earth. Grimlock probably blamed Optimus for what happened as well. Still, Optimus made a mental note to speak with Grimlock later, preferably when they could have some privacy.
“Oh, my mistake.” Starscream's vocals were a purr, but there was threat beneath him. “I must have been confused considering you spent the entirety of the war shooting fire at my aft.”
“I trust you are well, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, perhaps in a desperate bid to shift the conversation back to something more appropriate.
Optimus cast him a thin, grateful smile. “Well enough.” There was one empty seat and he lowered himself into it. “I understand that there was an incident? And I gather that we are unable to come to an accord regarding how to handle it?”
Starscream's optics narrowed. “As I've stated repeatedly, yes, there is a certain portion of the Decepticons who treated the Autobots poorly. Yes, I understand that there is nothing you'd like more than to line them up and shoot out their sparks. But no, I'm not going to allow it. Those mechs are mine. I will decide what to do with them.”
“They committed crimes against Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said, sinking back into his chair. “Therefore they should be tried in an Autobot court.”
“An unfair court, of course.” Starscream snorted. His field buzzed with irritation. “My answer is still 'no'.”
“All me Grimlock want is Shockwave.” Grimlock's field aggressively pulsed through the room. “Me Grimlock don't care about the rest.”
Optimus drummed his fingers on the table, trying not to wince. He needed to steer this into civil territory before it devolved back into war. “Have we signed a truce?”
Starscream barked a laugh.
Ultra Magnus sighed. “There is some... disagreement as to who is legally and legitimately allowed to sign a treaty.” He gestured toward Starscream. “He maintains he is leader of the Decepticons while Grimlock claims it as his right for terminating Megatron and surprisingly, several Decepticons back him.”
It made sense. The Deceptions were highly hierarchical and valued strength over anything else. Given the number of times Starscream had tried and failed to lead a mutiny, it was not a stretch to guess that the surviving Decepticons might choose to follow a leader who had actually succeeded on the first try. There were few Cybertronians in the war who did not recognize Grimlock for the danger he was.
“And your Prime no longer has the Matrix,” Starscream snapped, his field reeking of offense. “Which means he's not a Prime. He has no authority.”
“By that argument, there is no leader of the Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said and his field spiked as his engine thrummed slowly. His hand formed a fist on the table.
Starscream's lips pulled into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Precisely.”
Optimus inclined his helm. “I will not deny that I do not carry the Matrix. Or that it was destroyed, but to argue that the Autobots are leader-less would be incorrect. We do not need a Prime to guide us.” He gestured toward Ultra Magnus. “By order of ascension, in my absence, Ultra Magnus is commander.” Not, as many would have believed, Prowl. Though Prowl would have temporarily taken command had Ultra Magnus been out of contact.
Ultra Magnus shook his helm, his field retreating from the room so fast Optimus reeled. “No, sir. I am willing to stand in temporarily, but you are my leader, Matrix or not. I cannot think of a single Autobot who will argue otherwise.”
Starscream rolled his optics. “What you want doesn't matter. We're talking legalities here. Do you want a truce that is legitimate or one that can be questioned by any Cybertronian who returns? There are the Neutrals to consider.”
Optimus blinked. “What Neutrals?”
Ultra Magnus sighed. Grimlock growled. Even Starscream looked irritated. This, it seemed, was something they all agreed on.
“Their ship touched down yesterday,” Ultra Magnus explained. He rubbed his forehelm, suddenly looking exhausted. “It was staffed by a half-dozen Neutrals and their leader, a mech by the name of Metalhawk, intends to stake a claim of Cybertron.”
“It's preposterous,” Starscream spat, his wings twitching. He unfolded his arms and leaned over the table, crimson optics blazing. “Both Autobots and Decepticons outnumber them, separately and together for now. But if more come? We're all fragged.”
“Then why are you fighting the treaty?” Optimus asked.
“I'm not!” Starscream growled and there was a click-click as his thrusters spun up angrily. “But I'm not going to be trapped by an invalid treaty either. And I'm not going to get the short end of the stick.”
Optimus' helm started to ache.
“You Starscream stubborn,” Grimlock said. He waved a clawed hand at the Seeker. “Why not you Starscream just say what you want?”
Starscream snorted. “Yeah. Cause it's that simple.”
“Actually, I have to agree with Grimlock.” Optimus leaned back in his chair and cycled a ventilation. He suddenly understood why Ratchet hadn't wanted to let him free of the medbay. This was more exhausting than battle. “What do you want, Starscream? What means of leadership would be acceptable?”
Starscream stared at him as though he'd just walked into the room with cosmic rust or something equally implausible. Had no one ever asked him what he wanted before?
Starscream leaned back on his chair. “Give me a legitimate means of appointing an Autobot leader, one that can be backed up with tradition or history or credible proof, and I'll accept whoever you want to sit in front of me.”
Optimus inclined his helm. “Thank you, Starscream. And after, you will consent to discussing the treaty?”
“If,” Starscream bit out, “I have resolved the leadership of my own faction.”
One helmache traded for another.
“There is precedent,” Ultra Magnus began slowly, “that a popular vote can serve as a stand in to select a Prime-elect. Will that suffice temporarily until a new government charter can be written?”
Starscream waved a hand of dismissal. “Whatever. So long as a Neutral isn't screaming about it, I don't care. Just make it legit.”
Well, there was one problem handled. Optimus had the feeling there were going to be a dozen more on the table.
They all had a long road ahead of them.
-INTERLUDE-
He'd thought getting Ratchet to recharge and refuel properly during the war was difficult. Wheeljack knew now that it was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.
He could hardly blame Ratchet. Without suppressants, every night was unpleasant for Ratchet. Recharge became a torture rather than a balm. Wheeljack's presence was no quick fix, no soothing and immediate balm. If anything, sharing a berth made Ratchet even more uncomfortable.
He never slept alone, Ratchet had admitted while unable to meet Wheeljack's optics, staring off into the distance, his hands wringing together. He always shared a berth with whosoever's turn it happened to be. Every Constructicon had their quirk.
Hook, Ratchet whispered, was the worse.
So most nights, Wheeljack let Ratchet have the berth to himself. He stayed nearby, often powering down on the floor just to be close. That way Ratchet could taste his field, could reach out for him if he wanted. Could know, in an instant, that he was safe and that it was Wheeljack beside him, not one of his Constructicon rapists.
Wheeljack had learned, too, after the first time he'd pulled Ratchet into his arms, that he could no longer take such things for granted. He asked now. He held out a hand, offering it, like one might show their palm to an untamed turbofox. Sometimes, Ratchet accepted it. Sometimes, Ratchet gave him this bleak look, like it hurt him to turn away, to say no. To go off in a corner and shudder while Wheeljack could only turn away and hate.
The Constructicons were still alive and in those moments, Wheeljack felt a keen understanding for Cliffjumper. A part of him wanted nothing more than to stride into the Constructicons' quarters and shoot every last one of them. Twice. One in the helm; one in the spark. And if that wouldn't work, he had a few explosives left over that should do the trick.
The anger came, as it always did, vile and poisonous and Wheeljack let it roll through him. Let it fill his spark with rage.
And then he ex-vented and let it out. His anger wouldn't help Ratchet.
Wheeljack couldn't remember a time he felt so helpless. It had been bad enough, out there alone in Cybertron's ravaged landscape, not knowing where Ratchet was. They'd been separated in the crash, had lost contact due to the lack of a functioning communication system.
All of the Autobots had scattered when their respective transports had crashed. Poor Omega Supreme, he'd never had a chance once the entire might of the Decepticon airforce cornered him and all the others.
Wheeljack had looked for Ratchet. It had been his first priority. But there was so much chaos. Smoke and fire and spilled energon and people shouting and no one knew if Prime was alive or dead. No one knew what happened except a single realization.
The humans had betrayed them.
Wheeljack didn't think it was that simple. He suspected there was more than a little Decepticon treachery going on. But he didn't have time to think about it. He only had time to run and hide, to try and regroup and come up with a plan.
He'd known Ratchet had survived the crash. His spark told him that much. But it couldn't tell him where Ratchet was. Wheeljack couldn't go back and look either because the Decepticons had poked through the wreckage and took what they could back to their new base. They'd left nothing to chance. They'd been smart.
He hadn't seen Ratchet again until the broadcast, when Megatron had shown everyone within receiving range that he'd caught the Autobot Chief Medical Officer. Wheeljack had been filled with rage then, watching Megatron so casually assault his partner. His only relief had been when Megatron did not execute Ratchet as he had Ironhide and Inferno.
So long as Ratchet was alive, there was hope.
And now here they were. Ratchet was alive, but he was hurting in ways Wheeljack could not easily soothe. He did not know how to help Ratchet, and Ratchet wouldn't tell him.
It was painful to watch Ratchet push himself. He should be berth-bound just like his patients! He had just as many aches and pains, rough welds and repaired joints and struts, and damaged interfacing equipment. He'd been chained and hobbled and bound as well.
He pushed himself anyway. He was almost normal when he was yelling at Perceptor for disconnecting himself from the energon drip. When he berated Optimus for getting up to tend to business too soon, not that it did any good. The sound of his sharp chastisement was so welcome that Wheeljack ached when he heard it.
Still Ratchet paid no attention to his own health.
He was determined to repair everyone else first. Maybe as a distraction. Maybe as proof that he still could. Maybe he thought fixing them would fix himself. Wheeljack didn't know.
He didn't know this Ratchet anymore. This Ratchet was a stranger to him. A stranger he loved.
“Jack?”
“Hm?” He looked up from the transformation cog he was trying to repair. It was Sideswipe's. Shockwave had mangled it so badly Ratchet could not yet return it to Sideswipe's frame. They both despaired it would ever function again, but Wheeljack was going to do his best to try.
Ratchet looked at him, his face lined with fatigue, his optics dim from lack of charge. “You can go on to recharge,” he said. “You need it.”
So do you.
Wheeljack bit his glossa. “I'm okay,” he said. “I want to try and finish this first. But thanks for noticing.”
Ratchet offered him a tired smile. He tapped his fingers on the door frame and turned around, but not before Wheeljack noticed his knee wobble.
“Ratchet?”
“Yeah?” Another wobble as Ratchet half-turned toward him.
Wheeljack's spark ached. “You know I love you, right?” He so rarely said it Before. Now he regretted that.
“Never doubted it.” Ratchet's optics brightened by a degree. It wasn't much but considering his appearance as of late, it might as well have been a full-blown smile.
Ratchet turned and left, and Wheeljack watched him go. He was going to do whatever it took to help Ratchet, however much or however little Ratchet needed from him.
He'd been too late, too powerless to save Ratchet before. He wasn't going to make that same mistake again.
0o0o0
Mirage should not have been surprised, and yet, he was. The Decepticons had no sense of propriety, of right and wrong. Look at what they had done to their Autobot prisoners! Why would they have treated the dead with any dignity?
He supposed he should be glad that Megatron hadn't ordered them all into a smelter. Though it was arguable which was worse. The smelter or... this.
Mirage picked his way through the room carefully, the odor of death and decay so strong he'd disabled his olfactory sensors and closed his vents. His high-performance engine raced. He only had about ten minutes before he'd overheat.
He searched.
They'd been thrown in here, every last one of them. Every Autobot Megatron had killed, every one they'd located after the fact. Every frame that hadn't been smelted. Like gray trophies haphazardly tossed into a closet.
This storage room was filled with death.
Why had he kept them if not to allow them to keep their dignity? Mirage didn't know. Mirage didn't want to know.
When things settled, when the treaty was done and the truce laid and they could begin rebuilding, Mirage hoped tending to this room would become one of the first items on the list. He would lobby for it if he had to. He would beg, on hands and knees, in front of Optimus. He doubted such drastic actions would be necessary, but he was prepared.
No Autobot deserved this fate. None.
He scanned the fallen Autobots again, taking note of every single one. Some were harder to recognize than others, but he would compile a list all the same. Jazz would appreciate it. He'd told Mirage not to come down here just yet but...
He had to know.
And then... there. His optics spotted a familiar shape. Mirage's ventilations hitched and he stepped over an outstretched arm toward the sprawled form. His spark convulsed as he sank to his knees, hands lifted but only skating within inches of the gray plating.
He knew what Megatron had done. Soundwave informed Mirage that Megatron killed Tracks, but he'd still needed to see for himself.
No helm. His chestplate was a shattered ruin. He'd only been recognizable by his spoiler, the beautiful faux-wings that had once been so ticklish.
Mirage's intake tightened.
They should have bonded. Perhaps if they had, Mirage would have known that Tracks was alive and vice versa. But Tracks had been on Skyfire, and it had always seemed that no one survived Skyfire's death. Mirage had believed that, to the depths of his spark.
He should have looked. By Primus, he should have dug through the crash site, on hands and knees, to confirm.
Maybe he would have found Tracks. Maybe even before Megatron. Maybe he could have prevented this.
“I do not blame you, sweetspark,” Mirage murmured, finally settling for taking a gray hand into his. It was not damaged, but cold to the touch.
First Shockwave, Mirage had been told. Shockwave had been fascinated by the triple-changer who wasn't. By the Autobot who could fly as a car, but not in root mode, and who was not a flight mech. And once he was bored, the Stunticons.
Five of them. Five monsters. Three had lived through Jazz's assault on Decepticon headquarters and Ultra Magnus' assault on Earth. Three currently rotted away in the brig.
Thanks to Cliffjumper, their guards were now more vigilant. Even if he wanted to, Mirage could not do them harm. Not without anyone knowing who to blame.
Megatron was dead. It was not enough.
It would never be enough.
0o0o0
Rumble felt like he should be a lot happier. His family had survived the war. So had Bumblebee. There was a chance for them to reconcile, a chance he hoped to take.
But it was awkward, so very awkward, and there were all these lines between them now. Gulleys he couldn't yet cross.
He had never been so aware of the Decepticon badge on his ventral plate. Or the fact that Bumblebee still carried his Autobot badge, as carefully restored on his chestplate as the rest of the paint on his frame.
When he sat down next to Bee, he'd offered the yellow mech an energon cube. Bumblebee had taken it, but Rumble did not miss the fact he sniffed it and dipped a finger in to test it before he was willing to consume it. Rumble did not blame him, and he buried the hurt that it caused.
They weren't anywhere near where they should be for trust, no matter what Soundwave had done to help procure Autobot freedom.
“What are ya gonna do now?” Rumble asked, a desperate bid to break the silence.
Bumblebee stared out over the Decepticon base. “Whatever Optimus wants us to do. Maybe leave. Maybe stay.” He sipped at his cube. “Who knows? With the Neutrals lurking about, we might not have a choice.”
Rumble made a noncommittal noise. He followed Bumblebee's line of sight. The questioned lingered on the tip of his glossa. He thought to ask it, but instead, veered off into other territory.
“Soundwave released us,” he said. “Or tried to anyway. But we like him. So I guess we're goin' to stick with 'im.”
Other than Blaster, Bumblebee was probably the only one who knew what Rumble meant by that. The bond between carrier and cassette was a unique construct that few understood. It was complicated and necessary and important. But it still granted the cassette a certain form of autonomy.
Or if Soundwave had his way, complete autonomy. But Rumble and Frenzy had discussed it and decided, for now, maybe better to stick with Soundwave. They couldn't run the risk of a Neutral carrier sniffing about and mucking up their dynamic.
“And what's Soundwave going to do?”
Rumble blinked. “What?”
Bumblebee shifted to look at him, his optics unreadable. “Is this alliance with Starscream a one-time thing? Or is he going to be happy reporting to Starscream for the foreseeable future.”
Rumble shivered, a cold draft whispering down his spinal strut. “One time thing. The boss still don't like Starscream, no matter how useful he was.” It was hard to keep the disgust from his tone.
Starscream and Soundwave had united for the express purpose of freeing the Decepticons from Megatron's control. But there was no love lost between them. Soundwave backed Starscream because he would be a better leader than Megatron. But that wasn't saying much. If Soundwave had any interest in leadership, he would have bid for the position himself. But he didn't.
He always preferred the shadows.
“What's he going to do?”
Rumble shrugged. “I don't know. But he's got a plan. Soundwave always has a plan.” Rumble wasn't too worried about it. He trusted Soundwave to know what was best for all of them.
Even if allying with Megatron had turned out to be a huge mistake. In the beginning, however, they'd all agreed. Every last one of the them. The Decepticons were the better option. Megatron was the better option.
Things changed. Mechs changed. The war changed.
“Must be nice,” Bumblebee murmured. He finished his energon, handing the empty cube back to Rumble who tucked it into his subspace for now.
The Decepticons were sharing their energon stores with the Autobots. Rebuilding the space bridge was going to take some time. Luckily, Megatron had been something of a hoarder and they had plenty for now. Worse came to worse, and they could always send Blast Off to Earth, since Blitzwing and Astrotrain were both dead.
Rumble fidgeted. There was no use in delaying. He might as well go for it.
“What about us?” he asked.
Bumblebee's gaze swung toward him with a startled look. “There is no 'us'.”
“There used to be,” Rumble replied, daring to scoot closer, where he could detect the thinnest edges of Bumblebee's field. Not that there was much to sense. Jazz had taught him far too well, filling in the gaps in his education that Rumble and Frenzy had left behind.
Bumblebee said nothing. His face betrayed nothing. Whatever was going on in his processor, Rumble didn't know. The time when he used to be able to guess what Bumblebee was thinking was a long time past.
“I want there to be an 'us' again,” Rumble continued and he audibly cycled a ventilation. “All I wanna know is, if I tried, would you try, too? Or am I playing an unspooled tape here? You want I should walk away and never look back?”
Bee's optics dimmed as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “There's a lot of history, Rumble.”
It wasn't a 'no.' It wasn't him saying to get lost. It was a start.
Rumble shrugged. “So we start over. Start fresh. Do whatever, I don't care. I just don't wanna lose ya again.”
“And if Optimus decides we leave Cybertron and Soundwave decides to stay here? What then?”
“I guess I'll have to make a choice.” Rumble reached for Bumblebee's hand and when the yellow mech didn't immediately pull back or decline, he took it. “And this time, I'll make sure it's the right one.”
His thumb swept over Bumblebee's palm, feeling the smooth and fresh paint. Every bit of Bumblebee gleamed in the night cycle lighting.
Bumblebee cycled a ventilation, his field briefly touching Rumble's and tasting of a mix of hesitation, relief, and longing. And then he ever so gently pulled his hand from Rumble's and pushed to his pedes, his plating ruffling before it settled around him.
“I need to think about it,” he said. “There's a lot... there are other factors. I just... I need to think, Rumble.” He paused and rubbed a hand down his face. “I'm not saying that I don't want to, okay. I'm not.”
Rumble shook his helm. “Bee, it's okay. I get it.”
Some of the tension eased out of Bumblebee's shoulders. He looked down at Rumble and the smile he offered made Rumble's spark flutter.
“I'll comm you?” Bee offered.
Rumble grinned. “Sure. I'll be waiting on it.”
He'd wait as long as it took.
****
a/n: And now we're shifting into the "After" where I start to lead into the sequels of recovery.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/314842.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Characters: Optimus, Jazz, Ratchet, Starscream, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock, Wheeljack, Mirage, Rumble, Bumblebee
Referenced Pairings: Ratchet/Wheeljack, Mirage/Tracks, Rumble/Bumblebee
Rating: M
Warnings this chapter: referenced character death and rape, angst
Commission fic for NK
Mood Music: "The Scar," Broken Iris
Oubliette
Chapter Fifteen
It was over so quickly that by the time Optimus emerged from the back end of Shockwave's laboratory, there was nothing but clean up to be had. Which was good, because the moment he heard that Megatron was dead, that Grimlock had ripped out his spark chamber, Optimus' processor tripped into stasis lock and he crumpled into a heap, right then and there. His redlining energon levels might have had something to do with it, too.
For the next several cycles, he was in and out of consciousness in a medbay. He heard snatches of conversation, picked up bits and pieces of the goings on.
One time, he awoke to the knowledge that, at the moment, Ultra Magnus and Grimlock and Starscream were in charge. It was almost enough to give him spark palpitations until a dented but very much alive Ratchet shuffled over to give him another sedative and Optimus sunk back into blissful sedation.
He didn't dream. He was glad for it.
The next time Optimus onlined, it was to the same ceiling as before. He was in a medbay, but a quick check of his extremities proved that he was no longer shackled at any of his joints and a touch to his intake proved that the collar was gone. Another systems scan showed him at nearly full health with a fully functional communications system and transformation cog.
Megatron must have kept it as a souvenir rather than destroy it.
He wasn't alone. Jazz was recharging in the chair next to him, half slumped over Optimus' berth. He'd changed his paint and his armor so that he no longer resembled Ricochet and the sight of him sent an ache of guilt through Optimus.
He was content to let Jazz recharge and let himself bask in the novel concept of freedom. Exhaustion still weighed heavily on his frame and he knew he only had a short time before recharge claimed him again.
But then Jazz woke, probably sensing the shift in his resting patterns, and offered Optimus a tired grin. He patted Optimus' hand and Optimus did his best not to flinch. He wasn't much a fan of physical contact and hated himself for being relieved when Jazz tucked his hands back in his lap and didn't try again.
Optimus wasn't really up for conversation, but Jazz didn't seem to mind. He was content to fill in the silence with babble and Optimus was content to listen. He would fall back into recharge eventually, but that was okay.
They'd won, Jazz said. It was the first thing he said actually, not that there was much cheer in his vocals. They'd lost too much to really call it a victory. But, Jazz pointed out, it was better than dying or remaining a slave.
Megatron was dead, well and truly dead. They'd melted his frame down because there was no one desperate enough to use him for spare parts. Others had died with him, those that refused to surrender or were damaged in the explosions Trailbreaker and Smokescreen had so carefully put into place.
Optimus listened to the names and felt dull. Dirge and Ramjet. Wildrider and Dead End. Astrotrain. Roller Force and Ground Hog. Other names he didn't recognize. Names he couldn't match to faces. A lot of grunts.
Starscream had assumed command of the Decepticons with Soundwave assisting him. Anyone who didn't want to listen to him had been thrown into the Decepticon brig. Jazz was vague as to their future fate, and a part of Optimus didn't want to know. After all, it wasn't his place to say anything anymore.
There was also rumor that Grimlock was vying for leadership of the Decepticons, claiming it as his right for killing Megatron. Few were disputing him. Even, strangely, Starscream. Nothing had come of the rumor yet. Jazz was keeping an optic on it.
Several Decepticons were allowed to walk free. Optimus was surprised to hear that the Combaticons were among them. They'd been the ones who owned Bluestreak, though they'd taken care of him and never used him like the others. They'd protected Bluestreak.
“They were pretty much slaves themselves,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Made 'em lose the taste for it. All they wanted was for that code to be stripped out of 'em. Not sure if they're going to stay with Starscream though.”
Optimus couldn't blame them. Starscream was not Megatron, but that did not make him the better choice by default. Starscream might have been the one to free them from Shockwave's spark prison, but only so he could make use of their talents. Then, his failure proceeded to add another punishment onto what was already a disorientating experience.
Jazz kept telling him not to worry, too. That they had everything under control. That Ratchet had booted the Constructicons into the Decepticon brig and stripped the medbay of useful instruments, fixed up First Aid, and with Wheeljack's help, the three of them had been getting everybody back into working order.
He worried, Jazz admitted, about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Whatever Shockwave had done to them had left them shadows of their formal selves. They couldn't be separated from each other anymore. Sunstreaker had nightmares and Sideswipe had nearly ripped out Jazz's throat when Jazz had freed them.
None of those imprisoned by the Decepticons had left the medbay yet. Well, except for Bluestreak. Bumblebee had never been in Decepticons hands, though he'd been treated for malnutrition and general ill maintenance.
And did Optimus know that Bumblebee and Rumble were old lovers? No? Well, he knew now. It was both adorable and odd, but Jazz wasn't going to get in the middle of it. Every little alliance counted.
Things were tense, Jazz admitted. Starscream didn't know the meaning of tact, and Grimlock knew, but didn't bother with it. Jazz had never wanted to be this kind of leader, but everyone was looking to him for answers. And Ultra Magnus was twitchy, his team of Autobots having trouble meshing with Optimus' Autobots.
“You're not mine anymore,” Optimus tried to protest.
Jazz just popped an orbital ridge at him. “We'll talk about that later, boss,” he said.
The fatigue clawed at Optimus again. He felt his optical shutters drooping. He was exhausted, strut-deep, but it was a welcome fatigue. It was a healing fatigue. He apologized for drifting off, but Jazz just patted the berth in lieu of patting him.
“Recharge, OP,” he said with a tight smile. “Trust me. I'll watch over ya. Won't nothin' happen while I’m here. Promise.”
Jazz's field nudged gently against his, and it was so welcome, so familiar, that Optimus fell into recharge.
The next time Optimus onlined, he felt more like himself. The fatigue was gone as was the sense of unreality and he wanted nothing more than to be out of the berth. There were things to do. He had a responsibility. He needed to know what he'd missed.
He needed to know if the Autobots still trusted him to lead them. If they even needed a leader. They weren't at war anymore. There was no more need for factions. Except Optimus wasn't so naïve as to think that the separation and badges had been abandoned. Not after what Megatron had done.
He onlined his optics and glanced around the room. Jazz was no longer here, though that came as no surprise to Optimus. A quick check to his chronometer showed that he'd been out for several days. It would have been arrogant to expect Jazz to linger that long.
He also had no more monitoring wires connected to his frame. He was, by all accounts, free to get up and go about his business. If only he could bring himself to swing his legs over the side of the berth.
He didn't know what to expect when he walked out the doors. It was strangely intimidating and Optimus could not remember the last time he'd been so hesitant. It was disconcerting to be this anxious, and Optimus did not like it. Had Megatron broken him so thoroughly?
The door opened and Optimus startled, his helm swinging toward it. The tension bled out of him, however, when the familiar red and white of his CMO eased into the room. Ratchet looked much better than the last time Optimus saw him. Gone were the shackles and the collar. He'd been repaired, the dents and scuffs and scrapes gone from his paint. He carried himself a bit taller as well.
“I figured you'd be awake by now,” Ratchet said as he approached the berth, datapad in hand. He cast about for a seat and drew a backless stool, perching himself on it. “How are you feeling?”
What a loaded question.
Optimus hauled himself upright. There was a slight ache in his frame, but he recognized it as the heat and discomfort of healing. It would pass, he suspected, with movement. He needed to be up and about, no longer berthbound.
As for how he felt, well, Optimus wasn't sure there was a simple answer to that question.
“Repaired,” he answered. His gaze met Ratchet's. “You?”
“The same,” Ratchet admitted. He fiddled with his datapad and rolled his shoulders. “You're onboard the Xantium right now. I didn't think you would appreciate waking in the Constructicon medbay.”
“Nor would you enjoy working there.”
Ratchet ex-vented audibly. “There is that.” A shadow filled his optics and Optimus knew it had to reflect in his own. “They're in the brig right now, but if Starscream has his way, it won't be for long. The fragger's right. We do need them.” He sounded bitter and Optimus couldn't blame him.
“There are very few of us left,” Optimus murmured. “Starscream would be correct. It is an unfortunate necessity.”
“Pah. I didn't need you to tell me that.” Ratchet rolled his optics before he focused on Optimus again, tilting his helm. “You're fully repaired, Optimus. It's up to you what to do next. Except for the Dinobots, no one's felt comfortable being so close to the Decepticons so we're all sharing space on the Xantium. It's crowded but...” Here he shrugged again, the distance returning to his optics. “There are worse things.”
Indeed.
Optimus nodded. That was when his tank choose to gurgle and he pressed a hand over it. His energy levels only read forty percent. Curious.
Ratchet presented him a cube of energon, perhaps pulled from subspace. “Your tanks won't be able to handle full capacity for a while. Sip on this.”
“Thank you.” Optimus peered at the energon, which appeared to be standard mid-grade. It gave off the sweet scent of it as well. “Where is Jazz?”
“Ah.” The medic winced. “There was an incident. He had to leave to address it.” Ratchet's weight shifted, the stool creaking beneath him. “One of our Autobots executed a Decepticon.”
Optimus blinked. “What?”
Ratchet sighed and rose from his stool, rubbing a hand down his faceplate. “Sideswipe was redlining again. It was only after I managed to get him stabilized, that I noticed that Cliffjumper had left his berth. It wasn't until Jazz commed me that I knew where he'd gone. Straight to the brig. I don't even know where he got the blaster from. Or how he managed to get off the fragging berth.”
“Who was it?”
“I can't blame him, Optimus. None of us do. Primus knows that if I'd been damaged half as much as Cliff was when we found him, well, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot who did that to me either.” Ratchet's entire frame was tense. “No one can tell me Blitzwing didn't deserve what he got.”
Optimus' optics widened. His ventilations caught.
Oh, yes. He remembered Blitzwing.
But when had Cliffjumper been taken? Megatron had never announced this! He'd never taunted Optimus with the knowledge. He'd never made a show out of finding and capturing Cliffjumper. Optimus hadn't even known Cliffjumper was alive!
Optimus shuddered and bowed his helm. As much as he wished to think otherwise, a part of him agreed with Ratchet. Was a mech who thought it was okay to do that to another even capable of being redeemed? But then, were the Constructicons any better?
And Cliffjumper! He was smaller even than Optimus. How had the triple-changers not killed him? Optimus dreaded to think of it.
He worked his intake. “Where is Cliffjumper now?”
“Here. In Isolation. Frankly, he shouldn't have been able to get off the berth.” Ratchet signed. “The Decepticons are in an uproar, both those in the brig and those who agreed to Starscream's leadership. Unfortunately, they have a point.”
Optimus pressed his lips together and abruptly forced himself to his pedes. His legs held his weight, though his knees wobbled. The sharp motion made his processor spin but a quickly cycled ventilation forced everything back into equilibrium.
Ratchet whirled toward him. “What are you doing?”
“I have responsibilities. I cannot continue to hide in this medbay.” Optimus offered Ratchet a smile and only then did he realize the medic couldn't see it because he had his blast mask. Ratchet had returned that to him as well.
Optimus touched it with his fingers, the better to reassure himself that it existed. He had a defense against the world again.
“Optimus, you're in no state of mind to be dealing with those idiots out there,” Ratchet said, shaking his helm. “If it weren’t for the fact that so many of us were in terrible condition, I'd be holed up on a berth, too!”
Optimus inclined his helm, allowing his field to extend to Ratchet, who was looking more frazzled by the minute. “I am more than capable of a little conversation if you are capable of tending to our needs, Ratchet. I will be fine.”
Ratchet twitched, his field rippling with an irritation that was so familiar to Optimus, it was a comfort. It was like being in the Ark's medbay all over again, Ratchet's hands planted on his hips as he berated one of the Autobots for behaving against medical advice. Ratchet glared, pinning Optimus down with the force of it, but then it was gone in the next second, replaced by resignation.
“Fine,” Ratchet said and he stomped to the door. It opened ahead of him and he gestured to the hallway. “Have at it. They're meeting in the command room. Two doors down.”
“Thank you.” Optimus paused next to his medic, reading the unease and discomfort in Ratchet's field. He thought he ought to offer words, perhaps comfort, but he did not know if any of it would be welcome.
“Please think also of yourself,” Optimus said instead and he slipped past Ratchet into the hallway.
The medic snorted behind him. “Same to you, boss.” There was, in his words, a hint of the Ratchet Optimus remembered so well. Perhaps the Decepticons hadn't completely destroyed them.
Optimus followed Ratchet's directions down the deserted hallway. He passed two doors, neither of which were labeled, until he found the one that was. The door had to be thick, but even so, he could hear raised voices, though the words were indistinguishable. He tapped at the panel, and it opened to him without requiring a code.
As it slid open, Optimus was bombarded with noise.
“--unacceptable!” Starscream's distinctive vocal tones snapped. “I don't care what your justifications are.”
“I need only look into the medbay to see justification,” Ultra Magnus retorted, his plating ruffled with offense.
The room was full to the brim with energy fields, almost suffocating. Optimus had to steel himself before he stepped inside.
“And we should all suffer for the mistakes of those too stupid not to listen to Megatron?” Starscream snarled. His hands slammed onto the table. “By that argument, there are none of us innocent. We've all been party to the destruction of Cybertron and the death of millions. None of us are blameless.”
“We are not talking about the war,” Ultra Magnus stated, his optics narrowing. “We are talking about the gross mistreatment of prisoners, a treatment that defied both Cybertronian law and galactic law. We are legally allowed to seek redress in whatever manner we see fit.”
Starscream's wings went rigid, snapping upward. “Execution is not acceptable!” It was near a shriek.
“Allow me Grimlock solitude with Shockwave and see what me Grimlock finds acceptable,” Grimlock growled, his visor darkening with threat.
Primus. Clearly, Optimus had arrived just in time. He cycled his vocalizer and revved his engine, flaring the tattered remnants of his field to capture their attention. Sharp and cutting, none of them could ignore it.
Three helms swung his direction, though none of them were mollified.
“Optimus Prime, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, jerking to his pedes. “I apologize. I did not realize you were cleared from the medbay.”
Starscream barked a laugh. “Because he's not. Ratchet told me he won't be cleared for another few days.”
“Judging by the argument I witnessed, I cannot afford to stay in the berth that long,” Optimus said coolly. He stared at Starscream long enough for the Seeker to ruffle his plating and subside. “I may not be Prime, but I still have a responsibility. I am here to offer my opinion as well.”
“Great. Just what I need. Another Autobot.” Starscream sneered and threw himself back into his chair, arms folded over his chest.
Grimlock growled. “Me Grimlock not Autobot.” His armor rustled and only then did Optimus notice that the Autobot badges were gone from Grimlock's plating.
He couldn't blame Grimlock, he supposed. The Autobots had left him and his team behind on Earth. Grimlock probably blamed Optimus for what happened as well. Still, Optimus made a mental note to speak with Grimlock later, preferably when they could have some privacy.
“Oh, my mistake.” Starscream's vocals were a purr, but there was threat beneath him. “I must have been confused considering you spent the entirety of the war shooting fire at my aft.”
“I trust you are well, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, perhaps in a desperate bid to shift the conversation back to something more appropriate.
Optimus cast him a thin, grateful smile. “Well enough.” There was one empty seat and he lowered himself into it. “I understand that there was an incident? And I gather that we are unable to come to an accord regarding how to handle it?”
Starscream's optics narrowed. “As I've stated repeatedly, yes, there is a certain portion of the Decepticons who treated the Autobots poorly. Yes, I understand that there is nothing you'd like more than to line them up and shoot out their sparks. But no, I'm not going to allow it. Those mechs are mine. I will decide what to do with them.”
“They committed crimes against Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said, sinking back into his chair. “Therefore they should be tried in an Autobot court.”
“An unfair court, of course.” Starscream snorted. His field buzzed with irritation. “My answer is still 'no'.”
“All me Grimlock want is Shockwave.” Grimlock's field aggressively pulsed through the room. “Me Grimlock don't care about the rest.”
Optimus drummed his fingers on the table, trying not to wince. He needed to steer this into civil territory before it devolved back into war. “Have we signed a truce?”
Starscream barked a laugh.
Ultra Magnus sighed. “There is some... disagreement as to who is legally and legitimately allowed to sign a treaty.” He gestured toward Starscream. “He maintains he is leader of the Decepticons while Grimlock claims it as his right for terminating Megatron and surprisingly, several Decepticons back him.”
It made sense. The Deceptions were highly hierarchical and valued strength over anything else. Given the number of times Starscream had tried and failed to lead a mutiny, it was not a stretch to guess that the surviving Decepticons might choose to follow a leader who had actually succeeded on the first try. There were few Cybertronians in the war who did not recognize Grimlock for the danger he was.
“And your Prime no longer has the Matrix,” Starscream snapped, his field reeking of offense. “Which means he's not a Prime. He has no authority.”
“By that argument, there is no leader of the Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said and his field spiked as his engine thrummed slowly. His hand formed a fist on the table.
Starscream's lips pulled into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Precisely.”
Optimus inclined his helm. “I will not deny that I do not carry the Matrix. Or that it was destroyed, but to argue that the Autobots are leader-less would be incorrect. We do not need a Prime to guide us.” He gestured toward Ultra Magnus. “By order of ascension, in my absence, Ultra Magnus is commander.” Not, as many would have believed, Prowl. Though Prowl would have temporarily taken command had Ultra Magnus been out of contact.
Ultra Magnus shook his helm, his field retreating from the room so fast Optimus reeled. “No, sir. I am willing to stand in temporarily, but you are my leader, Matrix or not. I cannot think of a single Autobot who will argue otherwise.”
Starscream rolled his optics. “What you want doesn't matter. We're talking legalities here. Do you want a truce that is legitimate or one that can be questioned by any Cybertronian who returns? There are the Neutrals to consider.”
Optimus blinked. “What Neutrals?”
Ultra Magnus sighed. Grimlock growled. Even Starscream looked irritated. This, it seemed, was something they all agreed on.
“Their ship touched down yesterday,” Ultra Magnus explained. He rubbed his forehelm, suddenly looking exhausted. “It was staffed by a half-dozen Neutrals and their leader, a mech by the name of Metalhawk, intends to stake a claim of Cybertron.”
“It's preposterous,” Starscream spat, his wings twitching. He unfolded his arms and leaned over the table, crimson optics blazing. “Both Autobots and Decepticons outnumber them, separately and together for now. But if more come? We're all fragged.”
“Then why are you fighting the treaty?” Optimus asked.
“I'm not!” Starscream growled and there was a click-click as his thrusters spun up angrily. “But I'm not going to be trapped by an invalid treaty either. And I'm not going to get the short end of the stick.”
Optimus' helm started to ache.
“You Starscream stubborn,” Grimlock said. He waved a clawed hand at the Seeker. “Why not you Starscream just say what you want?”
Starscream snorted. “Yeah. Cause it's that simple.”
“Actually, I have to agree with Grimlock.” Optimus leaned back in his chair and cycled a ventilation. He suddenly understood why Ratchet hadn't wanted to let him free of the medbay. This was more exhausting than battle. “What do you want, Starscream? What means of leadership would be acceptable?”
Starscream stared at him as though he'd just walked into the room with cosmic rust or something equally implausible. Had no one ever asked him what he wanted before?
Starscream leaned back on his chair. “Give me a legitimate means of appointing an Autobot leader, one that can be backed up with tradition or history or credible proof, and I'll accept whoever you want to sit in front of me.”
Optimus inclined his helm. “Thank you, Starscream. And after, you will consent to discussing the treaty?”
“If,” Starscream bit out, “I have resolved the leadership of my own faction.”
One helmache traded for another.
“There is precedent,” Ultra Magnus began slowly, “that a popular vote can serve as a stand in to select a Prime-elect. Will that suffice temporarily until a new government charter can be written?”
Starscream waved a hand of dismissal. “Whatever. So long as a Neutral isn't screaming about it, I don't care. Just make it legit.”
Well, there was one problem handled. Optimus had the feeling there were going to be a dozen more on the table.
They all had a long road ahead of them.
-INTERLUDE-
He'd thought getting Ratchet to recharge and refuel properly during the war was difficult. Wheeljack knew now that it was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.
He could hardly blame Ratchet. Without suppressants, every night was unpleasant for Ratchet. Recharge became a torture rather than a balm. Wheeljack's presence was no quick fix, no soothing and immediate balm. If anything, sharing a berth made Ratchet even more uncomfortable.
He never slept alone, Ratchet had admitted while unable to meet Wheeljack's optics, staring off into the distance, his hands wringing together. He always shared a berth with whosoever's turn it happened to be. Every Constructicon had their quirk.
Hook, Ratchet whispered, was the worse.
So most nights, Wheeljack let Ratchet have the berth to himself. He stayed nearby, often powering down on the floor just to be close. That way Ratchet could taste his field, could reach out for him if he wanted. Could know, in an instant, that he was safe and that it was Wheeljack beside him, not one of his Constructicon rapists.
Wheeljack had learned, too, after the first time he'd pulled Ratchet into his arms, that he could no longer take such things for granted. He asked now. He held out a hand, offering it, like one might show their palm to an untamed turbofox. Sometimes, Ratchet accepted it. Sometimes, Ratchet gave him this bleak look, like it hurt him to turn away, to say no. To go off in a corner and shudder while Wheeljack could only turn away and hate.
The Constructicons were still alive and in those moments, Wheeljack felt a keen understanding for Cliffjumper. A part of him wanted nothing more than to stride into the Constructicons' quarters and shoot every last one of them. Twice. One in the helm; one in the spark. And if that wouldn't work, he had a few explosives left over that should do the trick.
The anger came, as it always did, vile and poisonous and Wheeljack let it roll through him. Let it fill his spark with rage.
And then he ex-vented and let it out. His anger wouldn't help Ratchet.
Wheeljack couldn't remember a time he felt so helpless. It had been bad enough, out there alone in Cybertron's ravaged landscape, not knowing where Ratchet was. They'd been separated in the crash, had lost contact due to the lack of a functioning communication system.
All of the Autobots had scattered when their respective transports had crashed. Poor Omega Supreme, he'd never had a chance once the entire might of the Decepticon airforce cornered him and all the others.
Wheeljack had looked for Ratchet. It had been his first priority. But there was so much chaos. Smoke and fire and spilled energon and people shouting and no one knew if Prime was alive or dead. No one knew what happened except a single realization.
The humans had betrayed them.
Wheeljack didn't think it was that simple. He suspected there was more than a little Decepticon treachery going on. But he didn't have time to think about it. He only had time to run and hide, to try and regroup and come up with a plan.
He'd known Ratchet had survived the crash. His spark told him that much. But it couldn't tell him where Ratchet was. Wheeljack couldn't go back and look either because the Decepticons had poked through the wreckage and took what they could back to their new base. They'd left nothing to chance. They'd been smart.
He hadn't seen Ratchet again until the broadcast, when Megatron had shown everyone within receiving range that he'd caught the Autobot Chief Medical Officer. Wheeljack had been filled with rage then, watching Megatron so casually assault his partner. His only relief had been when Megatron did not execute Ratchet as he had Ironhide and Inferno.
So long as Ratchet was alive, there was hope.
And now here they were. Ratchet was alive, but he was hurting in ways Wheeljack could not easily soothe. He did not know how to help Ratchet, and Ratchet wouldn't tell him.
It was painful to watch Ratchet push himself. He should be berth-bound just like his patients! He had just as many aches and pains, rough welds and repaired joints and struts, and damaged interfacing equipment. He'd been chained and hobbled and bound as well.
He pushed himself anyway. He was almost normal when he was yelling at Perceptor for disconnecting himself from the energon drip. When he berated Optimus for getting up to tend to business too soon, not that it did any good. The sound of his sharp chastisement was so welcome that Wheeljack ached when he heard it.
Still Ratchet paid no attention to his own health.
He was determined to repair everyone else first. Maybe as a distraction. Maybe as proof that he still could. Maybe he thought fixing them would fix himself. Wheeljack didn't know.
He didn't know this Ratchet anymore. This Ratchet was a stranger to him. A stranger he loved.
“Jack?”
“Hm?” He looked up from the transformation cog he was trying to repair. It was Sideswipe's. Shockwave had mangled it so badly Ratchet could not yet return it to Sideswipe's frame. They both despaired it would ever function again, but Wheeljack was going to do his best to try.
Ratchet looked at him, his face lined with fatigue, his optics dim from lack of charge. “You can go on to recharge,” he said. “You need it.”
So do you.
Wheeljack bit his glossa. “I'm okay,” he said. “I want to try and finish this first. But thanks for noticing.”
Ratchet offered him a tired smile. He tapped his fingers on the door frame and turned around, but not before Wheeljack noticed his knee wobble.
“Ratchet?”
“Yeah?” Another wobble as Ratchet half-turned toward him.
Wheeljack's spark ached. “You know I love you, right?” He so rarely said it Before. Now he regretted that.
“Never doubted it.” Ratchet's optics brightened by a degree. It wasn't much but considering his appearance as of late, it might as well have been a full-blown smile.
Ratchet turned and left, and Wheeljack watched him go. He was going to do whatever it took to help Ratchet, however much or however little Ratchet needed from him.
He'd been too late, too powerless to save Ratchet before. He wasn't going to make that same mistake again.
0o0o0
Mirage should not have been surprised, and yet, he was. The Decepticons had no sense of propriety, of right and wrong. Look at what they had done to their Autobot prisoners! Why would they have treated the dead with any dignity?
He supposed he should be glad that Megatron hadn't ordered them all into a smelter. Though it was arguable which was worse. The smelter or... this.
Mirage picked his way through the room carefully, the odor of death and decay so strong he'd disabled his olfactory sensors and closed his vents. His high-performance engine raced. He only had about ten minutes before he'd overheat.
He searched.
They'd been thrown in here, every last one of them. Every Autobot Megatron had killed, every one they'd located after the fact. Every frame that hadn't been smelted. Like gray trophies haphazardly tossed into a closet.
This storage room was filled with death.
Why had he kept them if not to allow them to keep their dignity? Mirage didn't know. Mirage didn't want to know.
When things settled, when the treaty was done and the truce laid and they could begin rebuilding, Mirage hoped tending to this room would become one of the first items on the list. He would lobby for it if he had to. He would beg, on hands and knees, in front of Optimus. He doubted such drastic actions would be necessary, but he was prepared.
No Autobot deserved this fate. None.
He scanned the fallen Autobots again, taking note of every single one. Some were harder to recognize than others, but he would compile a list all the same. Jazz would appreciate it. He'd told Mirage not to come down here just yet but...
He had to know.
And then... there. His optics spotted a familiar shape. Mirage's ventilations hitched and he stepped over an outstretched arm toward the sprawled form. His spark convulsed as he sank to his knees, hands lifted but only skating within inches of the gray plating.
He knew what Megatron had done. Soundwave informed Mirage that Megatron killed Tracks, but he'd still needed to see for himself.
No helm. His chestplate was a shattered ruin. He'd only been recognizable by his spoiler, the beautiful faux-wings that had once been so ticklish.
Mirage's intake tightened.
They should have bonded. Perhaps if they had, Mirage would have known that Tracks was alive and vice versa. But Tracks had been on Skyfire, and it had always seemed that no one survived Skyfire's death. Mirage had believed that, to the depths of his spark.
He should have looked. By Primus, he should have dug through the crash site, on hands and knees, to confirm.
Maybe he would have found Tracks. Maybe even before Megatron. Maybe he could have prevented this.
“I do not blame you, sweetspark,” Mirage murmured, finally settling for taking a gray hand into his. It was not damaged, but cold to the touch.
First Shockwave, Mirage had been told. Shockwave had been fascinated by the triple-changer who wasn't. By the Autobot who could fly as a car, but not in root mode, and who was not a flight mech. And once he was bored, the Stunticons.
Five of them. Five monsters. Three had lived through Jazz's assault on Decepticon headquarters and Ultra Magnus' assault on Earth. Three currently rotted away in the brig.
Thanks to Cliffjumper, their guards were now more vigilant. Even if he wanted to, Mirage could not do them harm. Not without anyone knowing who to blame.
Megatron was dead. It was not enough.
It would never be enough.
0o0o0
Rumble felt like he should be a lot happier. His family had survived the war. So had Bumblebee. There was a chance for them to reconcile, a chance he hoped to take.
But it was awkward, so very awkward, and there were all these lines between them now. Gulleys he couldn't yet cross.
He had never been so aware of the Decepticon badge on his ventral plate. Or the fact that Bumblebee still carried his Autobot badge, as carefully restored on his chestplate as the rest of the paint on his frame.
When he sat down next to Bee, he'd offered the yellow mech an energon cube. Bumblebee had taken it, but Rumble did not miss the fact he sniffed it and dipped a finger in to test it before he was willing to consume it. Rumble did not blame him, and he buried the hurt that it caused.
They weren't anywhere near where they should be for trust, no matter what Soundwave had done to help procure Autobot freedom.
“What are ya gonna do now?” Rumble asked, a desperate bid to break the silence.
Bumblebee stared out over the Decepticon base. “Whatever Optimus wants us to do. Maybe leave. Maybe stay.” He sipped at his cube. “Who knows? With the Neutrals lurking about, we might not have a choice.”
Rumble made a noncommittal noise. He followed Bumblebee's line of sight. The questioned lingered on the tip of his glossa. He thought to ask it, but instead, veered off into other territory.
“Soundwave released us,” he said. “Or tried to anyway. But we like him. So I guess we're goin' to stick with 'im.”
Other than Blaster, Bumblebee was probably the only one who knew what Rumble meant by that. The bond between carrier and cassette was a unique construct that few understood. It was complicated and necessary and important. But it still granted the cassette a certain form of autonomy.
Or if Soundwave had his way, complete autonomy. But Rumble and Frenzy had discussed it and decided, for now, maybe better to stick with Soundwave. They couldn't run the risk of a Neutral carrier sniffing about and mucking up their dynamic.
“And what's Soundwave going to do?”
Rumble blinked. “What?”
Bumblebee shifted to look at him, his optics unreadable. “Is this alliance with Starscream a one-time thing? Or is he going to be happy reporting to Starscream for the foreseeable future.”
Rumble shivered, a cold draft whispering down his spinal strut. “One time thing. The boss still don't like Starscream, no matter how useful he was.” It was hard to keep the disgust from his tone.
Starscream and Soundwave had united for the express purpose of freeing the Decepticons from Megatron's control. But there was no love lost between them. Soundwave backed Starscream because he would be a better leader than Megatron. But that wasn't saying much. If Soundwave had any interest in leadership, he would have bid for the position himself. But he didn't.
He always preferred the shadows.
“What's he going to do?”
Rumble shrugged. “I don't know. But he's got a plan. Soundwave always has a plan.” Rumble wasn't too worried about it. He trusted Soundwave to know what was best for all of them.
Even if allying with Megatron had turned out to be a huge mistake. In the beginning, however, they'd all agreed. Every last one of the them. The Decepticons were the better option. Megatron was the better option.
Things changed. Mechs changed. The war changed.
“Must be nice,” Bumblebee murmured. He finished his energon, handing the empty cube back to Rumble who tucked it into his subspace for now.
The Decepticons were sharing their energon stores with the Autobots. Rebuilding the space bridge was going to take some time. Luckily, Megatron had been something of a hoarder and they had plenty for now. Worse came to worse, and they could always send Blast Off to Earth, since Blitzwing and Astrotrain were both dead.
Rumble fidgeted. There was no use in delaying. He might as well go for it.
“What about us?” he asked.
Bumblebee's gaze swung toward him with a startled look. “There is no 'us'.”
“There used to be,” Rumble replied, daring to scoot closer, where he could detect the thinnest edges of Bumblebee's field. Not that there was much to sense. Jazz had taught him far too well, filling in the gaps in his education that Rumble and Frenzy had left behind.
Bumblebee said nothing. His face betrayed nothing. Whatever was going on in his processor, Rumble didn't know. The time when he used to be able to guess what Bumblebee was thinking was a long time past.
“I want there to be an 'us' again,” Rumble continued and he audibly cycled a ventilation. “All I wanna know is, if I tried, would you try, too? Or am I playing an unspooled tape here? You want I should walk away and never look back?”
Bee's optics dimmed as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “There's a lot of history, Rumble.”
It wasn't a 'no.' It wasn't him saying to get lost. It was a start.
Rumble shrugged. “So we start over. Start fresh. Do whatever, I don't care. I just don't wanna lose ya again.”
“And if Optimus decides we leave Cybertron and Soundwave decides to stay here? What then?”
“I guess I'll have to make a choice.” Rumble reached for Bumblebee's hand and when the yellow mech didn't immediately pull back or decline, he took it. “And this time, I'll make sure it's the right one.”
His thumb swept over Bumblebee's palm, feeling the smooth and fresh paint. Every bit of Bumblebee gleamed in the night cycle lighting.
Bumblebee cycled a ventilation, his field briefly touching Rumble's and tasting of a mix of hesitation, relief, and longing. And then he ever so gently pulled his hand from Rumble's and pushed to his pedes, his plating ruffling before it settled around him.
“I need to think about it,” he said. “There's a lot... there are other factors. I just... I need to think, Rumble.” He paused and rubbed a hand down his face. “I'm not saying that I don't want to, okay. I'm not.”
Rumble shook his helm. “Bee, it's okay. I get it.”
Some of the tension eased out of Bumblebee's shoulders. He looked down at Rumble and the smile he offered made Rumble's spark flutter.
“I'll comm you?” Bee offered.
Rumble grinned. “Sure. I'll be waiting on it.”
He'd wait as long as it took.
****
a/n: And now we're shifting into the "After" where I start to lead into the sequels of recovery.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/314842.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.