Camaraderie: The Secret-Keeper Part 5/5
Title: Camaraderie: The Secret-Keeper: Part 5/5 (because livejournal made me chop the post because it was too long)
Universe: Alignment/IDW AU, Camaraderie/Trinkets 'verse
Rating: PG-13, to be on the safe side
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Elita One, Wheeljack, Red Alert, Ratchet, Ironhide, Levitacus, Alpha Trion
Warning: woefully unbeta'd mentions of violence (semi-graphic), mentions of death, angst, bad bots doing bad things, explorations of sleep deprivation, sleep debt, and PTSD.
Notes: To everyone who has read and reviewed this story even while I was pretty much disappeared, thank you! Honestly, it pushed me to finish this chapter, because I had some real gnarly writer's block going on. This is the end of the Secret-Keeper arc, but definitely not the end of Camaraderie, or Trinkets for that matter! Actually, this last installment of Secret-Keeper is meant to set up the next chapter of Camaraderie so, yeah, hopefully it won't be another year before I post again (sheesh!) I apologize profusely once more for the heinous lateness of this, but better late than never, right? <-- sorry excuse for maximum failsauce.
:: official comms ::
[ private communication]
" verbal communication "
The doors to the officer's common room swished open, the gentle hydraulic hiss covering Jazz's sigh as he entered the room. Elita, Wheeljack and Ironhide were huddled over their datapads, while a camera drone sat primly in the center of the table, Red Alert's holographic image showing him to be doing the same.
"Is there anything in that requisition backlog from Brainstorm?" Wheeljack demanded from the room in general as he slid over on the couch to make room for Jazz.
"Um…yes." Elita looked curious. "There's three of them. Did you want to look them over?"
Wheeljack's indicators flashed a dull red-violet as contempt leaked into his expression. "Primus, no! Just go ahead and deny them and save yourself the trauma."
"Now Wheeljack," Elita shook her head chidingly, "be reasonable. I know you and he have your professional differences, but-"
"Is it for heptanitrocubane?"
Elita stared down at her pad, then gave Wheeljack a level look. "What is he doing?"
"He wants to use it in a new weapon."
"Oh. Well, that's not so…"
"He found a way to make heptanitrocubane crystals survive as a high-speed projectile."
"…I'm going to regret asking, but go ahead. "
Wheeljack sat his datapad aside and crossed his arms. "I developed HNC last century. I do not exaggerate when I say that it is one of-if not the most-volatile substances on Cybertron. It can be used as the accelerant in a thermonuclear reaction. Brainstorm got a hold of some at Kimia and found a way to stabilize it long enough to be fired in projectile form. Then he built a chaingun. The chaingun fires at a rate of 1,000 rounds an astrosecond. He used the HNC as ammo in the chaingun. Brainstorm made a chaingun that fires off miniaturized thermonuclear warheads."
There was an appalled silence.
Wheeljack's expression fell somewhere between weary and just plain done as he continued on. "Brainstorm is currently explaining himself-yet again-to the Ethics Committee. In the meantime, he's not allowed access to anything more volatile than water."
"Water? That's a bit…drastic, don't you think?" Ironhide asked.
Wheeljack's optics dimmed. "You do know what Brainstorm gets up to, don't you?"
"Primus." Red Alert muttered.
"Has nothing to do with what that mech produces, believe me." Wheeljack glanced over at Jazz, who had made himself comfortable and was scanning through his allotment of Prowl's backlog. "How is he?"
Jazz frowned. "Down and out. I knocked him a good one." He looked down at his datapad, studiously ignoring the looks that statement earned him.
[He's recharging?]
Jazz busied himself trading a few assignments with Ironhide before relying to Elita's private comm.
[Yeah. I kinda laid him out. I figured that it would be the easiest way to get him into recharge since he wasn't seeing reason. I…slag. I almost regret it. He immediately went into a processor-loop, and then an out-and-out flux-terror. I patched myself in when I realized it was a processor -loop, and stayed for the show.]
Elita considered him over the top of her pad for a second, then looked back down. [I figured dreaming, but hadn't thought things had degraded so far.]
[Holy slag, 'Lita. If I knew all I was going to be getting out of recharge were maybe five breems of rest and a no-holds-barred graphic demonstration of what happens when a rampaging combiner team with no morals or boundaries gets at a batch of helpless sparklings, I'd go head-first into a stim-cube, too.]
[Primus.] Elita shuddered inwardly. They'd found the video of Bruticus' rampage through the Youth Sector and Crystal Gardens. Red Alert had been appalled to discover that the footage he'd salvaged had been viewed by Prowl. He'd thought it would be seen to by Jazz or Ultra Magnus-the last thing anyone had expected, from Optimus on down, was for Prowl to remain on active duty.
[Ratchet's gonna kill me when he eventually finds out, but I did some rudimentary hacking into Prowl's processor. Just enough to force an actual data purge so I could try and stop the processor-loop. I would've done more if I could, but deeper than that and I could've triggered his defenses and wound up shredding both our processors. He's getting some actual honest-to-goodness recharge at the moment.]
[Which means he gets to wake up and deal with the joys of a stim-crash.] Elita sent him the mental equivalent of a sigh. [We giving in and bringing Ratchet in on this?]
Jazz didn't reply for a long moment, weighing their options. They'd bluffed Prowl into standing down without actually filing a 1080, and Magnus hadn't gone to Prime yet, thankfully. Nor would he, according to his last message, so long as Elita and Jazz got Prowl back in line before the situation devolved further. The only problem was that a stim-run meant withdrawal, which more than likely meant more dreams, in Prowl's case. The only one guaranteed to be able to put a stop to the dreaming was Ratchet. The thing was, dealing with Ratchet ran the risk of a data trail that ended with one tactician actually kicked out of his position, and the resultant decimation of the command chain. Fragging High Command. He was going to have to put his head together with Red and figure out what to do with that band of useless power-hungry slag-heaps.
[Is there a way to keep Ratchet from filing a report?]
[Nope.]
Jazz was quiet for another long moment. [You and I both know Ratchet has little to no tolerance for High Command. Couldn't we-]
[No. Ratchet wouldn't be Ratchet if he quibbled on protocol.]
[Well, I guess that means we're going to be tampering with medical records, then.]
[That's a high-crime, you know.]
[You going to put your foot down?]
[Are you?]
[Nope.]
[So, before we go prancing off into felony-land, why don't we just try seizing the report?]
[Because Ratchet can smell politicking halfway across Cybertron. He won't stand for it if either of us tries anything. He's not exactly forgiven us for last time.]
Last time? Elita thought back, trying to remember what she could have done to earn Ratchet's ire, then sighed as her memory supplied the answer: Vesper Theta. The first casualty in quiet war between their cadre and High Command. Vesper Theta had been a nasty piece of work, concerned only with his own survival and status. He'd been one of the senators that fully supported the caste system-so much so that he'd tried to enforce that same system on the Autobot forces. It had been annoying to begin with, but when the mech had gone so far as to reassign the bots under their own command-namely those bots that would have been considered unskilled or even casteless under the old system-to the mines or factories, they'd decided enough was enough. They'd been tossing around the idea of assassination, but had been reluctant to cross the line into active hostility.
Then came the first attack on Iacon. Most of High Command had made it to safety before the Decepticons had even breached the outskirts of the city-state, but Vesper Theta had been on the Iacon Speedway when the Decepticons attacked, and had been badly wounded when the Decepticon Seekers slagged the Speedway to the Pit and back. Jazz and Elita had been overseeing evacuation and organization of the ground forces when the news that Vesper Theta was injured hit the network.
Jazz had immediately intercepted two medics who'd been prepared to go to the ruins of the Speedway to tend to Vesper Theta, and ordered them to remain with the first response teams handling the civilian and military casualties. She'd overheard, and stepped in to spin them a lovely little story about not being able to spare an escort and it being too dangerous for medics to go near the Speedway to ease their minds while Jazz quietly ordered Mirage to see to Vesper Theta.
Mirage had returned with a greyed out frame in tow and a spark-breaking story about just not being able to get to the poor mech in time. No one had thought twice about it. Except Ratchet. Ratchet had the uncanny ability to sniff out Jazz's slag, and after reviewing the med reports from the first responders and entirely unmoved attitudes of the senior officers present, he'd put two and two together and promptly ripped she and Jazz a new one, ending with a rather virulent diatribe about what he would do to them if they dared use medical as a staging ground for their maneuvering again.
Granted, this wasn't quite as dire as letting a member of High Command leak out in the rubble when even the most basic first aid could have saved him, but Ratchet was distrustful of their intentions when it came to medical unless it was mission related or involved them directly. And rightfully so. If they showed up and even hinted that they were after that report…yeah. That was going to be an ugly scene.
[Well, what if it's not us? He might not go on the defensive if someone else requests the report.]
Jazz mused over Elita's suggestion. [Yeah, but it's not like we've got a wide selection of bots that would actually have need for the report, to say nothing of the seniority to overrule him if he doesn't throw in with us.]
[This is such a ridiculous situation. It would all be so simple if we didn't have to worry about High Command.]
{One of these cycles…] Jazz broke that train of thought off. Too soon, too dangerous for that kind of thinking. But later, when they hopefully got things stable enough that High Command wasn't so necessary? Yeah…he was going to have a long think about what was and wasn't necessary to the Autobot cause anymore. But that was the future, and his immediate concern was protecting Prowl's health and position-Prowl's entire function revolved around the Autobot Cause, especially with Praxus gone. Primus knew that if High Command succeeded in removing Prowl, it would be just like they'd killed him.
[I know.] And she did. For all Jazz worried about what High Command would do to Prowl if given any sort of opening, she worried more about what would happen to Optimus if Prowl were removed. Because if those fraggers managed to remove Prowl, they would immediately turn to getting rid of the rest of them. They wouldn't be able to do much to her because she was bonded to Optimus, but it would be just her against them, and not an entire group dedicated to not letting them turn Optimus into another Sentinel Prime.
And they could. Sentinel Prime had been a good mech, once, as honorable and noble as one could hope for with any Prime, but he'd listened more to the Senate than his own spark, and it had been his downfall as they'd corrupted him more and more into a twisted reflection of their own greedy selfishness. Sentinel had been a stubborn thing, considerable more so than Optimus, and he'd eventually fell. Optimus meant well, but she didn't give a bolt for his chances without their cadre to offset High Command's negativity.
Scrap it all. They could just see who wanted to throw in with them on this little venture, then figure out how to make it work. Elita tossed her data-pad aside. "Alright gang. Show of hands. Who wants to screw over those batch of crusty afts in High Command?"
She and Jazz watched as everyone's hand went up.
"Who doesn't mind torqueing Ratchet off in the process?"
Everyone's hand went back down except for Ironhide and Wheeljack. Wheeljack's hand dropped to half its original height. "How torqued are we talking? Like, will I be needing to leave Iacon for a while?"
"Oh, definitely."
"I'm out." Ironhide dropped his hand. "I just got back, and with a few deserters and new recruits in tow. I can't leave the base anytime soon, not even to save my own aft."
Wheeljack's indicators pulsed a solid, determined red before he finished turning over whatever thought was in his processor and finally spoke. "I want a Favor. Completely open, no terms, no expiration."
Jazz and Elita exchanged looks.
Wholesale class uprising and planetary civil war being what it was, one of the first things to occur was total economic collapse. The markets crashed faster than a city-former attempting flight, the banks failed spectacularly seemingly overnight, and Cybertronian currency inflated to outrageous proportions before promptly imploding. Where once Cybertronian currency exchanged 1:1 on the galactic shanix, rates had finally bottomed out somewhere around 1,000:1 and were dwindling. The only thing of real value these days were energon, munitions, mineable resources, and Favors-the I.O.U. in its full glory. The previous three items were hard to come by and, almost always controlled by one faction or another.
Personal wealth at the end of the day was determined by how many cubes of energon you had in your subspace, the quality and quantity of your weapons and ammo, and how many favors you owed, and were owed in returned. Favors actually tended to be more valuable than any physical resource because of the raw potential they represented. Why trade a Favor in for a cube of energon or a shiny new weapon when you could instead use it as a means to extort more valuable things from a bot, or trade it off a Favor to someone else in return for lesser Favors from a variety of sources.
Getting a Favor from an officer-especially an open-ended Favor from one ranked as highly as Elita or Jazz-was the equivalent of hitting Jackpot on one of the slot machines of Monacus: a feat of such improbability as to be considered well and truly impossible, falling somewhere between Megatron and Optimus kissing and making up and Unicron returning as an emissary of love and justice.
Bots longed for those precious words. An easy-going "Do me a solid?" from Jazz or an amused, "Any takers?" from Chromia were sheer poetry. An "I got ya later" from Ironhide a jealously guarded bauble. Red Alert's "I'll take care of you" was a dream and Wheeljack's "I need a hand" a blessing. The rank and file fantasized about Ratchet saying, "I need a favor." The greenest recruit would charge a combiner team head-on for an open-ended Favor from Elita or Magnus, and they'd arm-wrestle Unicron for one from Prowl. There was a legend forming that Mirage had earned a Favor from Prime himself, and his comrades were torn between raw jealously and frank amazement because what had Mirage had to do to get it!?
"Frag no."
Wheeljack wasn't surprised in the least. Jazz was Director of Special Operations, and the kind of Favor he was good for carried some serious fragging weight behind it. He couldn't afford to give away the kind of Favor Wheeljack was angling for. He glanced over at Elita, who mulled it over for a few moments then nodded.
"Okay."
Jazz turned to face Elita with an incredulous look on his face. "You've got to be joking."
"No. I already owed him one for the care package he sent the last time my squad was stationed at Altihex, and another from that bailout at Perihex." Elita crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, making herself comfortable. "Wipe those two off your slate and throw in on this one, and you've got your Favor."
Wheeljack winced. He'd been holding on to those two for over an orn, hoping for just the right time to cash them in. Adding them towards the accumulation of a better Favor was a good move, but still…ouch. Wheeljack sighed and set his own data-pad aside. "Deal."
"You lucky fragger." Jaz shook his head in admiration and inclined his head toward the door. "Everyone who doesn't want to end up liable to Ratchet needs to clear out now."
"You're helping?" Wheeljack asked as the room emptied. Red Alert's camera drone skittered over to Jazz, who plucked it up and placed it in his lap. "Of course. You're just not getting a Favor of that caliber out of me."
"And you, Red?"
Red Alert's hologram flickered back to life. "Ratchet's patient records are stored on one of my secure networks. You'll need me if you want access to them. Jazz? This squares us for last decacycle."
"Fair enough. Let's talk business, 'Jack."
Ratchet scooted his chair away from Prowl's berth and pinned the other three occupants of the room with a truly foul look.
"I've managed to undo the processor loops, and he's going to be on medical-grade energon for the next metacycle, but he'll be fine. Miserable because he's still going to feel the withdrawal, but fine. We'll call that one a lesson learned. Now, do one of you want to explain to me why I had a stim-addled Praxian halfway to a processor meltdown on my hands?"
"Um….no? Not in particular, to be honest."
Wheeljack wilted under Ratchet's sneer and Elita's lips quirked in slight amusement before she buried it beneath her usual calm exterior.
"Here." Jazz tossed a woefully light box of stims to Ratchet, and the medic took in missing contents.
"You didn't-"
"Frag no!" Jazz denied quickly. "That was all Prowl."
"Humph. Idiot." Ratchet muttered, though his voice lacked much of its earlier vitriol. It was clear that out of everyone involved, Prowl was still in his good graces. That was probably only because he was also technically injured, and Ratchet liked perfectly hale and healthy victims. "Well, I'm not getting any answers out of that one anytime soon, so someone better start talking."
The three of them fell silent; they all knew that this conversation was coming, but they hadn't decided who was going to bite the proverbial bullet. Jazz stayed stubbornly quiet, as did Elita .Wheeljack eventually broke first, singing his little spark out. By the time he finally wound down, Jazz was giving the engineer a little glare of his own. He'd known Wheeljack would spill first-Ratchet was closer to Wheeljack then he or Elita and would know how to push the engineer's buttons until he got his answers with little to no trouble-but still. Jazz hadn't expected to be thrown under the transport quite so thoroughly.
Ratchet's glare turned poisonous as he processed the whole sordid affair. "Prowl I'll deal with once he's recovered, but you three…" He actually managed to loom over all of them, no matter that he was the only one sitting. "Keep your political maneuvering out. Of. My. Medbay."
Wheeljack shrugged. "This isn't the medbay, Ratch."
Of them all, only Elita didn't flinch when the medic slammed his fist down on the berth.
"Semantics! It doesn't change the fact you all were more concerned with protecting Prowl's position than getting him medical attention!"
"Not fair, doc." Elita shifted from her spot on the door to stand up straight as she finally weighed in on the conversation. "We didn't know the full extent of what was going on until last megacycle, and then we were mostly concerned with getting Prowl out of his office so we could actually help him."
"You could've just sent him to me."
"Like he'd actually go." Jazz muttered dourly.
Elita jumped back in when Ratchet opened his mouth for a no doubt scathing comment. "Look Ratchet, even if we'd managed to convince him to do that, do you think letting Iacon get a good look at him in this state is wise? That the refugees need to see just how bad off their Lord Marshall is?"
"That's still politics." Ratchet grumbled.
"Can you honestly tell us High Command wouldn't seize that opportunity to undermine Prowl?" Jazz threw his hands up in frustration. "They'd ruin the mech, and then turn on the rest of us-including you! By the time they got done, we'd be out on our afts and they'd be halfway to turning Optimus into another Sentinel Prime!'
Ratchet's expression darkened. He didn't like High Command any more than the rest of them, especially after having felt the effects of some of their selfish greed, but he preferred more of a "live and let live" ideology than the outright hostility the rest of his comrades tended to harbor. To Ratchet, they were no different than the sleazy Directors that had run Iacon General before the war and forever seemed to be more concerned with their own wealth and reputation than actually saving lives. "Believe me, I have plenty to say to High Command in my report, too."
Wheeljack braced himself for the explosion as he recognized his cue. "About that report, Ratch…"
"What?"
It was a both a question and a threat, and it took everything in Wheeljack not to shift so that he was slightly behind Jazz. Jazz lightly bumped him with his elbow in a show of support, sensing his reluctance. No intelligent being deliberately provoked Ratchet, which is exactly what they were doing. Well what Wheeljack was doing, though he didn't doubt that Ratchet would have them all suffering for it by the end.
"I'm officially confiscating it."
Ratchet's expression could've stripped hull plating. "You. WHAT?"
Not for the first time, Wheeljack wondered why Jazz or Elita hadn't simply used their own authority, had in fact asked just that. His explanation had boiled down to little more than a convoluted attempt to avoid alerting High Command to a cover-up and what Wheeljack suspected was an attempt to not end up directly in Ratchet's bad graces. Wheeljack had established precedent of confiscating med reports when it involved experimental devise to redact information for security.
Primus take him now.
Ratchet's voice was mild but so very deadly when he spoke again. "Jack, you aren't following in those two's footsteps and getting your politicking mixed up in my medbay, are you?"
"Yeah." Wheeljack shuddered at Ratchet's frown. "Look, I'm sorry, but it's necessary."
"Okay." Ratchet stood up and gave the three of them the fiercest glare he could muster. "Okay, fine. You and High Command can play your games, but the first time it affects one of my patients or hampers my work-"
"Now Ratch-"
The medic made an angry gesture, cutting Jazz off. "Save it, I don't care! What I do care about is that this is the second time you've turned medical into a tool for your own agenda. Last time a mech died, and Primus frag it all, I know you orchestrated it! I don't know what burns my aft more-you three pulling this stunt, or High Command for being a batch of rotten fraggers and making it necessary. It doesn't even matter anyway, because next time-and there'd better not be a next time-I'm getting involved, and I swear to Primus you'll all rue the cycle."
If he could have slammed the door, he would have. But all that marked his dire exit was a soft hydraulic hiss of the door controls.
The three conspirators held each other's gaze for a long time, then Wheeljack sighed, his helm indicators dim. "I'm a dead mech."
Prowl came back on-line slowly, his HUD scrolling through a veritable sea of error logs and system reports. He'd ignored them as long as possible before finally succumbing to recharge, and now he was forced to endure the torturously slow process. More horrifying was the medical notation that accompanied each one.
Idiot. This is why you don't consume a box of stims.
Aft. Did you think none of this was a cause for concern?
Moron.
Stupid slag-heap.
You and I are going to have words.
Something akin to fear stirred inside him. Ratchet had worked on him then. That meant Ratchet knew everything, and judging from the diatribe accompanying his boot cycle, the medic was far from pleased. Three breems later and he was fully on-line. A medical notation popped up on his HUD as he shifted aching limbs.
STAY PUT, OR PRIMUS HELP YOU, YOU'LL REGRET IT.
Prowl laid still for a moment longer, wondering which was worse: patiently waiting alone with his thoughts until Ratchet deigned to appear, or go directly against medic's orders.
He sure as Pit wasn't prepared to deal with the fierce self-recrimination just waiting for a chance to flare up, and he was fragged either way, so what good did listening to Ratchet really do for him?
Prowl stood up.
When his vision finally cleared, he was on his knees, staring at a pool of half-digested energon. What in Primus' name had just happened?! He'd stood and all of his senses had revolted, and he was left dizzy and disoriented, his tanks roiling and processor aching.
Primus.
Prowl took a few breems to orient himself and when he felt a bit more sure about actually standing he got up and cleaned up the mess he'd left. When that was done, he looked around his room, frowning as he realized that his datapad-always kept on his desk-was gone, as was his computer. He didn't doubt that Elita or Jazz was responsible for that one. Both of them were bold enough to do it. He'd be lucky if they hadn't actually locked him out of the system. Jazz would, and with little to no hesitation. Elita might not, provided he stayed in line, but she might have been pushed past her tolerance already.
He shied away from mentally replaying the confrontation in the hallway. This whole thing was just a bit too raw and embarrassing to contemplate just yet. With no work, it left his processor idle, and his thoughts began to turn toward Praxus before he mentally recoiled from that with a shudder. He…he just couldn't deal with that, yet. He couldn't go back into that dark hole he'd been stuck in when news of Praxus' fall had first reached him. Wasn't ready to dwell on the bleak horror of genocide and his complete and total failure. He'd had one. job.
Yeah, he wasn't doing this. Obviously being alone with his thoughts was masochism at its finest. He had to get out of there, had to distract himself somehow. He wanted to check on Smokescreen, but no doubt the mech had enough problems of his own without adding Prowl to the mix. Still, he didn't doubt that the others had kept Smokescreen in the proverbial loop. He transmitted his brother a quick message informing him that he was feeling better so the mech would stop worrying about him at least, then palmed his door open.
Nothing happened.
The fraggers had locked him in.
Prowl didn't even bother to hide his efforts, just hacked his door and let the security alert go to…Ratchet, Prowl realized as he studied the records. The medic was going to have a few choice words about that, no doubt.
He needed to get somewhere calming where he could distract himself in peace before Ratchet-or anyone else-came calling. He settled on the Hall of Records after a moment of tossing various locales around in his processor. The officer's mess was plain stupidity, and he doubted Red would let him in the security center. All of his cadre were liable to turn up in any of the usual places he went, which made things difficult. All that was really left was…the Hall of Records! Out of the way of everyone and everything. Peace, and maybe he could distract himself with some historical texts before Ratchet came to claim his helm…
Prowl halted as the massive doors to the Hall of Records closed behind him, leaving him face to face with one of the most revered members of their society, sitting ever as always at a simple but well-made desk, his Quill moving steadily over a staggeringly massive codex that Sentinel Prime had once quipped reached back to Cybertron's sparking.
The elderly mech idly stroked the thin wire filaments of his mustache and beard as he wrote, the neatly braided facial growths testament to the eons under his proverbial belt. It took scores of centuries and precise grooming for a bot to form any sort of facial growth, and scores more to reach anything remotely resembling what Alpha Trion had developed; but then, he'd long suspected the ancient chronicler had been sparked back when the original Thirteen walked Cybertron-if he wasn't one of them himself. Certainly, Sentinel had seemed to hold a particular reverence for Alpha Trion, no matter their arguments, and even Optimus held his one-time mentor in the highest esteem, far past what might be excused by familiarity.
Feeling very much as if he was intruding and suddenly, oddly ashamed? Apprehensive? Prowl turned and would have exited back through those same doors, but halted as a stately baritone seemed to wash over his armor and straight through to his very spark.
"You have always been welcomed here, Prowl. Have things changed so much between us?"
Prowl bowed deeply at the mech who had first welcomed him to Iacon when he had just barely upgraded into his adult frame, ages upon ages ago.
"Of course not, Alpha Trion. I just..." Prowl's door panels hitched in irritation as he found himself in the rare circumstance of being lost for words.
What, precisely could he say to Alpha Trion that wasn't utterly pitiful? 'I was looking for a quiet place to hide since I might have had a tiny breakdown and was summarily removed from my office?' 'I'm too stressed to meditate, but I dare not recharge because I know what I'll see when I dream?' 'I'm too ashamed to be in anyone's presence, especially yours?' All of it little more than self-indulgent whining, but nonetheless all he seemed to be capable of.
All of it true.
How...disgusting.
"You are very weary, young Prowl." Alpha Trion said somberly as he stood up from his desk, laying Quill and Covenant aside for a rare moment. The movement was halting, joints and gears emitting little noises of distress-a tell-tale sign of his advanced age-but stand he did. Prowl moved to assist, cringing inwardly as he realized he was just barely more agile than the ancient.
"Sometimes I fear I will fade away at that desk." Alpha Trion murmured to himself before turning back to his guest. "But not for a while yet. Why is it then, that one scarcely a fraction of my age seems as if he will beat me to the Well?"
"It has not gone well with me, Alpha Trion." Prowl replied quietly, still unsure of what-if anything-could even be said for himself.
"I have optics, youngling. They still function well enough. These recent times have been trying for all of us." Alpha Trion's stern tone gentled as he looked over the tactician. "Levitacus told me you had not attended any of the formal grievings or remembrances; it is apparent you have had no need of them-I can read the loss in every bit of you."
Prowl buried a wince before it could form. "You have encountered the Venerable Ones, then?" Levitacus was the oldest of all the Praxian Elders, and he did not doubt that he had long been judged and found wanting by their august group.
"Many times; the combined historical records of Praxus are a daunting thing to maintain. They wished to make use of a scribe, as well as the Hall's recording capabilities. I was glad for the opportunity, if not the cause." Alpha Trion moved forward, heading deeper into the Hall of Records and obviously expecting Prowl to follow. "They all have inquired multiple times about you; the absence of their Lord Marshall has not escaped their notice."
Prowl winced internally at the gentle chide. "I….did not think the survivors would be glad of my presence, given the way I failed them."
Alpha Trion made a disgusted noise. "Failed them? That there are even survivors at all speaks to your dedication and skill. Praxus has long been Marked. It is only because you stood as barrier that it was not overrun sooner." The wizened ancient stopped in front of a secluded alcove that led out to the balconies of the Hall of Records." I suppose, however, that you will persist in castigating yourself unless you hear as much from the Elders themselves?"
Prowl stopped short. "I would not presume to trouble them with my cares, Alpha Trion."
"Would you, perhaps, allow one of them to trouble you with theirs?"
That he'd been snuck upon completely unawares was further testament to his compromised state. Prowl whirled around as the grave, deep voice washed over him, taking in the pale gold visage of the eldest Praxian. "Levitacus!" Prowl began to bow, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his arm.
"I would not stand on such formalities with you, now or ever."
Prowl straightened, but still kept his gaze down as if he were a youngling expecting a scolding.
"Will you allow me to steal your guest for a while, Alpha Trion?"
"Of course, Levitacus. I was dropping him off for you, in fact." The ancient meddler easily capitulated, turning to walk back into the Hall of Records with a fond pat of Prowl's shoulder plating. The XO's look flittered through an odd mixture of betrayed, incredulous, and resigned before settling back in wary neutrality as he watched Alpha Trion stroll away.
"Come, Prowl. Walk with an old mech."
Levitacus slowly made his way through the alcove and onto the balcony overlooking the central courtyard of Iacon Alpha Prime, the repurposed palace-citadel of Zeta Prime. He stopped at the railing, gazing into the distant horizon, where a gray haze of smoke and ash marred the normally clear sky above what was once Praxus. Prowl made an odd noise beside him, but said nothing. Was it because he truly had nothing to say, or because he did not know where to begin?
Levitacus stroked at the fine, thin wires that comprised his own beard as he surreptitiously took in the form of his Lord Marshall. He had heard the faint stirring of rumor amongst the refugees in Iacon. 'The Lord Marshall was nowhere to be found'. 'Prowl had sequestered himself'. 'Prowl was setting his affairs in order before he sought the Well'. Seeing Prowl now, he could see what had begun the rumors amongst the survivors; Prowl looked like he was astroseconds away from just collapsing and letting his spark fade out; he'd seen the surviving half of a broken bond deteriorate much the same. Some of the Praxus survivors had also let themselves slip away and cross over into the Well, such was the strength of their grief. Levitacus could only hope that was not Prowl's intent; if only because Prowl's doing so would further influence even more of the remaining survivors towards the same.
If Prowl would not brave the conversation, then it fell to his hands.
His voice was quiet but strong, not so much shattering the silence as gently easing it away. "When the siege began in earnest, the sons and daughters of Praxus refused to let us take up arms and instead banished us to the safety of the Academy while they fought and burned and died. It is a cold thing, for a parent to survive their child; shameful for the old to live at the expense of the young. Is it displeasure with our going into hiding instead of joining the defense that stops you from seeking our company? Are you shamed to meet the gaze of a coward?"
Prowl balked, his face a study in disbelief as he finally met Levitacus' gaze. "That is absurd!"
Levitacus frowned at Prowl, his gaze burning straight through Prowl's plating. "Almost as absurd as the Lord Marshall blaming himself for not stopping a madmech's army roughly three times the size of any other in the galactic quadrant?"
Prowl shuddered, his door panels drooping low afterward in guilt. "My first duty as Lord Marshall has always been to the safety of Praxus. I saw Megatron's intent long before anyone other, but was unable to do anything about it. My one duty, and I failed."
Levitacus looked completely perplexed. "You…actually believe that?"
Prowl sighed, gesturing towards the fallen city. "How can I not? I've seen the influx of survivors, viewed every report and field update. It pains me to see my fellow Praxians and know that they expected better than what I could do for them, and as for the Venerable Ones…" Prowl forced himself to continue after a long pause. "I see the criticism in your optics, and it is a bitter meal."
"Criticism? We'd scarce caught but a glimpse of you since we arrived; it wasn't criticism, Prowl-we were worried. The others…" Levitacus shrugged eloquently. "Age has afforded us the right to blunt. We likely all but dissected you in the hallway to see how you were when we first arrived. You shut yourself away soon afterwards, with no contact with any of us. The popular rumor is that you had chosen to fade into the Well. Your absence has been keenly felt these recent cycles, and mecha will spin tales to excuse what they can't understand."
"Worried? For me?" Prowl wilted as Jazz's words came back to haunt him. It's a fun little gift called Charge-Debt, Prowl. When you don't rest, it takes its toll. Your body degrades and takes the mind with it. You're irritable, paranoid and obviously not thinking properly-Primus only knows what mental horror you've concocted for yourself and then projected onto the rest of us!
"How could we not?" Levitacus shook his head. "Your seclusion has done no one any favors, especially yourself. You cannot expect to stand alone against this sort of thing. No mech is an island unto himself."
Guilt churned in Prowl's spark, and unable to quite deal with the sickening feeling, he fell back on the mantra that had formed from the sheer stubbornness to let himself be conquered by his own weakness. "I'm fine." He would be fine; he would acknowledge this as well and deal with it later, when he could spare the time. For now he had to be fine, so he was.
"No, you're not." Levitacus' optics dimmed. "I doubt anyone is, right now. And that's okay. This-"
"Is a waste of time!" Somewhere deep in his spark, Prowl was just as startled as Levitacus at the interruption-no one interrupted an Elder, especially Levitacus. The transgression already committed-like so many others-Prowl pressed ahead, stubbornly refusing to let himself falter. What's said was said, he'd might as well finish. "This is war. These things happen, and dwelling on tragedy is unwise. Megatron is still out there, his Decepticons glutted on the kill and already casting their optics upon the next target. The war hasn't stopped, Levitacus! If I choose to spend what precious little time I have indulging in morose contemplations and over-emotional hysterics instead of doing what I must, then it will be Iacon next!" Prowl turned to fully face the distant ruins of Praxus, his gaze hardened. "Let those who have the time wallow in grief. I don't have the luxury of it-not now. Not ever."
"Ah. So this is how you choose to flee your problems." Levitacus gazed solemnly at Prowl, who went rigid at the accusation.
"I don't have any problems. Nothing is wrong with me." Says the mech who hadn't recharged in the last deca-cycle. Prowl forcibly ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that sounded more and more like a certain maddening saboteur.
Levitacus' gaze softened. "What is wrong, Lord Marshall, is that you persist in acting as if your entire world hasn't crashed down around you. It has, but instead of taking the time to let yourself grieve and heal from the blow you force yourself to carry on as though nothing ever happened. It takes its toll, as you no doubt have experienced."
Prowl sighed lowly, tired of what he felt was repeating himself and not even half-sure who he was trying to convince more. "I don't have time for that, not right now. I have to see to those of us that remain, and there is the war and my own responsibilities. I did what I could, but I wasn't there. I´m not one of the wounded or displaced…I´m not the one in pain."
Levitacus reached out a faded red hand, resting it on Prowl's shoulder. "Yes, Prowl...you are. It is the worst sort of arrogance to pretend otherwise; you have to stop carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulder struts. It will only kill you that much quicker."
"I…don't know how. How do you move past something like this? How do you understand and accept evil at such a level?"
Levitacus looked at the young mech he had watched mature from a naïve rookie Enforcer to the indomitable Lord Marshall that had sheltered Praxus-and a dozen other city-states-from the brunt of the war for far, far longer than it'd had any right to.
"You don't. You should strive to never understand evil of that level, because understanding it means you're capable of it. You don't move past it, because moving past it means that you've forgotten the loss and impact of it. You keep it in its place, and when it rises up and gets to be too much for you? You lean, Prowl. You lean."
Prowl scoffed, but it was a soft, bitter thing lacking any sort of actual antagonism. "And who, exactly, am I to lean on?"
Levitacus stroked his beard in quiet contemplation. "Oh, I'd wager you've never lacked for options-you've just forgotten to look past the center of your own world far enough to see them, lately." The Praxian Elder laughed, a quiet, dry thing that all old and wizened beings seemed able to produce at a moment's notice at the foibles of the young and foolish. "But that's the beauty of it-the ones you can lean on are always there, like it or not."
Prowl shook his head. "They have their own issues and tasks; my slowing them down and becoming a burden on them does no one any favors."
"Who says you'd be a burden?"
"Wouldn't I?" Prowl asked dourly, his door wings twitching as his mood soured even more at the thought of what the others must be going through on his behalf.
"I'd think you'd be wise enough to let them decide that for themselves." Levitacus gave Prowl a sage nod, and turned to leave. "He's all yours, gentlemechs."
Prowl startled, whipping around to see Smokescreen and Jazz leaning against either side of the balcony's entrance as Levitacus made his way back inside, pausing only to clap Smokescreen gently on the shoulder and murmur an amused, "Alpha Maestro" to Jazz, who executed an elegant, respectful bow in his wake few would have suspected him capable of; and indeed, there were few sparks Jazz would deign to break out manners for anymore. However, long before he had been Autobot Jazz or even Cultural Investigator Jazz, he'd been Alpha Maestro Jazz, and no matter the guises he hid behind now, he would always be that to Levitacus.
"He's right, you know-you've been punishing yourself for something no one could have prevented."
"So I've heard." Prowl shifted aside to allow Smokescreen a spot next to him at the right, while Jazz settled back against the battlements in a comfortable leaning position, one foot braced against the opposite wall and the other planted firmly on the ground to keep him from sliding out of position.
"It bears repeating. Because, you know, you're an incredibly stupid aft sometimes." Prowl's flat glare was met by one of Jazz's shamelessly impudent grins, the one that could diffuse any and all ill-will in mere astroseconds.
Smokescreen huffed out a short laugh. "What Jazz means to say is that you had us worried about you."
"I apologize. It was not my intent."
"I know." Smokescreen agreed quietly, frowning as he stared across the expanse of Iacon and at the gray cloud that was the remains of Praxus off in the distance.
"Yeah…did you really have to go and stare at it?" Jazz asked plaintively, deliberately poking a hole in the dampening mood before either of them could get too morose.
"Jazz!" Smokescreen chided with a shocked laugh.
"Smokescreen!" Jazz retorted, clearly gearing up for another irreverent comment.
Prowl tuned out the rest of their conversation, taking a moment to quietly study Smokescreen. He'd seen very little of his brother since the Fall-not that it was Smokescreen's fault-and hadn't had a chance truly see how he was doing. Definitely weary, Prowl decided, but nowhere near as bad off as he was. Smokescreen said nothing, but his door wings flicked upwards in a quick display of amusement as he opened a private comm between them.
[I'm holding up okay. You were the one that scared everybody, not me.]
Jazz's voice broke the quiet they'd lapsed into. "By the way, what possessed you to flagrantly ignore Ratchet's orders? Because there's better ways to go than enraged medic, if that's what you were after."
Prowl didn't flinch.
He didn't.
The biting chill that passed through his lines couldn't be denied, however. Ratchet was going to make his life pure misery, no doubt.
"Oh, you're a dead mech alright, but there's no sense in making yourself sniper bait."
Prowl hadn't been expecting the vocal summation of his thoughts. Glancing over his shoulder, he could make out the familiar form of the Autobot's Security Director coming through the entryway. Red Alert strode towards them with a shield drone hovering over his shoulder. The sleek white orb hummed softly, a thin blue sensor light constantly sweeping a full 360 degrees for incoming projectiles. Red Alert stopped behind Prowl, activating the drone's energy shield and settled himself against the wall in the spot Smokescreen had vacated earlier. There was a heavy hum of energy and a visible thick ripple in the air as the shield flared out and settled into place, encasing the front and sides of the balcony. "I'll never understand why you lot insist on baiting assassins, full out in the open with no sort of safeguards."
Smokescreen stared at the now stationary shield drone with disbelief. "Red? I seriously doubt there are currently assassins in Iacon Alpha Prime, especially in the middle of the interior courtyard."
Red Alert was hardly fazed, however. He couldn't go a metacycle without someone commenting on his protocols-but the order to actually change them never came. Worthless though they all were, even High Command understood the folly of interfering with his process-even if it was only because they were also reaping the benefits. "I'm sure you do, Smokescreen, and I'm sure the moment I assume otherwise will be quite the tragedy."
Jazz laughed. "Leave Red alone, Smokey. I like the gig he's got running. "
Red Alert preened at the endorsement. It didn't matter if he got one or not-but it was always nice to be appreciated. It wasn't like it was an easy job, anyway. He preferred to work from the viewpoint that everything was somehow compromised and build them up to a suitable level of operational security-it took a ridiculous amount of work to wring that level of efficiency out of any set-up. For the uninitiated, Red's protocols stank of paranoia and exaggerated problems, but the fact of the matter was once Red Alert declared something secured, it took an act of Primus to bypass his checks. The success rate of Decepticon infiltration had dropped 83% since he'd taken over Security & Intelligence, and from there he'd methodically pried apart every section of the Army until almost all Decepticon sympathizers and moles had been found and deal with. If there were any left, they were so deep under-cover they probably didn't even know they weren't loyal Autobots, and Red Alert would be all over them the moment they decided otherwise.
Red refused to relax his measures or assume that things were truly secured; his philosophy was that complacency was the mortal enemy of security. That included assuming that his own measures couldn't be bypassed; to that point he'd installed enough active protocols all over the base instead of just at the security checkpoints that if a Decepticon actually managed to infiltrate and survive the clearance grid, they'd be regretting it the rest of their (drastically shortened) life.
"That's right, Smokescreen; leave me alone or I might just forget to update your security tags; I did just upgrade the defense grid after all."
Jazz perked up at that announcement. "More scanners?"
"Turrets."
"Turrets?" Jazz's visor brightened. "Inside?"
"Lots and lots of turrets."
Jazz and Red Alert shared wicked grins, which prompted Smokescreen to shake his head at the most vicious members of their cadre.
"What if someone trips it accidentally?"
Red Alert shrugged. "That's what the security tags are for-they don't fire on up to date tags. I sent out a memo."
"And if they didn't read the memo? You can't just-"
"Never mind any of that, Smokescreen; how am I a dead mech, Red?" Prowl demanded.
"Ah! Here. I come bearing gifts." Red Alert produced a glowing blue cube of energon from his subspace. Medical grade energon. With a glyph carved into the container in Ratchet's precise hand: Slagger.
Ratchet definitely wasn't pleased with him, then.
"What happened? Did Ratchet run inventory?"
"Yeah, and shook down First Aid for answers." Jazz shook his head sadly. "Poor scraplet's probably too unnerved to even think straight right now."
"But to be fair, we sold you out first." Red Alert clarified. "We turned him loose on you while you were out, and Wheeljack hijacked the report because it involved "experimental engineering" and security locked it, at which point Jazz appropriated it for Ops under the claim the "experimental engineering" might have applications in other Ops missions, and stashed it in Black Archives, so there's no way High Command's getting hold of it."
Prowl believed him. The Black Archives were the most secure vault that Ops had, and where Jazz stashed his nastiest, dirtiest, most classified material. The only person with access was Prime himself, and Prowl suspected that Jazz had coded most of-if not all-the material inside to self-destruct if Prime's passcode were ever used for entry because Optimus most certainly would not approve of anything Jazz kept inside the vault.
Prowl grimaced. "I imagine Ratchet's none too pleased you tampered with his records."
Jazz made an ugly sound. "To put it mildly. Wheeljack's going to shuffle off to the Beta Chiron outpost and lay low for a while. Ratchet was mad. Still is.I'm honestly hoping he gets to you first-maybe he'll work off some of that killing urge he's been nursing before he turns on me and Elita."
Prowl shuddered as he remembered the medical alert that had gone off the instant he'd hacked his door. "How long do I have before Ratchet rears his head?"
Red Alert shrugged. "I told him I'd have to find you."
"So a few breems." Prowl grumped as he unsealed the vibrant blue energon cube.
"Well, possibly a joor, maybe even two. I haven't informed Ratchet I've found you yet."
Prowl lowered his cube incredulously. Red Alert was not one to thwart Ratchet so flagrantly.
Seeing the unspoken demand for an explanation, Red Alert quirked a brief smile. "No one-especially I-wants him go off anytime soon. At least, not before I barricade myself back in my security center. I think the only one not on his slag-list is Smokescreen, to be honest."
"Thank you?" Prowl ventured carefully.
"You are quite welcome, and may repay me by never putting me through such a situation again." Red Alert added, narrowing his gaze at Prowl.
"Same goes for the rest of us." Jazz chimed in.
"Noted." Prowl grimaced as discomfort washed over him. It would be a few cycles more before he'd work through the stim-run he'd been on and that particular reaction to energon faded.
[Prowl?] Jazz commed him, and there was a glint in his visor that Prowl caught when he glanced back at the saboteur, and he realized that if he said he wasn't Jazz would flat out loot the medbay if it came down to it, and frag what Ratchet had to say about it. Even Red Alert and Smokescreen were surreptitiously watching him now, and Prowl didn't doubt that the moment he said "I need" there would be a flurry of private comms and strategic maneuvering and his comrades would stand ready, poised for action as soon as he finished speaking. It was a familiar situation-he'd been in that same spot for all of them at one point or another. Was it honestly so surprising that they were prepared to do the same, now that it was his turn?
Prowl frowned to himself. Levitacus was right. Somewhere, in that dark pit he'd let himself fall into, he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone in this. The road ahead was going to be long and steep and bumpy, but it would be better for the company. And there would be company...
The barest hint of a smirk, fleeting though it was, showed up on his face as he addressed their concern out loud. "Med-grade tastes like slag."
Smokescreen's engine revved in amusement, and they all seemed to settle back in on themselves.
Jazz shifted to make himself more comfortable, then moved up to Prowl's other side, ignoring Red's huff of disgust and muttered "Assassins fantasize about opportunities like this."
[You cool, mech?]
[…Maybe not entirely, but I know you have my back. All of you do. That…means a lot, right now.]
[And always will.] Jazz agreed easily.
Universe: Alignment/IDW AU, Camaraderie/Trinkets 'verse
Rating: PG-13, to be on the safe side
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Elita One, Wheeljack, Red Alert, Ratchet, Ironhide, Levitacus, Alpha Trion
Warning: woefully unbeta'd mentions of violence (semi-graphic), mentions of death, angst, bad bots doing bad things, explorations of sleep deprivation, sleep debt, and PTSD.
Notes: To everyone who has read and reviewed this story even while I was pretty much disappeared, thank you! Honestly, it pushed me to finish this chapter, because I had some real gnarly writer's block going on. This is the end of the Secret-Keeper arc, but definitely not the end of Camaraderie, or Trinkets for that matter! Actually, this last installment of Secret-Keeper is meant to set up the next chapter of Camaraderie so, yeah, hopefully it won't be another year before I post again (sheesh!) I apologize profusely once more for the heinous lateness of this, but better late than never, right? <-- sorry excuse for maximum failsauce.
:: official comms ::
[ private communication]
" verbal communication "
The doors to the officer's common room swished open, the gentle hydraulic hiss covering Jazz's sigh as he entered the room. Elita, Wheeljack and Ironhide were huddled over their datapads, while a camera drone sat primly in the center of the table, Red Alert's holographic image showing him to be doing the same.
"Is there anything in that requisition backlog from Brainstorm?" Wheeljack demanded from the room in general as he slid over on the couch to make room for Jazz.
"Um…yes." Elita looked curious. "There's three of them. Did you want to look them over?"
Wheeljack's indicators flashed a dull red-violet as contempt leaked into his expression. "Primus, no! Just go ahead and deny them and save yourself the trauma."
"Now Wheeljack," Elita shook her head chidingly, "be reasonable. I know you and he have your professional differences, but-"
"Is it for heptanitrocubane?"
Elita stared down at her pad, then gave Wheeljack a level look. "What is he doing?"
"He wants to use it in a new weapon."
"Oh. Well, that's not so…"
"He found a way to make heptanitrocubane crystals survive as a high-speed projectile."
"…I'm going to regret asking, but go ahead. "
Wheeljack sat his datapad aside and crossed his arms. "I developed HNC last century. I do not exaggerate when I say that it is one of-if not the most-volatile substances on Cybertron. It can be used as the accelerant in a thermonuclear reaction. Brainstorm got a hold of some at Kimia and found a way to stabilize it long enough to be fired in projectile form. Then he built a chaingun. The chaingun fires at a rate of 1,000 rounds an astrosecond. He used the HNC as ammo in the chaingun. Brainstorm made a chaingun that fires off miniaturized thermonuclear warheads."
There was an appalled silence.
Wheeljack's expression fell somewhere between weary and just plain done as he continued on. "Brainstorm is currently explaining himself-yet again-to the Ethics Committee. In the meantime, he's not allowed access to anything more volatile than water."
"Water? That's a bit…drastic, don't you think?" Ironhide asked.
Wheeljack's optics dimmed. "You do know what Brainstorm gets up to, don't you?"
"Primus." Red Alert muttered.
"Has nothing to do with what that mech produces, believe me." Wheeljack glanced over at Jazz, who had made himself comfortable and was scanning through his allotment of Prowl's backlog. "How is he?"
Jazz frowned. "Down and out. I knocked him a good one." He looked down at his datapad, studiously ignoring the looks that statement earned him.
[He's recharging?]
Jazz busied himself trading a few assignments with Ironhide before relying to Elita's private comm.
[Yeah. I kinda laid him out. I figured that it would be the easiest way to get him into recharge since he wasn't seeing reason. I…slag. I almost regret it. He immediately went into a processor-loop, and then an out-and-out flux-terror. I patched myself in when I realized it was a processor -loop, and stayed for the show.]
Elita considered him over the top of her pad for a second, then looked back down. [I figured dreaming, but hadn't thought things had degraded so far.]
[Holy slag, 'Lita. If I knew all I was going to be getting out of recharge were maybe five breems of rest and a no-holds-barred graphic demonstration of what happens when a rampaging combiner team with no morals or boundaries gets at a batch of helpless sparklings, I'd go head-first into a stim-cube, too.]
[Primus.] Elita shuddered inwardly. They'd found the video of Bruticus' rampage through the Youth Sector and Crystal Gardens. Red Alert had been appalled to discover that the footage he'd salvaged had been viewed by Prowl. He'd thought it would be seen to by Jazz or Ultra Magnus-the last thing anyone had expected, from Optimus on down, was for Prowl to remain on active duty.
[Ratchet's gonna kill me when he eventually finds out, but I did some rudimentary hacking into Prowl's processor. Just enough to force an actual data purge so I could try and stop the processor-loop. I would've done more if I could, but deeper than that and I could've triggered his defenses and wound up shredding both our processors. He's getting some actual honest-to-goodness recharge at the moment.]
[Which means he gets to wake up and deal with the joys of a stim-crash.] Elita sent him the mental equivalent of a sigh. [We giving in and bringing Ratchet in on this?]
Jazz didn't reply for a long moment, weighing their options. They'd bluffed Prowl into standing down without actually filing a 1080, and Magnus hadn't gone to Prime yet, thankfully. Nor would he, according to his last message, so long as Elita and Jazz got Prowl back in line before the situation devolved further. The only problem was that a stim-run meant withdrawal, which more than likely meant more dreams, in Prowl's case. The only one guaranteed to be able to put a stop to the dreaming was Ratchet. The thing was, dealing with Ratchet ran the risk of a data trail that ended with one tactician actually kicked out of his position, and the resultant decimation of the command chain. Fragging High Command. He was going to have to put his head together with Red and figure out what to do with that band of useless power-hungry slag-heaps.
[Is there a way to keep Ratchet from filing a report?]
[Nope.]
Jazz was quiet for another long moment. [You and I both know Ratchet has little to no tolerance for High Command. Couldn't we-]
[No. Ratchet wouldn't be Ratchet if he quibbled on protocol.]
[Well, I guess that means we're going to be tampering with medical records, then.]
[That's a high-crime, you know.]
[You going to put your foot down?]
[Are you?]
[Nope.]
[So, before we go prancing off into felony-land, why don't we just try seizing the report?]
[Because Ratchet can smell politicking halfway across Cybertron. He won't stand for it if either of us tries anything. He's not exactly forgiven us for last time.]
Last time? Elita thought back, trying to remember what she could have done to earn Ratchet's ire, then sighed as her memory supplied the answer: Vesper Theta. The first casualty in quiet war between their cadre and High Command. Vesper Theta had been a nasty piece of work, concerned only with his own survival and status. He'd been one of the senators that fully supported the caste system-so much so that he'd tried to enforce that same system on the Autobot forces. It had been annoying to begin with, but when the mech had gone so far as to reassign the bots under their own command-namely those bots that would have been considered unskilled or even casteless under the old system-to the mines or factories, they'd decided enough was enough. They'd been tossing around the idea of assassination, but had been reluctant to cross the line into active hostility.
Then came the first attack on Iacon. Most of High Command had made it to safety before the Decepticons had even breached the outskirts of the city-state, but Vesper Theta had been on the Iacon Speedway when the Decepticons attacked, and had been badly wounded when the Decepticon Seekers slagged the Speedway to the Pit and back. Jazz and Elita had been overseeing evacuation and organization of the ground forces when the news that Vesper Theta was injured hit the network.
Jazz had immediately intercepted two medics who'd been prepared to go to the ruins of the Speedway to tend to Vesper Theta, and ordered them to remain with the first response teams handling the civilian and military casualties. She'd overheard, and stepped in to spin them a lovely little story about not being able to spare an escort and it being too dangerous for medics to go near the Speedway to ease their minds while Jazz quietly ordered Mirage to see to Vesper Theta.
Mirage had returned with a greyed out frame in tow and a spark-breaking story about just not being able to get to the poor mech in time. No one had thought twice about it. Except Ratchet. Ratchet had the uncanny ability to sniff out Jazz's slag, and after reviewing the med reports from the first responders and entirely unmoved attitudes of the senior officers present, he'd put two and two together and promptly ripped she and Jazz a new one, ending with a rather virulent diatribe about what he would do to them if they dared use medical as a staging ground for their maneuvering again.
Granted, this wasn't quite as dire as letting a member of High Command leak out in the rubble when even the most basic first aid could have saved him, but Ratchet was distrustful of their intentions when it came to medical unless it was mission related or involved them directly. And rightfully so. If they showed up and even hinted that they were after that report…yeah. That was going to be an ugly scene.
[Well, what if it's not us? He might not go on the defensive if someone else requests the report.]
Jazz mused over Elita's suggestion. [Yeah, but it's not like we've got a wide selection of bots that would actually have need for the report, to say nothing of the seniority to overrule him if he doesn't throw in with us.]
[This is such a ridiculous situation. It would all be so simple if we didn't have to worry about High Command.]
{One of these cycles…] Jazz broke that train of thought off. Too soon, too dangerous for that kind of thinking. But later, when they hopefully got things stable enough that High Command wasn't so necessary? Yeah…he was going to have a long think about what was and wasn't necessary to the Autobot cause anymore. But that was the future, and his immediate concern was protecting Prowl's health and position-Prowl's entire function revolved around the Autobot Cause, especially with Praxus gone. Primus knew that if High Command succeeded in removing Prowl, it would be just like they'd killed him.
[I know.] And she did. For all Jazz worried about what High Command would do to Prowl if given any sort of opening, she worried more about what would happen to Optimus if Prowl were removed. Because if those fraggers managed to remove Prowl, they would immediately turn to getting rid of the rest of them. They wouldn't be able to do much to her because she was bonded to Optimus, but it would be just her against them, and not an entire group dedicated to not letting them turn Optimus into another Sentinel Prime.
And they could. Sentinel Prime had been a good mech, once, as honorable and noble as one could hope for with any Prime, but he'd listened more to the Senate than his own spark, and it had been his downfall as they'd corrupted him more and more into a twisted reflection of their own greedy selfishness. Sentinel had been a stubborn thing, considerable more so than Optimus, and he'd eventually fell. Optimus meant well, but she didn't give a bolt for his chances without their cadre to offset High Command's negativity.
Scrap it all. They could just see who wanted to throw in with them on this little venture, then figure out how to make it work. Elita tossed her data-pad aside. "Alright gang. Show of hands. Who wants to screw over those batch of crusty afts in High Command?"
She and Jazz watched as everyone's hand went up.
"Who doesn't mind torqueing Ratchet off in the process?"
Everyone's hand went back down except for Ironhide and Wheeljack. Wheeljack's hand dropped to half its original height. "How torqued are we talking? Like, will I be needing to leave Iacon for a while?"
"Oh, definitely."
"I'm out." Ironhide dropped his hand. "I just got back, and with a few deserters and new recruits in tow. I can't leave the base anytime soon, not even to save my own aft."
Wheeljack's indicators pulsed a solid, determined red before he finished turning over whatever thought was in his processor and finally spoke. "I want a Favor. Completely open, no terms, no expiration."
Jazz and Elita exchanged looks.
Wholesale class uprising and planetary civil war being what it was, one of the first things to occur was total economic collapse. The markets crashed faster than a city-former attempting flight, the banks failed spectacularly seemingly overnight, and Cybertronian currency inflated to outrageous proportions before promptly imploding. Where once Cybertronian currency exchanged 1:1 on the galactic shanix, rates had finally bottomed out somewhere around 1,000:1 and were dwindling. The only thing of real value these days were energon, munitions, mineable resources, and Favors-the I.O.U. in its full glory. The previous three items were hard to come by and, almost always controlled by one faction or another.
Personal wealth at the end of the day was determined by how many cubes of energon you had in your subspace, the quality and quantity of your weapons and ammo, and how many favors you owed, and were owed in returned. Favors actually tended to be more valuable than any physical resource because of the raw potential they represented. Why trade a Favor in for a cube of energon or a shiny new weapon when you could instead use it as a means to extort more valuable things from a bot, or trade it off a Favor to someone else in return for lesser Favors from a variety of sources.
Getting a Favor from an officer-especially an open-ended Favor from one ranked as highly as Elita or Jazz-was the equivalent of hitting Jackpot on one of the slot machines of Monacus: a feat of such improbability as to be considered well and truly impossible, falling somewhere between Megatron and Optimus kissing and making up and Unicron returning as an emissary of love and justice.
Bots longed for those precious words. An easy-going "Do me a solid?" from Jazz or an amused, "Any takers?" from Chromia were sheer poetry. An "I got ya later" from Ironhide a jealously guarded bauble. Red Alert's "I'll take care of you" was a dream and Wheeljack's "I need a hand" a blessing. The rank and file fantasized about Ratchet saying, "I need a favor." The greenest recruit would charge a combiner team head-on for an open-ended Favor from Elita or Magnus, and they'd arm-wrestle Unicron for one from Prowl. There was a legend forming that Mirage had earned a Favor from Prime himself, and his comrades were torn between raw jealously and frank amazement because what had Mirage had to do to get it!?
"Frag no."
Wheeljack wasn't surprised in the least. Jazz was Director of Special Operations, and the kind of Favor he was good for carried some serious fragging weight behind it. He couldn't afford to give away the kind of Favor Wheeljack was angling for. He glanced over at Elita, who mulled it over for a few moments then nodded.
"Okay."
Jazz turned to face Elita with an incredulous look on his face. "You've got to be joking."
"No. I already owed him one for the care package he sent the last time my squad was stationed at Altihex, and another from that bailout at Perihex." Elita crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, making herself comfortable. "Wipe those two off your slate and throw in on this one, and you've got your Favor."
Wheeljack winced. He'd been holding on to those two for over an orn, hoping for just the right time to cash them in. Adding them towards the accumulation of a better Favor was a good move, but still…ouch. Wheeljack sighed and set his own data-pad aside. "Deal."
"You lucky fragger." Jaz shook his head in admiration and inclined his head toward the door. "Everyone who doesn't want to end up liable to Ratchet needs to clear out now."
"You're helping?" Wheeljack asked as the room emptied. Red Alert's camera drone skittered over to Jazz, who plucked it up and placed it in his lap. "Of course. You're just not getting a Favor of that caliber out of me."
"And you, Red?"
Red Alert's hologram flickered back to life. "Ratchet's patient records are stored on one of my secure networks. You'll need me if you want access to them. Jazz? This squares us for last decacycle."
"Fair enough. Let's talk business, 'Jack."
Ratchet scooted his chair away from Prowl's berth and pinned the other three occupants of the room with a truly foul look.
"I've managed to undo the processor loops, and he's going to be on medical-grade energon for the next metacycle, but he'll be fine. Miserable because he's still going to feel the withdrawal, but fine. We'll call that one a lesson learned. Now, do one of you want to explain to me why I had a stim-addled Praxian halfway to a processor meltdown on my hands?"
"Um….no? Not in particular, to be honest."
Wheeljack wilted under Ratchet's sneer and Elita's lips quirked in slight amusement before she buried it beneath her usual calm exterior.
"Here." Jazz tossed a woefully light box of stims to Ratchet, and the medic took in missing contents.
"You didn't-"
"Frag no!" Jazz denied quickly. "That was all Prowl."
"Humph. Idiot." Ratchet muttered, though his voice lacked much of its earlier vitriol. It was clear that out of everyone involved, Prowl was still in his good graces. That was probably only because he was also technically injured, and Ratchet liked perfectly hale and healthy victims. "Well, I'm not getting any answers out of that one anytime soon, so someone better start talking."
The three of them fell silent; they all knew that this conversation was coming, but they hadn't decided who was going to bite the proverbial bullet. Jazz stayed stubbornly quiet, as did Elita .Wheeljack eventually broke first, singing his little spark out. By the time he finally wound down, Jazz was giving the engineer a little glare of his own. He'd known Wheeljack would spill first-Ratchet was closer to Wheeljack then he or Elita and would know how to push the engineer's buttons until he got his answers with little to no trouble-but still. Jazz hadn't expected to be thrown under the transport quite so thoroughly.
Ratchet's glare turned poisonous as he processed the whole sordid affair. "Prowl I'll deal with once he's recovered, but you three…" He actually managed to loom over all of them, no matter that he was the only one sitting. "Keep your political maneuvering out. Of. My. Medbay."
Wheeljack shrugged. "This isn't the medbay, Ratch."
Of them all, only Elita didn't flinch when the medic slammed his fist down on the berth.
"Semantics! It doesn't change the fact you all were more concerned with protecting Prowl's position than getting him medical attention!"
"Not fair, doc." Elita shifted from her spot on the door to stand up straight as she finally weighed in on the conversation. "We didn't know the full extent of what was going on until last megacycle, and then we were mostly concerned with getting Prowl out of his office so we could actually help him."
"You could've just sent him to me."
"Like he'd actually go." Jazz muttered dourly.
Elita jumped back in when Ratchet opened his mouth for a no doubt scathing comment. "Look Ratchet, even if we'd managed to convince him to do that, do you think letting Iacon get a good look at him in this state is wise? That the refugees need to see just how bad off their Lord Marshall is?"
"That's still politics." Ratchet grumbled.
"Can you honestly tell us High Command wouldn't seize that opportunity to undermine Prowl?" Jazz threw his hands up in frustration. "They'd ruin the mech, and then turn on the rest of us-including you! By the time they got done, we'd be out on our afts and they'd be halfway to turning Optimus into another Sentinel Prime!'
Ratchet's expression darkened. He didn't like High Command any more than the rest of them, especially after having felt the effects of some of their selfish greed, but he preferred more of a "live and let live" ideology than the outright hostility the rest of his comrades tended to harbor. To Ratchet, they were no different than the sleazy Directors that had run Iacon General before the war and forever seemed to be more concerned with their own wealth and reputation than actually saving lives. "Believe me, I have plenty to say to High Command in my report, too."
Wheeljack braced himself for the explosion as he recognized his cue. "About that report, Ratch…"
"What?"
It was a both a question and a threat, and it took everything in Wheeljack not to shift so that he was slightly behind Jazz. Jazz lightly bumped him with his elbow in a show of support, sensing his reluctance. No intelligent being deliberately provoked Ratchet, which is exactly what they were doing. Well what Wheeljack was doing, though he didn't doubt that Ratchet would have them all suffering for it by the end.
"I'm officially confiscating it."
Ratchet's expression could've stripped hull plating. "You. WHAT?"
Not for the first time, Wheeljack wondered why Jazz or Elita hadn't simply used their own authority, had in fact asked just that. His explanation had boiled down to little more than a convoluted attempt to avoid alerting High Command to a cover-up and what Wheeljack suspected was an attempt to not end up directly in Ratchet's bad graces. Wheeljack had established precedent of confiscating med reports when it involved experimental devise to redact information for security.
Primus take him now.
Ratchet's voice was mild but so very deadly when he spoke again. "Jack, you aren't following in those two's footsteps and getting your politicking mixed up in my medbay, are you?"
"Yeah." Wheeljack shuddered at Ratchet's frown. "Look, I'm sorry, but it's necessary."
"Okay." Ratchet stood up and gave the three of them the fiercest glare he could muster. "Okay, fine. You and High Command can play your games, but the first time it affects one of my patients or hampers my work-"
"Now Ratch-"
The medic made an angry gesture, cutting Jazz off. "Save it, I don't care! What I do care about is that this is the second time you've turned medical into a tool for your own agenda. Last time a mech died, and Primus frag it all, I know you orchestrated it! I don't know what burns my aft more-you three pulling this stunt, or High Command for being a batch of rotten fraggers and making it necessary. It doesn't even matter anyway, because next time-and there'd better not be a next time-I'm getting involved, and I swear to Primus you'll all rue the cycle."
If he could have slammed the door, he would have. But all that marked his dire exit was a soft hydraulic hiss of the door controls.
The three conspirators held each other's gaze for a long time, then Wheeljack sighed, his helm indicators dim. "I'm a dead mech."
Prowl came back on-line slowly, his HUD scrolling through a veritable sea of error logs and system reports. He'd ignored them as long as possible before finally succumbing to recharge, and now he was forced to endure the torturously slow process. More horrifying was the medical notation that accompanied each one.
Idiot. This is why you don't consume a box of stims.
Aft. Did you think none of this was a cause for concern?
Moron.
Stupid slag-heap.
You and I are going to have words.
Something akin to fear stirred inside him. Ratchet had worked on him then. That meant Ratchet knew everything, and judging from the diatribe accompanying his boot cycle, the medic was far from pleased. Three breems later and he was fully on-line. A medical notation popped up on his HUD as he shifted aching limbs.
STAY PUT, OR PRIMUS HELP YOU, YOU'LL REGRET IT.
Prowl laid still for a moment longer, wondering which was worse: patiently waiting alone with his thoughts until Ratchet deigned to appear, or go directly against medic's orders.
He sure as Pit wasn't prepared to deal with the fierce self-recrimination just waiting for a chance to flare up, and he was fragged either way, so what good did listening to Ratchet really do for him?
Prowl stood up.
When his vision finally cleared, he was on his knees, staring at a pool of half-digested energon. What in Primus' name had just happened?! He'd stood and all of his senses had revolted, and he was left dizzy and disoriented, his tanks roiling and processor aching.
Primus.
Prowl took a few breems to orient himself and when he felt a bit more sure about actually standing he got up and cleaned up the mess he'd left. When that was done, he looked around his room, frowning as he realized that his datapad-always kept on his desk-was gone, as was his computer. He didn't doubt that Elita or Jazz was responsible for that one. Both of them were bold enough to do it. He'd be lucky if they hadn't actually locked him out of the system. Jazz would, and with little to no hesitation. Elita might not, provided he stayed in line, but she might have been pushed past her tolerance already.
He shied away from mentally replaying the confrontation in the hallway. This whole thing was just a bit too raw and embarrassing to contemplate just yet. With no work, it left his processor idle, and his thoughts began to turn toward Praxus before he mentally recoiled from that with a shudder. He…he just couldn't deal with that, yet. He couldn't go back into that dark hole he'd been stuck in when news of Praxus' fall had first reached him. Wasn't ready to dwell on the bleak horror of genocide and his complete and total failure. He'd had one. job.
Yeah, he wasn't doing this. Obviously being alone with his thoughts was masochism at its finest. He had to get out of there, had to distract himself somehow. He wanted to check on Smokescreen, but no doubt the mech had enough problems of his own without adding Prowl to the mix. Still, he didn't doubt that the others had kept Smokescreen in the proverbial loop. He transmitted his brother a quick message informing him that he was feeling better so the mech would stop worrying about him at least, then palmed his door open.
Nothing happened.
The fraggers had locked him in.
Prowl didn't even bother to hide his efforts, just hacked his door and let the security alert go to…Ratchet, Prowl realized as he studied the records. The medic was going to have a few choice words about that, no doubt.
He needed to get somewhere calming where he could distract himself in peace before Ratchet-or anyone else-came calling. He settled on the Hall of Records after a moment of tossing various locales around in his processor. The officer's mess was plain stupidity, and he doubted Red would let him in the security center. All of his cadre were liable to turn up in any of the usual places he went, which made things difficult. All that was really left was…the Hall of Records! Out of the way of everyone and everything. Peace, and maybe he could distract himself with some historical texts before Ratchet came to claim his helm…
Prowl halted as the massive doors to the Hall of Records closed behind him, leaving him face to face with one of the most revered members of their society, sitting ever as always at a simple but well-made desk, his Quill moving steadily over a staggeringly massive codex that Sentinel Prime had once quipped reached back to Cybertron's sparking.
The elderly mech idly stroked the thin wire filaments of his mustache and beard as he wrote, the neatly braided facial growths testament to the eons under his proverbial belt. It took scores of centuries and precise grooming for a bot to form any sort of facial growth, and scores more to reach anything remotely resembling what Alpha Trion had developed; but then, he'd long suspected the ancient chronicler had been sparked back when the original Thirteen walked Cybertron-if he wasn't one of them himself. Certainly, Sentinel had seemed to hold a particular reverence for Alpha Trion, no matter their arguments, and even Optimus held his one-time mentor in the highest esteem, far past what might be excused by familiarity.
Feeling very much as if he was intruding and suddenly, oddly ashamed? Apprehensive? Prowl turned and would have exited back through those same doors, but halted as a stately baritone seemed to wash over his armor and straight through to his very spark.
"You have always been welcomed here, Prowl. Have things changed so much between us?"
Prowl bowed deeply at the mech who had first welcomed him to Iacon when he had just barely upgraded into his adult frame, ages upon ages ago.
"Of course not, Alpha Trion. I just..." Prowl's door panels hitched in irritation as he found himself in the rare circumstance of being lost for words.
What, precisely could he say to Alpha Trion that wasn't utterly pitiful? 'I was looking for a quiet place to hide since I might have had a tiny breakdown and was summarily removed from my office?' 'I'm too stressed to meditate, but I dare not recharge because I know what I'll see when I dream?' 'I'm too ashamed to be in anyone's presence, especially yours?' All of it little more than self-indulgent whining, but nonetheless all he seemed to be capable of.
All of it true.
How...disgusting.
"You are very weary, young Prowl." Alpha Trion said somberly as he stood up from his desk, laying Quill and Covenant aside for a rare moment. The movement was halting, joints and gears emitting little noises of distress-a tell-tale sign of his advanced age-but stand he did. Prowl moved to assist, cringing inwardly as he realized he was just barely more agile than the ancient.
"Sometimes I fear I will fade away at that desk." Alpha Trion murmured to himself before turning back to his guest. "But not for a while yet. Why is it then, that one scarcely a fraction of my age seems as if he will beat me to the Well?"
"It has not gone well with me, Alpha Trion." Prowl replied quietly, still unsure of what-if anything-could even be said for himself.
"I have optics, youngling. They still function well enough. These recent times have been trying for all of us." Alpha Trion's stern tone gentled as he looked over the tactician. "Levitacus told me you had not attended any of the formal grievings or remembrances; it is apparent you have had no need of them-I can read the loss in every bit of you."
Prowl buried a wince before it could form. "You have encountered the Venerable Ones, then?" Levitacus was the oldest of all the Praxian Elders, and he did not doubt that he had long been judged and found wanting by their august group.
"Many times; the combined historical records of Praxus are a daunting thing to maintain. They wished to make use of a scribe, as well as the Hall's recording capabilities. I was glad for the opportunity, if not the cause." Alpha Trion moved forward, heading deeper into the Hall of Records and obviously expecting Prowl to follow. "They all have inquired multiple times about you; the absence of their Lord Marshall has not escaped their notice."
Prowl winced internally at the gentle chide. "I….did not think the survivors would be glad of my presence, given the way I failed them."
Alpha Trion made a disgusted noise. "Failed them? That there are even survivors at all speaks to your dedication and skill. Praxus has long been Marked. It is only because you stood as barrier that it was not overrun sooner." The wizened ancient stopped in front of a secluded alcove that led out to the balconies of the Hall of Records." I suppose, however, that you will persist in castigating yourself unless you hear as much from the Elders themselves?"
Prowl stopped short. "I would not presume to trouble them with my cares, Alpha Trion."
"Would you, perhaps, allow one of them to trouble you with theirs?"
That he'd been snuck upon completely unawares was further testament to his compromised state. Prowl whirled around as the grave, deep voice washed over him, taking in the pale gold visage of the eldest Praxian. "Levitacus!" Prowl began to bow, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his arm.
"I would not stand on such formalities with you, now or ever."
Prowl straightened, but still kept his gaze down as if he were a youngling expecting a scolding.
"Will you allow me to steal your guest for a while, Alpha Trion?"
"Of course, Levitacus. I was dropping him off for you, in fact." The ancient meddler easily capitulated, turning to walk back into the Hall of Records with a fond pat of Prowl's shoulder plating. The XO's look flittered through an odd mixture of betrayed, incredulous, and resigned before settling back in wary neutrality as he watched Alpha Trion stroll away.
"Come, Prowl. Walk with an old mech."
Levitacus slowly made his way through the alcove and onto the balcony overlooking the central courtyard of Iacon Alpha Prime, the repurposed palace-citadel of Zeta Prime. He stopped at the railing, gazing into the distant horizon, where a gray haze of smoke and ash marred the normally clear sky above what was once Praxus. Prowl made an odd noise beside him, but said nothing. Was it because he truly had nothing to say, or because he did not know where to begin?
Levitacus stroked at the fine, thin wires that comprised his own beard as he surreptitiously took in the form of his Lord Marshall. He had heard the faint stirring of rumor amongst the refugees in Iacon. 'The Lord Marshall was nowhere to be found'. 'Prowl had sequestered himself'. 'Prowl was setting his affairs in order before he sought the Well'. Seeing Prowl now, he could see what had begun the rumors amongst the survivors; Prowl looked like he was astroseconds away from just collapsing and letting his spark fade out; he'd seen the surviving half of a broken bond deteriorate much the same. Some of the Praxus survivors had also let themselves slip away and cross over into the Well, such was the strength of their grief. Levitacus could only hope that was not Prowl's intent; if only because Prowl's doing so would further influence even more of the remaining survivors towards the same.
If Prowl would not brave the conversation, then it fell to his hands.
His voice was quiet but strong, not so much shattering the silence as gently easing it away. "When the siege began in earnest, the sons and daughters of Praxus refused to let us take up arms and instead banished us to the safety of the Academy while they fought and burned and died. It is a cold thing, for a parent to survive their child; shameful for the old to live at the expense of the young. Is it displeasure with our going into hiding instead of joining the defense that stops you from seeking our company? Are you shamed to meet the gaze of a coward?"
Prowl balked, his face a study in disbelief as he finally met Levitacus' gaze. "That is absurd!"
Levitacus frowned at Prowl, his gaze burning straight through Prowl's plating. "Almost as absurd as the Lord Marshall blaming himself for not stopping a madmech's army roughly three times the size of any other in the galactic quadrant?"
Prowl shuddered, his door panels drooping low afterward in guilt. "My first duty as Lord Marshall has always been to the safety of Praxus. I saw Megatron's intent long before anyone other, but was unable to do anything about it. My one duty, and I failed."
Levitacus looked completely perplexed. "You…actually believe that?"
Prowl sighed, gesturing towards the fallen city. "How can I not? I've seen the influx of survivors, viewed every report and field update. It pains me to see my fellow Praxians and know that they expected better than what I could do for them, and as for the Venerable Ones…" Prowl forced himself to continue after a long pause. "I see the criticism in your optics, and it is a bitter meal."
"Criticism? We'd scarce caught but a glimpse of you since we arrived; it wasn't criticism, Prowl-we were worried. The others…" Levitacus shrugged eloquently. "Age has afforded us the right to blunt. We likely all but dissected you in the hallway to see how you were when we first arrived. You shut yourself away soon afterwards, with no contact with any of us. The popular rumor is that you had chosen to fade into the Well. Your absence has been keenly felt these recent cycles, and mecha will spin tales to excuse what they can't understand."
"Worried? For me?" Prowl wilted as Jazz's words came back to haunt him. It's a fun little gift called Charge-Debt, Prowl. When you don't rest, it takes its toll. Your body degrades and takes the mind with it. You're irritable, paranoid and obviously not thinking properly-Primus only knows what mental horror you've concocted for yourself and then projected onto the rest of us!
"How could we not?" Levitacus shook his head. "Your seclusion has done no one any favors, especially yourself. You cannot expect to stand alone against this sort of thing. No mech is an island unto himself."
Guilt churned in Prowl's spark, and unable to quite deal with the sickening feeling, he fell back on the mantra that had formed from the sheer stubbornness to let himself be conquered by his own weakness. "I'm fine." He would be fine; he would acknowledge this as well and deal with it later, when he could spare the time. For now he had to be fine, so he was.
"No, you're not." Levitacus' optics dimmed. "I doubt anyone is, right now. And that's okay. This-"
"Is a waste of time!" Somewhere deep in his spark, Prowl was just as startled as Levitacus at the interruption-no one interrupted an Elder, especially Levitacus. The transgression already committed-like so many others-Prowl pressed ahead, stubbornly refusing to let himself falter. What's said was said, he'd might as well finish. "This is war. These things happen, and dwelling on tragedy is unwise. Megatron is still out there, his Decepticons glutted on the kill and already casting their optics upon the next target. The war hasn't stopped, Levitacus! If I choose to spend what precious little time I have indulging in morose contemplations and over-emotional hysterics instead of doing what I must, then it will be Iacon next!" Prowl turned to fully face the distant ruins of Praxus, his gaze hardened. "Let those who have the time wallow in grief. I don't have the luxury of it-not now. Not ever."
"Ah. So this is how you choose to flee your problems." Levitacus gazed solemnly at Prowl, who went rigid at the accusation.
"I don't have any problems. Nothing is wrong with me." Says the mech who hadn't recharged in the last deca-cycle. Prowl forcibly ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that sounded more and more like a certain maddening saboteur.
Levitacus' gaze softened. "What is wrong, Lord Marshall, is that you persist in acting as if your entire world hasn't crashed down around you. It has, but instead of taking the time to let yourself grieve and heal from the blow you force yourself to carry on as though nothing ever happened. It takes its toll, as you no doubt have experienced."
Prowl sighed lowly, tired of what he felt was repeating himself and not even half-sure who he was trying to convince more. "I don't have time for that, not right now. I have to see to those of us that remain, and there is the war and my own responsibilities. I did what I could, but I wasn't there. I´m not one of the wounded or displaced…I´m not the one in pain."
Levitacus reached out a faded red hand, resting it on Prowl's shoulder. "Yes, Prowl...you are. It is the worst sort of arrogance to pretend otherwise; you have to stop carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulder struts. It will only kill you that much quicker."
"I…don't know how. How do you move past something like this? How do you understand and accept evil at such a level?"
Levitacus looked at the young mech he had watched mature from a naïve rookie Enforcer to the indomitable Lord Marshall that had sheltered Praxus-and a dozen other city-states-from the brunt of the war for far, far longer than it'd had any right to.
"You don't. You should strive to never understand evil of that level, because understanding it means you're capable of it. You don't move past it, because moving past it means that you've forgotten the loss and impact of it. You keep it in its place, and when it rises up and gets to be too much for you? You lean, Prowl. You lean."
Prowl scoffed, but it was a soft, bitter thing lacking any sort of actual antagonism. "And who, exactly, am I to lean on?"
Levitacus stroked his beard in quiet contemplation. "Oh, I'd wager you've never lacked for options-you've just forgotten to look past the center of your own world far enough to see them, lately." The Praxian Elder laughed, a quiet, dry thing that all old and wizened beings seemed able to produce at a moment's notice at the foibles of the young and foolish. "But that's the beauty of it-the ones you can lean on are always there, like it or not."
Prowl shook his head. "They have their own issues and tasks; my slowing them down and becoming a burden on them does no one any favors."
"Who says you'd be a burden?"
"Wouldn't I?" Prowl asked dourly, his door wings twitching as his mood soured even more at the thought of what the others must be going through on his behalf.
"I'd think you'd be wise enough to let them decide that for themselves." Levitacus gave Prowl a sage nod, and turned to leave. "He's all yours, gentlemechs."
Prowl startled, whipping around to see Smokescreen and Jazz leaning against either side of the balcony's entrance as Levitacus made his way back inside, pausing only to clap Smokescreen gently on the shoulder and murmur an amused, "Alpha Maestro" to Jazz, who executed an elegant, respectful bow in his wake few would have suspected him capable of; and indeed, there were few sparks Jazz would deign to break out manners for anymore. However, long before he had been Autobot Jazz or even Cultural Investigator Jazz, he'd been Alpha Maestro Jazz, and no matter the guises he hid behind now, he would always be that to Levitacus.
"He's right, you know-you've been punishing yourself for something no one could have prevented."
"So I've heard." Prowl shifted aside to allow Smokescreen a spot next to him at the right, while Jazz settled back against the battlements in a comfortable leaning position, one foot braced against the opposite wall and the other planted firmly on the ground to keep him from sliding out of position.
"It bears repeating. Because, you know, you're an incredibly stupid aft sometimes." Prowl's flat glare was met by one of Jazz's shamelessly impudent grins, the one that could diffuse any and all ill-will in mere astroseconds.
Smokescreen huffed out a short laugh. "What Jazz means to say is that you had us worried about you."
"I apologize. It was not my intent."
"I know." Smokescreen agreed quietly, frowning as he stared across the expanse of Iacon and at the gray cloud that was the remains of Praxus off in the distance.
"Yeah…did you really have to go and stare at it?" Jazz asked plaintively, deliberately poking a hole in the dampening mood before either of them could get too morose.
"Jazz!" Smokescreen chided with a shocked laugh.
"Smokescreen!" Jazz retorted, clearly gearing up for another irreverent comment.
Prowl tuned out the rest of their conversation, taking a moment to quietly study Smokescreen. He'd seen very little of his brother since the Fall-not that it was Smokescreen's fault-and hadn't had a chance truly see how he was doing. Definitely weary, Prowl decided, but nowhere near as bad off as he was. Smokescreen said nothing, but his door wings flicked upwards in a quick display of amusement as he opened a private comm between them.
[I'm holding up okay. You were the one that scared everybody, not me.]
Jazz's voice broke the quiet they'd lapsed into. "By the way, what possessed you to flagrantly ignore Ratchet's orders? Because there's better ways to go than enraged medic, if that's what you were after."
Prowl didn't flinch.
He didn't.
The biting chill that passed through his lines couldn't be denied, however. Ratchet was going to make his life pure misery, no doubt.
"Oh, you're a dead mech alright, but there's no sense in making yourself sniper bait."
Prowl hadn't been expecting the vocal summation of his thoughts. Glancing over his shoulder, he could make out the familiar form of the Autobot's Security Director coming through the entryway. Red Alert strode towards them with a shield drone hovering over his shoulder. The sleek white orb hummed softly, a thin blue sensor light constantly sweeping a full 360 degrees for incoming projectiles. Red Alert stopped behind Prowl, activating the drone's energy shield and settled himself against the wall in the spot Smokescreen had vacated earlier. There was a heavy hum of energy and a visible thick ripple in the air as the shield flared out and settled into place, encasing the front and sides of the balcony. "I'll never understand why you lot insist on baiting assassins, full out in the open with no sort of safeguards."
Smokescreen stared at the now stationary shield drone with disbelief. "Red? I seriously doubt there are currently assassins in Iacon Alpha Prime, especially in the middle of the interior courtyard."
Red Alert was hardly fazed, however. He couldn't go a metacycle without someone commenting on his protocols-but the order to actually change them never came. Worthless though they all were, even High Command understood the folly of interfering with his process-even if it was only because they were also reaping the benefits. "I'm sure you do, Smokescreen, and I'm sure the moment I assume otherwise will be quite the tragedy."
Jazz laughed. "Leave Red alone, Smokey. I like the gig he's got running. "
Red Alert preened at the endorsement. It didn't matter if he got one or not-but it was always nice to be appreciated. It wasn't like it was an easy job, anyway. He preferred to work from the viewpoint that everything was somehow compromised and build them up to a suitable level of operational security-it took a ridiculous amount of work to wring that level of efficiency out of any set-up. For the uninitiated, Red's protocols stank of paranoia and exaggerated problems, but the fact of the matter was once Red Alert declared something secured, it took an act of Primus to bypass his checks. The success rate of Decepticon infiltration had dropped 83% since he'd taken over Security & Intelligence, and from there he'd methodically pried apart every section of the Army until almost all Decepticon sympathizers and moles had been found and deal with. If there were any left, they were so deep under-cover they probably didn't even know they weren't loyal Autobots, and Red Alert would be all over them the moment they decided otherwise.
Red refused to relax his measures or assume that things were truly secured; his philosophy was that complacency was the mortal enemy of security. That included assuming that his own measures couldn't be bypassed; to that point he'd installed enough active protocols all over the base instead of just at the security checkpoints that if a Decepticon actually managed to infiltrate and survive the clearance grid, they'd be regretting it the rest of their (drastically shortened) life.
"That's right, Smokescreen; leave me alone or I might just forget to update your security tags; I did just upgrade the defense grid after all."
Jazz perked up at that announcement. "More scanners?"
"Turrets."
"Turrets?" Jazz's visor brightened. "Inside?"
"Lots and lots of turrets."
Jazz and Red Alert shared wicked grins, which prompted Smokescreen to shake his head at the most vicious members of their cadre.
"What if someone trips it accidentally?"
Red Alert shrugged. "That's what the security tags are for-they don't fire on up to date tags. I sent out a memo."
"And if they didn't read the memo? You can't just-"
"Never mind any of that, Smokescreen; how am I a dead mech, Red?" Prowl demanded.
"Ah! Here. I come bearing gifts." Red Alert produced a glowing blue cube of energon from his subspace. Medical grade energon. With a glyph carved into the container in Ratchet's precise hand: Slagger.
Ratchet definitely wasn't pleased with him, then.
"What happened? Did Ratchet run inventory?"
"Yeah, and shook down First Aid for answers." Jazz shook his head sadly. "Poor scraplet's probably too unnerved to even think straight right now."
"But to be fair, we sold you out first." Red Alert clarified. "We turned him loose on you while you were out, and Wheeljack hijacked the report because it involved "experimental engineering" and security locked it, at which point Jazz appropriated it for Ops under the claim the "experimental engineering" might have applications in other Ops missions, and stashed it in Black Archives, so there's no way High Command's getting hold of it."
Prowl believed him. The Black Archives were the most secure vault that Ops had, and where Jazz stashed his nastiest, dirtiest, most classified material. The only person with access was Prime himself, and Prowl suspected that Jazz had coded most of-if not all-the material inside to self-destruct if Prime's passcode were ever used for entry because Optimus most certainly would not approve of anything Jazz kept inside the vault.
Prowl grimaced. "I imagine Ratchet's none too pleased you tampered with his records."
Jazz made an ugly sound. "To put it mildly. Wheeljack's going to shuffle off to the Beta Chiron outpost and lay low for a while. Ratchet was mad. Still is.I'm honestly hoping he gets to you first-maybe he'll work off some of that killing urge he's been nursing before he turns on me and Elita."
Prowl shuddered as he remembered the medical alert that had gone off the instant he'd hacked his door. "How long do I have before Ratchet rears his head?"
Red Alert shrugged. "I told him I'd have to find you."
"So a few breems." Prowl grumped as he unsealed the vibrant blue energon cube.
"Well, possibly a joor, maybe even two. I haven't informed Ratchet I've found you yet."
Prowl lowered his cube incredulously. Red Alert was not one to thwart Ratchet so flagrantly.
Seeing the unspoken demand for an explanation, Red Alert quirked a brief smile. "No one-especially I-wants him go off anytime soon. At least, not before I barricade myself back in my security center. I think the only one not on his slag-list is Smokescreen, to be honest."
"Thank you?" Prowl ventured carefully.
"You are quite welcome, and may repay me by never putting me through such a situation again." Red Alert added, narrowing his gaze at Prowl.
"Same goes for the rest of us." Jazz chimed in.
"Noted." Prowl grimaced as discomfort washed over him. It would be a few cycles more before he'd work through the stim-run he'd been on and that particular reaction to energon faded.
[Prowl?] Jazz commed him, and there was a glint in his visor that Prowl caught when he glanced back at the saboteur, and he realized that if he said he wasn't Jazz would flat out loot the medbay if it came down to it, and frag what Ratchet had to say about it. Even Red Alert and Smokescreen were surreptitiously watching him now, and Prowl didn't doubt that the moment he said "I need" there would be a flurry of private comms and strategic maneuvering and his comrades would stand ready, poised for action as soon as he finished speaking. It was a familiar situation-he'd been in that same spot for all of them at one point or another. Was it honestly so surprising that they were prepared to do the same, now that it was his turn?
Prowl frowned to himself. Levitacus was right. Somewhere, in that dark pit he'd let himself fall into, he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone in this. The road ahead was going to be long and steep and bumpy, but it would be better for the company. And there would be company...
The barest hint of a smirk, fleeting though it was, showed up on his face as he addressed their concern out loud. "Med-grade tastes like slag."
Smokescreen's engine revved in amusement, and they all seemed to settle back in on themselves.
Jazz shifted to make himself more comfortable, then moved up to Prowl's other side, ignoring Red's huff of disgust and muttered "Assassins fantasize about opportunities like this."
[You cool, mech?]
[…Maybe not entirely, but I know you have my back. All of you do. That…means a lot, right now.]
[And always will.] Jazz agreed easily.