Because zomgitsalaura wanted more Protectobots
and I am a slow writer, but she made puppy optics - argh! My current NaNo I'm working on still has a long way to go before it's presentable, but I do have a longish fic that was the second half of my NaNoWriMo from two years ago. I never posted it because it involved what amounts to the Cybertronian equivalent of non-con of a minor (which is something generally unheard of in my AU, given the rarity of sparklings) - in no way gratuitous, but still, I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, or how to go about warning or explaining it. I'm overthinking things, probably, but it does have parts I'm very fond of, that I think folks would enjoy so...here ya go. Please please read and heed warnings, k?
Title: Taken 1/4 ( Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4)
Characters: Hot Spot, First Aid, Silverbolt, Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus
Rating: M for mature themes
Word Count: 4206
Summary: First Aid has been taken hostage by a rogue group of Decepticons. Hot Spot and Silverbolt go to get him back.
Warnings: for this chapter - angst, a bit of leftover NaNo rambly. Possible triggery material in next three chapters - heavy angst and strongly implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor.
Groove was furious. It wasn’t obvious at first glance; he was barely moving, but those who knew him well could tell. Every servo and joint was rigid, his armor trembling just visibly. His hands were clenched and his optics burned fiercely, and there was no mistaking it in his voice.
“You traded his life for mine,” he said to Hot Spot, gritting the words out, nothing like the usual easy rolling rise and fall of his voice.
“I didn’t have a choice.” Hot Spot’s voice started out steady enough, but slowly rose in volume until he was almost shouting. “They needed a medic. They did not need an injured scout for a hostage-you would have slowed them down! They would have killed you the minute they were out of range.”
Streetwise, watching Hot Spot, feeling the way Groove was blocking him out, couldn’t stand it any longer. “You think he doesn’t know that? You’re not helping, Groove, he made the only choice he could! Just drop it ok? Just drop it.” Streetwise ended almost on a sob.
Blades entered the fray. “It’s been five orns. Why are we just standing around here? We should be out there looking for him!”
“What do you think we’ve been doing? We’ve looked, everyone’s looked…Primus…”
“They know what they’ve got. Do you think they’re going to just give him back? This never should have happened!”
“Quiet! Just…just be QUIET!”
“We’ll get him back. We know he’s alive and we’ll get him back.”
“WHAT IF WE DON’T!” Groove screamed, and then backed away from them all, expression suddenly vulnerable, desperate. “What if we never…never…get…him….”
“We will.” Hot Spot. Quietly. And then quieter still, a whisper really, but in it was all the power of a cannon blast. “We. will.”
Groove stared at him a long moment, vents hitching with repressed sobs. He bowed his head, put his face in his hands, and Hot Spot stepped forward, drew him in. They were both shaking. “I’m sorry,” Hot Spot whispered in Groove’s audios. “I’m sorry.”
Groove shook his head against Hot Spot’s chest. “I don’t know why I’m yelling at you,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I know exactly whose idea it was. You never can say no to him.”
“Like you could?” Hot Spot rumbled. “We know he’s alive,” Hot Spot continued, trying not to sound too much like he was trying to convince himself. “He’ll be fine. They need him.”
“We need him more,” Blades mumbled, from where he was standing over Streetwise, who was sitting curled in a miserable ball on the ground, hands over his audios.
Hot Spot sighed and tugged Groove with him to sit on the ground with Streetwise and they all huddled together wearily, quiet while the tumult of emotions echoed through them, sharing grief-anger and Hot Spot’s frantic resolve and the inconsolable yearning to have First Aid back in his place, that silence in their sparks which was the wrong kind of silence, which should have been filled with First Aid’s silence, that deceptively gentle strength. It left them feeling unbalanced, unsure. Made them shout at one another when burning terrible broken things came tearing from their vocalizers. They didn’t like it. No more of that please, it hurts us, they agreed, squirming closer, pressing as close together as possible, comfort-hope-comfort-pain.
A vocalizer reset itself uncomfortably, somewhere nearby, and they all looked up blinking, to see Silverbolt standing there. He looked uncertain, not sure what to say. Protectobots, arguing. Protectobots screaming at one another. This was a minor little spat by Aerialbot standards-no one had even tried to throw a punch-but witnessing it left his spark pounding as if the air had suddenly given out beneath his wings. Only two vorns old, even if they'd known First Aid was safe this type of separation would have been hard for them, but they'd been holding together remarkably well up until now.
Silverbolt had watched them huddle together and end their conflict with the sense of planets falling back into orbit, stars aligning and going back to their proper place. He hesitated to interrupt, on many levels. He might be making a huge mistake, telling them this…but were he in their armor…he would want to be told. He hoped he wasn’t about to get them all killed, but negotiations with the Decepticons were getting nowhere despite Prime’s best efforts. It was a rogue group that had taken First Aid; even the Decepticon high command didn’t know where they were. Wheeljack, Ironhide, and Mirage had left an orn ago, following some sort of lead, but no one would give them any information about it.
“Skydive was given a message,” he told Hot Spot, who scrambled to his feet with the other three right behind him.
“Message…” Hot Spot gripped hope tightly, gripped Silverbolt fiercely by the arms.
“By a ‘Con who claims to have him. Ground model. Skydive didn’t recognize him, but he was alone and well into Autobot territory, and he knew your name.” A sign that the ‘Con actually had had contact with their missing brother. There would be very few in the Decepticon ranks that would know Hot Spot by name. “He wants to meet. Just you, no one else or everything is off. At moonset, by the ruins.” Silverbolt gave him the coordinates. The area was a warren of half-collapsed tunnels and corroded buildings, just outside the border. Any number of things could be hidden there.
“Hot Spot, it could very well be a trap,” Silverbolt cautioned, and Hot Spot nodded, expression sharp and calculating. No fool, was Hot Spot, even in his desperate fear for his brother.
“They’ll never let me go,” Hot Spot said. Moonset was a mere four breems away. The smaller of Cybertron's two moons had already set; the larger was a dim red orb, glowing with reflected light from Cybertron, just beginning to graze the horizon. They would need to leave now, no time for discussion, going through the proper channels, taking the proper precautions.
“I know. We haven’t told anyone else,” Silverbolt said. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll help.” He could feel Slingshot pushing at him impatiently again from where he was patrolling, just out of sight but not out of sensing. Forget help, he was ready to go in with all guns blazing. Silverbolt sent calm, patience. //This has to be Hot Spot's decision// Slingshot countered with a burst of wordless frustration, but he would wait. For now.
The other three Protectobots clustered close behind Hot Spot, expressions shifting between hopeful and rebellious. None of them liked the idea of Hot Spot going alone. Not at all. Hot Spot didn't say anything, just turned and embraced them, pressing his forehead against Groove's for a long moment, brushing a hand over Streetwise, wrapping an arm around Blades' neck and tugging him close.
"Ok," he said simply, turning back to Silverbolt with steady resolve. "Let's go."
oooooOOOOOooooo
Please let this not be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, Silverbolt thought, in a jumbled but still sparkfelt plea to Primus as he dropped Hot Spot off on the far edge of his patrol route. Never trust a Decepticon. They had learned that lesson the hard way, and Hot Spot was smart and strong and he could take care of himself, but Silverbolt would never forgive himself if this all went wrong.
The coordinates the ‘Con had given Skydive were not far. Hot Spot could drive from here. Silverbolt and Slingshot (and Air Raid and Skydive and Fireflight, who thought he didn’t know they were lurking just out of sensor range) would wait for his comm. signal, ready to go in with all guns firing if needed.
“Be careful,” Silverbolt said, gripping Hot Spot tightly by the shoulders. "Some of the roads may be rusted out, and watch out for automatic defenses, a few could still be functioning." Hot Spot nodded, forbearing to mention that safely navigating dangerous ground terrain was much more his area of expertise than Silverbolt's. Hot Spot was tense in his grasp, shivering faintly like a cyberhound about to be released to the hunt. Silverbolt squeezed his shoulders one last time and then released him reluctantly. Hot Spot's battle mask was up, but he gave Silverbolt a quick and seeming confident gleam of his optics before transforming and heading across the rickety old bridge that let to the ruins. Silverbolt watched him go, while Slingshot paced impatiently behind him. It shouldn't take long, whatever happened.
//One breem. Then I'm going in// Slingshot sent, powering up his thrusters.
//Two. Give him two at least//
//One and a half//
//Deal//
oooooOOOOOooooo
Hot Spot trundled forward over the uneven roads in his alt mode as far as he could, the surface crunching and crumbling unpleasantly beneath his wheels. He reached a place where sections of collapsed roadway made further travel in alt mode impossible, so he transformed to cautiously walk the rest of the way to the specified coordinates, wondering what price the Decepticon would demand for First Aid's life, wondering how far he would go to pay it…Hot Spot glanced up from the broken roadway and stopped abruptly as if caught in a magnetic beam. It was an illusion. Not real, it couldn't be. Not First Aid kneeling quietly by the side of the road, wrists and legs bound, blindfolded with a length of polyflex wrapped around his helm. There was no change in the faint glimmering in the gestalt bond that had been the only reassurance First Aid was alive for nearly five orns. Only calm, only quiet, and the sparkwrenchingly familiar shape so impossibly there.
Hot Spot knelt himself in front of the illusion, removed the blindfold, and First Aid said, “Hot Spot,” in a voice only faintly surprised, his visor gleaming soft blue.
“You were expecting someone else?” Hot Spot asked him, in a calm reasonable voice that was also an illusion.
“Death, actually,” First Aid replied, tilting his head up so he could see Hot Spot better.
“I’m better than death, yes?”
First Aid nodded solemnly. “Much better.” The faint glimmering in the bond that was First Aid flared to life suddenly, and Hot Spot's spark leaped in his chest with a joy so intense it felt like pain as First Aid was suddenly, irrefutably real, not trick, not illusion, real, solid red-and-white shape as familiar as his own armor, beloved and safe in his arms.
Time skipped and blurred from there. The next thing Hot Spot clearly remembered was trying to hand First Aid to Silverbolt and telling Silverbolt over and over “get him out of here, get him back,” only he couldn’t seem to let go of First Aid, and First Aid was whispering in his audios, “I’m ok, it’s alright, Hot Spot, I’m ok, shhh, calm down, it’s alright now.”
“I’m fine, Aid,” Hot Spot said, in his far-too-calm voice, completely failing to loosen his death grip on First Aid.
“Here, let Slingshot take him. I’ll carry you and we’ll get you both back together,” Silverbolt tried to get through his friend. “Hot Spot? Are you hearing me?”
“You’re kind of hurting me, Hot Spot,” First Aid said softly. “Can you loosen up a little?”
Hot Spot immediately let go of First Aid, looking horrified, and First Aid wrapped both of his own arms around him. “Stop that! It was just a little tight, I’m fine.” Hot Spot’s arms rose again to hug First Aid, loosely this time, before he pulled away and let Slingshot gather First Aid up.
“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry,” Slingshot said, and Hot Spot nodded. “Thank you, Slingshot, Silverbolt. Thank you.”
Silverbolt made sure Hot Spot was secure. “You’ve got him, Hot Spot. It looks like he’s all in one piece too." Silverbolt laughed a little incredulously. After all of the searching and worrying, and just like that, a little walk in the ruins, they had him back. "You can freak out now if you want.”
Hot Spot let out a shaky laugh at that. “I am freaking out. Can’t you tell?”
“Pathetic. You call this a freak out? I’ll have to give you lessons." Silverbolt paused to ping the watchtower. “We’ll be in comm. range soon.”
“They already know,” Hot Spot said, and now Silverbolt could feel him shivering, reaction and reality setting in at last, and there was a buzz-zing of the Protectobot gestalt bond at full tilt, just on the edge of his perception.
//You've got him?// Skydive and Fireflight demanded, mental voices overlapping.
//I've got him// Slingshot sent, before Silverbolt could reply, as proud as if he'd fought his way through a wing of Seekers to rescue First Aid singlehandedly. //He's fine//
//Hot damn!//
Silverbolt could hear Air Raid's engines as he whooped and made several celebratory barrel rolls, and Fireflight giggling as he tried to follow Air Raid's flight path. Skydive sent reassurance before Silverbolt could start to worry. //Plenty of altitude, they're fine. I'll keep an optic on him//
The other three Protectobots met them at the landing pad at a dead run. Hot Spot grabbed them before they could get to First Aid. “Easy. Take it easy. No pummeling.” They slowed, approaching First Aid with exaggerated caution, until First Aid laughed at them and pounced. They tumbled into an ecstatic pile on the ground until Ratchet waded in, shouting threats, to haul First Aid to the medbay. Silverbolt was startled by First Aid’s expression (trepidation maybe?) when he saw Ratchet. The other four Protectobots seemed to have sensed something, too; Silverbolt could almost see the ripple of concern go through them as they looked at First Aid in quick succession. It was a brief moment, less than a klik, and then Ratchet was giving First Aid his usual dressing down he reserved for mechs that put themselves in danger and scared him sparkless. First Aid was attempting to look properly contrite, but there was a tiny, patient smile lurking, and Silverbolt decided he must have been imagining things.
Silverbolt and Slingshot headed back to the rec room to refuel and spread the good news (Slingshot's part in the whole affair seemed to be growing more extensive with every retelling, Silverbolt noted with amusement). Fireflight joined them later to report that Ratchet had released First Aid from the medbay with no major damages and orders to get some rest. The Protectobots were in their quarters with Optimus, and Prowl had holed himself up in the medbay with Ratchet. Silverbolt winced and got up from their table to start heading that way. Might as well go face the music. No sooner than he started, he got the comm. from Prowl.
Silverbolt?
Yes, sir?
Report to medbay, immediately.
On my way, sir.
Oh yeah. He was in it deep this time, but Silverbolt couldn't make himself regret it. When he got to the medbay Prowl and Ratchet's voices filtered clearly through the cracked open door to Ratchet’s office. Silverbolt stood outside, not meaning to eavesdrop, but they were talking about First Aid, and Silverbolt remembered that brief apprehensive expression he'd noticed earlier.
“So are you saying you think he’s been hacked?” Prowl asked.
“No! Nothing like that, no," Ratchet was quick to reassure him. "His CPU scan was clean. I’m just saying there’s something else going on. He was twitchy as a glitch mouse in a trap when I examined him.”
"But you said there were no signs of major damage, and his report to me didn't indicate mistreatment. Could he have been lying?"
“They weren't exactly gentle with him." Ratchet's voice was low growl. Silverbolt felt his fists clench as he leaned closer to the door. If those fraggers had hurt First Aid.... "But yes, no major damages, nothing that won't heal on its own now that he's got some real fuel in him instead of whatever slag they were subsisting on. He was just being...evasive." Ratchet sighed. "I don't know, maybe I'm overreacting."
"There are methods that don't leave detectable signs, but they wouldn't have a reason to torture him for information," Prowl said dispassionately. "He'd be more valuable to them as a medic." Silverbolt had to turn and pace the length of the medbay for a moment. Torture. First Aid was still a sparkling. Even the Decepticons wouldn't...Silverbolt tried to convince himself, didn't want to even consider the possibility, but he knew firsthand there were those in Decepticon ranks that were certainly capable of such things. And this was a rogue group, operating outside even what limited conventions of warfare the Decepticons claimed to follow.
“I could see them coercing him maybe," Ratchet was saying when he returned to listen at the door. "Even if it wasn’t a direct hack, they might be holding someone else hostage or in danger to try to force him to sabotage base security.”
Silverbolt snorted silently at that. First Aid sabotaging the base? That he’d believe when Pit froze over. Sneaking injured Decepticons medical supplies…that he might almost believe. If a mech was in need, First Aid would treat them regardless of faction if he could, except he knew First Aid would never deliberately put his teammates or other Autobots at risk to do so.
“He didn’t know why they let him go?” Prowl asked.
“No. He...thought he was being executed when he was blindfolded.”
“Primus.” Prowl sounded as close to appalled as Silverbolt had ever heard him. Silverbolt forgave him for earlier, when he'd been talking so calmly about the possibility of First Aid being tortured.
There was silence for awhile, and Silverbolt moved a step closer to the door.
“What do you recommend?” Prowl said finally.
“Wheeljack and Ironhide are on their way back-they’re due to arrive in half an orn. First Aid might be more willing to open up to Wheeljack." Silverbolt nodded a little to himself, thinking of the engineer who might as well be their creator. No matter how badly he screwed things up, he knew he could always go to Wheeljack. Or Optimus, for when he really screwed up. "We could try having Smokescreen talk to him in the meantime, but I think being with his teammates is probably the best thing for him right now. They won’t let him keep any secrets for long. I honestly don’t think he’s any sort of security risk, but we’ll keep a close optic on him, and I’m sure Silverbolt will help in that regard. Won’t you, Silverbolt.”
Silverbolt jumped guiltily, and then jumped again as a second voice behind him said, “Yes, I’m sure we can count on you, can't we.”
Optimus. How the Pit could a mech that big come up behind him so quietly, Silverbolt wondered, as he sheepishly pushed open the door.
“Come in and join us,” Prowl said. Optimus casually took a seat across from Prowl and Ratchet, but Silverbolt remained standing, trying not to fidget as Prowl looked him over. “Speaking of security risks…you should have reported that communication immediately.”
Silverbolt forced himself to meet Prowl’s optics squarely. “I felt we had to act quickly or lose the chance, sir. It would have taken time to plot out a course of action, time we didn’t have, so I made what I thought was the best choice. I would never betray the Autobots. Sir. Neither would the Protectobots. Neither would First Aid,” he finished with a hint of accusation in his voice.
“We’re not accusing him of anything, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, leaning forward. “We’re just concerned. Being new construction is not necessarily protection against some of the Decepticons’…harsher methods, as well you know.”
Silverbolt nodded stiffly, and Optimus gave him a searching look.
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed you didn’t tell us, that you didn’t trust that we would do everything in our power to get First Aid back, but given the circumstances…I can understand the choice you made. I just had to talk Hot Spot out of putting himself and his team on extra clean-up detail for the next three orns. What sort of punishment do you think I should talk you out of?” Silverbolt glanced at Prowl, who was frowning at Optimus, but made no protest.
Silverbolt thought it over. He'd taken a very big risk. His fuel still wanted to run cold when he thought of how differently it could have all turned out. “Ah…three orns in the brig?” He winced inwardly, but if he could keep the rest of his teammates out of it, all the better.
“Seems rather harsh,” Optimus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“We’re older, more experienced. The Protectobots were under a lot of strain and were probably not thinking clearly, but we should have known better.”
“You’re not making this easy, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, voice stern, but Silverbolt could see his optics glinting in amusement. Oh! How dense could he be?
“It did work though,” Silverbolt pointed out, and Optimus suppressed a smile as the Aerialbot commander caught on at last. “We got First Aid back, and no one was damaged.” Silverbolt put on his best innocent contrite look. “We won’t ever do it again.”
Optimus laughed. “Very well, you’re off the hook for now, but I expect exemplary behavior from all of you for the next…oh say, ten orns. Then you’re free to go back to your usual shenanigans, but you will, of course, be at the risk of Prowl and Ironhide's tender mercies. Now have a seat." Optimus tapped the stool next to him with one foot. "I want your input here, too.”
“What were your impressions, Optimus?” Ratchet asked.
“He seemed tired, of course, but other than that...cheerful, wants to go back on duty next shift, apologized for the trouble and worry. Wanted to check my oil pressure and coolant levels." They all shared amused smiles. "All of them have held up admirably through this whole ordeal, but yes. I did get the impression…” Optimus let his voice trail off. “I didn’t stay long; they obviously just needed some time together.”
“Sir, if you sensed something was wrong, there’s no doubt the rest of the Protectobots know it, too,” Silverbolt said confidently. “They know how he works. My guess is that jumping in right now and trying to fix things without knowing exactly what’s going on will do a lot more harm than good. Just give them some time.”
“Prowl?” Optimus asked, looking at his second in command.
“Time. I suppose I can give them time. I can put them on light duty rotation.”
Silverbolt didn’t quite repress his snort in time, and Optimus looked at him in amusement. “You’re right, it’ll be a hard sell,” Optimus said, followed by a laugh. “How is it all of our meetings about the Protectobots turn into discussions of how to keep them from working themselves into stasis lock?”
“You have meetings about them?” Silverbolt asked.
“Not as many as we do about you guys,” Ratchet smirked. “Except in Aerialbot meetings we’re usually discussing how we can prevent you from working us into stasis lock.”
“Hey!” Silverbolt protested, “I thought we agreed, no rubbing it in.”
Optimus chuckled, amused again. He was in a good mood, Silverbolt thought. Happy they had First Aid back safe and (hopefully) sound. He knew Optimus had been deeply troubled when the negotiations had reached a dead end, and not only because of the potential strategic loss of a junior medic and the likely incapacitation of a gestalt team. Optimus had always taken a personal interest in the members of both gestalt teams-of course, it was hard not to have a soft spot for First Aid, but Silverbolt knew he would have been the same had it been any one of them. Any of the Autobots, for that matter.
Optimus was looking at him, still smiling, but a little thoughtful. “It’s never easy, being the first one.” Silverbolt tilted his head, inquiring. “The Protectobots, while certainly unique in their…precociousness, have also reaped the benefits of all of your mistakes, and in many ways their path has been easier because you walked it before them. I don’t think any of us fully realized the difficulty of the task we asked of you, to be a gestalt leader with no blueprint, no training manual of how such a thing could be done, but you paved the way down an unknown road. You should be proud, of yourself, of your team, and of what you have become.”
Silverbolt couldn’t quite meet Optimus’ gaze as he tried very hard not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat at the praise. He risked quick glances at Prowl and Ratchet, and they were both nodding in agreement, Ratchet smiling slightly, Prowl serious, but the rare approval in his expression made Silverbolt suddenly hold his head up higher and straighten his shoulders where he sat. He wanted to say something to Optimus, something about how much his unwavering support and belief in them had meant, but his vocalizer would not cooperate. The best he could manage was a slightly squeaky and inadequate, “Thank you. Thank you, sir,” as he got up and exited Ratchet’s office with as much dignity as he could manage, glowing inwardly with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment.
Title: Taken 1/4 ( Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4)
Characters: Hot Spot, First Aid, Silverbolt, Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus
Rating: M for mature themes
Word Count: 4206
Summary: First Aid has been taken hostage by a rogue group of Decepticons. Hot Spot and Silverbolt go to get him back.
Warnings: for this chapter - angst, a bit of leftover NaNo rambly. Possible triggery material in next three chapters - heavy angst and strongly implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor.
Groove was furious. It wasn’t obvious at first glance; he was barely moving, but those who knew him well could tell. Every servo and joint was rigid, his armor trembling just visibly. His hands were clenched and his optics burned fiercely, and there was no mistaking it in his voice.
“You traded his life for mine,” he said to Hot Spot, gritting the words out, nothing like the usual easy rolling rise and fall of his voice.
“I didn’t have a choice.” Hot Spot’s voice started out steady enough, but slowly rose in volume until he was almost shouting. “They needed a medic. They did not need an injured scout for a hostage-you would have slowed them down! They would have killed you the minute they were out of range.”
Streetwise, watching Hot Spot, feeling the way Groove was blocking him out, couldn’t stand it any longer. “You think he doesn’t know that? You’re not helping, Groove, he made the only choice he could! Just drop it ok? Just drop it.” Streetwise ended almost on a sob.
Blades entered the fray. “It’s been five orns. Why are we just standing around here? We should be out there looking for him!”
“What do you think we’ve been doing? We’ve looked, everyone’s looked…Primus…”
“They know what they’ve got. Do you think they’re going to just give him back? This never should have happened!”
“Quiet! Just…just be QUIET!”
“We’ll get him back. We know he’s alive and we’ll get him back.”
“WHAT IF WE DON’T!” Groove screamed, and then backed away from them all, expression suddenly vulnerable, desperate. “What if we never…never…get…him….”
“We will.” Hot Spot. Quietly. And then quieter still, a whisper really, but in it was all the power of a cannon blast. “We. will.”
Groove stared at him a long moment, vents hitching with repressed sobs. He bowed his head, put his face in his hands, and Hot Spot stepped forward, drew him in. They were both shaking. “I’m sorry,” Hot Spot whispered in Groove’s audios. “I’m sorry.”
Groove shook his head against Hot Spot’s chest. “I don’t know why I’m yelling at you,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I know exactly whose idea it was. You never can say no to him.”
“Like you could?” Hot Spot rumbled. “We know he’s alive,” Hot Spot continued, trying not to sound too much like he was trying to convince himself. “He’ll be fine. They need him.”
“We need him more,” Blades mumbled, from where he was standing over Streetwise, who was sitting curled in a miserable ball on the ground, hands over his audios.
Hot Spot sighed and tugged Groove with him to sit on the ground with Streetwise and they all huddled together wearily, quiet while the tumult of emotions echoed through them, sharing grief-anger and Hot Spot’s frantic resolve and the inconsolable yearning to have First Aid back in his place, that silence in their sparks which was the wrong kind of silence, which should have been filled with First Aid’s silence, that deceptively gentle strength. It left them feeling unbalanced, unsure. Made them shout at one another when burning terrible broken things came tearing from their vocalizers. They didn’t like it. No more of that please, it hurts us, they agreed, squirming closer, pressing as close together as possible, comfort-hope-comfort-pain.
A vocalizer reset itself uncomfortably, somewhere nearby, and they all looked up blinking, to see Silverbolt standing there. He looked uncertain, not sure what to say. Protectobots, arguing. Protectobots screaming at one another. This was a minor little spat by Aerialbot standards-no one had even tried to throw a punch-but witnessing it left his spark pounding as if the air had suddenly given out beneath his wings. Only two vorns old, even if they'd known First Aid was safe this type of separation would have been hard for them, but they'd been holding together remarkably well up until now.
Silverbolt had watched them huddle together and end their conflict with the sense of planets falling back into orbit, stars aligning and going back to their proper place. He hesitated to interrupt, on many levels. He might be making a huge mistake, telling them this…but were he in their armor…he would want to be told. He hoped he wasn’t about to get them all killed, but negotiations with the Decepticons were getting nowhere despite Prime’s best efforts. It was a rogue group that had taken First Aid; even the Decepticon high command didn’t know where they were. Wheeljack, Ironhide, and Mirage had left an orn ago, following some sort of lead, but no one would give them any information about it.
“Skydive was given a message,” he told Hot Spot, who scrambled to his feet with the other three right behind him.
“Message…” Hot Spot gripped hope tightly, gripped Silverbolt fiercely by the arms.
“By a ‘Con who claims to have him. Ground model. Skydive didn’t recognize him, but he was alone and well into Autobot territory, and he knew your name.” A sign that the ‘Con actually had had contact with their missing brother. There would be very few in the Decepticon ranks that would know Hot Spot by name. “He wants to meet. Just you, no one else or everything is off. At moonset, by the ruins.” Silverbolt gave him the coordinates. The area was a warren of half-collapsed tunnels and corroded buildings, just outside the border. Any number of things could be hidden there.
“Hot Spot, it could very well be a trap,” Silverbolt cautioned, and Hot Spot nodded, expression sharp and calculating. No fool, was Hot Spot, even in his desperate fear for his brother.
“They’ll never let me go,” Hot Spot said. Moonset was a mere four breems away. The smaller of Cybertron's two moons had already set; the larger was a dim red orb, glowing with reflected light from Cybertron, just beginning to graze the horizon. They would need to leave now, no time for discussion, going through the proper channels, taking the proper precautions.
“I know. We haven’t told anyone else,” Silverbolt said. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll help.” He could feel Slingshot pushing at him impatiently again from where he was patrolling, just out of sight but not out of sensing. Forget help, he was ready to go in with all guns blazing. Silverbolt sent calm, patience. //This has to be Hot Spot's decision// Slingshot countered with a burst of wordless frustration, but he would wait. For now.
The other three Protectobots clustered close behind Hot Spot, expressions shifting between hopeful and rebellious. None of them liked the idea of Hot Spot going alone. Not at all. Hot Spot didn't say anything, just turned and embraced them, pressing his forehead against Groove's for a long moment, brushing a hand over Streetwise, wrapping an arm around Blades' neck and tugging him close.
"Ok," he said simply, turning back to Silverbolt with steady resolve. "Let's go."
oooooOOOOOooooo
Please let this not be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, Silverbolt thought, in a jumbled but still sparkfelt plea to Primus as he dropped Hot Spot off on the far edge of his patrol route. Never trust a Decepticon. They had learned that lesson the hard way, and Hot Spot was smart and strong and he could take care of himself, but Silverbolt would never forgive himself if this all went wrong.
The coordinates the ‘Con had given Skydive were not far. Hot Spot could drive from here. Silverbolt and Slingshot (and Air Raid and Skydive and Fireflight, who thought he didn’t know they were lurking just out of sensor range) would wait for his comm. signal, ready to go in with all guns firing if needed.
“Be careful,” Silverbolt said, gripping Hot Spot tightly by the shoulders. "Some of the roads may be rusted out, and watch out for automatic defenses, a few could still be functioning." Hot Spot nodded, forbearing to mention that safely navigating dangerous ground terrain was much more his area of expertise than Silverbolt's. Hot Spot was tense in his grasp, shivering faintly like a cyberhound about to be released to the hunt. Silverbolt squeezed his shoulders one last time and then released him reluctantly. Hot Spot's battle mask was up, but he gave Silverbolt a quick and seeming confident gleam of his optics before transforming and heading across the rickety old bridge that let to the ruins. Silverbolt watched him go, while Slingshot paced impatiently behind him. It shouldn't take long, whatever happened.
//One breem. Then I'm going in// Slingshot sent, powering up his thrusters.
//Two. Give him two at least//
//One and a half//
//Deal//
oooooOOOOOooooo
Hot Spot trundled forward over the uneven roads in his alt mode as far as he could, the surface crunching and crumbling unpleasantly beneath his wheels. He reached a place where sections of collapsed roadway made further travel in alt mode impossible, so he transformed to cautiously walk the rest of the way to the specified coordinates, wondering what price the Decepticon would demand for First Aid's life, wondering how far he would go to pay it…Hot Spot glanced up from the broken roadway and stopped abruptly as if caught in a magnetic beam. It was an illusion. Not real, it couldn't be. Not First Aid kneeling quietly by the side of the road, wrists and legs bound, blindfolded with a length of polyflex wrapped around his helm. There was no change in the faint glimmering in the gestalt bond that had been the only reassurance First Aid was alive for nearly five orns. Only calm, only quiet, and the sparkwrenchingly familiar shape so impossibly there.
Hot Spot knelt himself in front of the illusion, removed the blindfold, and First Aid said, “Hot Spot,” in a voice only faintly surprised, his visor gleaming soft blue.
“You were expecting someone else?” Hot Spot asked him, in a calm reasonable voice that was also an illusion.
“Death, actually,” First Aid replied, tilting his head up so he could see Hot Spot better.
“I’m better than death, yes?”
First Aid nodded solemnly. “Much better.” The faint glimmering in the bond that was First Aid flared to life suddenly, and Hot Spot's spark leaped in his chest with a joy so intense it felt like pain as First Aid was suddenly, irrefutably real, not trick, not illusion, real, solid red-and-white shape as familiar as his own armor, beloved and safe in his arms.
Time skipped and blurred from there. The next thing Hot Spot clearly remembered was trying to hand First Aid to Silverbolt and telling Silverbolt over and over “get him out of here, get him back,” only he couldn’t seem to let go of First Aid, and First Aid was whispering in his audios, “I’m ok, it’s alright, Hot Spot, I’m ok, shhh, calm down, it’s alright now.”
“I’m fine, Aid,” Hot Spot said, in his far-too-calm voice, completely failing to loosen his death grip on First Aid.
“Here, let Slingshot take him. I’ll carry you and we’ll get you both back together,” Silverbolt tried to get through his friend. “Hot Spot? Are you hearing me?”
“You’re kind of hurting me, Hot Spot,” First Aid said softly. “Can you loosen up a little?”
Hot Spot immediately let go of First Aid, looking horrified, and First Aid wrapped both of his own arms around him. “Stop that! It was just a little tight, I’m fine.” Hot Spot’s arms rose again to hug First Aid, loosely this time, before he pulled away and let Slingshot gather First Aid up.
“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry,” Slingshot said, and Hot Spot nodded. “Thank you, Slingshot, Silverbolt. Thank you.”
Silverbolt made sure Hot Spot was secure. “You’ve got him, Hot Spot. It looks like he’s all in one piece too." Silverbolt laughed a little incredulously. After all of the searching and worrying, and just like that, a little walk in the ruins, they had him back. "You can freak out now if you want.”
Hot Spot let out a shaky laugh at that. “I am freaking out. Can’t you tell?”
“Pathetic. You call this a freak out? I’ll have to give you lessons." Silverbolt paused to ping the watchtower. “We’ll be in comm. range soon.”
“They already know,” Hot Spot said, and now Silverbolt could feel him shivering, reaction and reality setting in at last, and there was a buzz-zing of the Protectobot gestalt bond at full tilt, just on the edge of his perception.
//You've got him?// Skydive and Fireflight demanded, mental voices overlapping.
//I've got him// Slingshot sent, before Silverbolt could reply, as proud as if he'd fought his way through a wing of Seekers to rescue First Aid singlehandedly. //He's fine//
//Hot damn!//
Silverbolt could hear Air Raid's engines as he whooped and made several celebratory barrel rolls, and Fireflight giggling as he tried to follow Air Raid's flight path. Skydive sent reassurance before Silverbolt could start to worry. //Plenty of altitude, they're fine. I'll keep an optic on him//
The other three Protectobots met them at the landing pad at a dead run. Hot Spot grabbed them before they could get to First Aid. “Easy. Take it easy. No pummeling.” They slowed, approaching First Aid with exaggerated caution, until First Aid laughed at them and pounced. They tumbled into an ecstatic pile on the ground until Ratchet waded in, shouting threats, to haul First Aid to the medbay. Silverbolt was startled by First Aid’s expression (trepidation maybe?) when he saw Ratchet. The other four Protectobots seemed to have sensed something, too; Silverbolt could almost see the ripple of concern go through them as they looked at First Aid in quick succession. It was a brief moment, less than a klik, and then Ratchet was giving First Aid his usual dressing down he reserved for mechs that put themselves in danger and scared him sparkless. First Aid was attempting to look properly contrite, but there was a tiny, patient smile lurking, and Silverbolt decided he must have been imagining things.
Silverbolt and Slingshot headed back to the rec room to refuel and spread the good news (Slingshot's part in the whole affair seemed to be growing more extensive with every retelling, Silverbolt noted with amusement). Fireflight joined them later to report that Ratchet had released First Aid from the medbay with no major damages and orders to get some rest. The Protectobots were in their quarters with Optimus, and Prowl had holed himself up in the medbay with Ratchet. Silverbolt winced and got up from their table to start heading that way. Might as well go face the music. No sooner than he started, he got the comm. from Prowl.
Silverbolt?
Yes, sir?
Report to medbay, immediately.
On my way, sir.
Oh yeah. He was in it deep this time, but Silverbolt couldn't make himself regret it. When he got to the medbay Prowl and Ratchet's voices filtered clearly through the cracked open door to Ratchet’s office. Silverbolt stood outside, not meaning to eavesdrop, but they were talking about First Aid, and Silverbolt remembered that brief apprehensive expression he'd noticed earlier.
“So are you saying you think he’s been hacked?” Prowl asked.
“No! Nothing like that, no," Ratchet was quick to reassure him. "His CPU scan was clean. I’m just saying there’s something else going on. He was twitchy as a glitch mouse in a trap when I examined him.”
"But you said there were no signs of major damage, and his report to me didn't indicate mistreatment. Could he have been lying?"
“They weren't exactly gentle with him." Ratchet's voice was low growl. Silverbolt felt his fists clench as he leaned closer to the door. If those fraggers had hurt First Aid.... "But yes, no major damages, nothing that won't heal on its own now that he's got some real fuel in him instead of whatever slag they were subsisting on. He was just being...evasive." Ratchet sighed. "I don't know, maybe I'm overreacting."
"There are methods that don't leave detectable signs, but they wouldn't have a reason to torture him for information," Prowl said dispassionately. "He'd be more valuable to them as a medic." Silverbolt had to turn and pace the length of the medbay for a moment. Torture. First Aid was still a sparkling. Even the Decepticons wouldn't...Silverbolt tried to convince himself, didn't want to even consider the possibility, but he knew firsthand there were those in Decepticon ranks that were certainly capable of such things. And this was a rogue group, operating outside even what limited conventions of warfare the Decepticons claimed to follow.
“I could see them coercing him maybe," Ratchet was saying when he returned to listen at the door. "Even if it wasn’t a direct hack, they might be holding someone else hostage or in danger to try to force him to sabotage base security.”
Silverbolt snorted silently at that. First Aid sabotaging the base? That he’d believe when Pit froze over. Sneaking injured Decepticons medical supplies…that he might almost believe. If a mech was in need, First Aid would treat them regardless of faction if he could, except he knew First Aid would never deliberately put his teammates or other Autobots at risk to do so.
“He didn’t know why they let him go?” Prowl asked.
“No. He...thought he was being executed when he was blindfolded.”
“Primus.” Prowl sounded as close to appalled as Silverbolt had ever heard him. Silverbolt forgave him for earlier, when he'd been talking so calmly about the possibility of First Aid being tortured.
There was silence for awhile, and Silverbolt moved a step closer to the door.
“What do you recommend?” Prowl said finally.
“Wheeljack and Ironhide are on their way back-they’re due to arrive in half an orn. First Aid might be more willing to open up to Wheeljack." Silverbolt nodded a little to himself, thinking of the engineer who might as well be their creator. No matter how badly he screwed things up, he knew he could always go to Wheeljack. Or Optimus, for when he really screwed up. "We could try having Smokescreen talk to him in the meantime, but I think being with his teammates is probably the best thing for him right now. They won’t let him keep any secrets for long. I honestly don’t think he’s any sort of security risk, but we’ll keep a close optic on him, and I’m sure Silverbolt will help in that regard. Won’t you, Silverbolt.”
Silverbolt jumped guiltily, and then jumped again as a second voice behind him said, “Yes, I’m sure we can count on you, can't we.”
Optimus. How the Pit could a mech that big come up behind him so quietly, Silverbolt wondered, as he sheepishly pushed open the door.
“Come in and join us,” Prowl said. Optimus casually took a seat across from Prowl and Ratchet, but Silverbolt remained standing, trying not to fidget as Prowl looked him over. “Speaking of security risks…you should have reported that communication immediately.”
Silverbolt forced himself to meet Prowl’s optics squarely. “I felt we had to act quickly or lose the chance, sir. It would have taken time to plot out a course of action, time we didn’t have, so I made what I thought was the best choice. I would never betray the Autobots. Sir. Neither would the Protectobots. Neither would First Aid,” he finished with a hint of accusation in his voice.
“We’re not accusing him of anything, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, leaning forward. “We’re just concerned. Being new construction is not necessarily protection against some of the Decepticons’…harsher methods, as well you know.”
Silverbolt nodded stiffly, and Optimus gave him a searching look.
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed you didn’t tell us, that you didn’t trust that we would do everything in our power to get First Aid back, but given the circumstances…I can understand the choice you made. I just had to talk Hot Spot out of putting himself and his team on extra clean-up detail for the next three orns. What sort of punishment do you think I should talk you out of?” Silverbolt glanced at Prowl, who was frowning at Optimus, but made no protest.
Silverbolt thought it over. He'd taken a very big risk. His fuel still wanted to run cold when he thought of how differently it could have all turned out. “Ah…three orns in the brig?” He winced inwardly, but if he could keep the rest of his teammates out of it, all the better.
“Seems rather harsh,” Optimus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“We’re older, more experienced. The Protectobots were under a lot of strain and were probably not thinking clearly, but we should have known better.”
“You’re not making this easy, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, voice stern, but Silverbolt could see his optics glinting in amusement. Oh! How dense could he be?
“It did work though,” Silverbolt pointed out, and Optimus suppressed a smile as the Aerialbot commander caught on at last. “We got First Aid back, and no one was damaged.” Silverbolt put on his best innocent contrite look. “We won’t ever do it again.”
Optimus laughed. “Very well, you’re off the hook for now, but I expect exemplary behavior from all of you for the next…oh say, ten orns. Then you’re free to go back to your usual shenanigans, but you will, of course, be at the risk of Prowl and Ironhide's tender mercies. Now have a seat." Optimus tapped the stool next to him with one foot. "I want your input here, too.”
“What were your impressions, Optimus?” Ratchet asked.
“He seemed tired, of course, but other than that...cheerful, wants to go back on duty next shift, apologized for the trouble and worry. Wanted to check my oil pressure and coolant levels." They all shared amused smiles. "All of them have held up admirably through this whole ordeal, but yes. I did get the impression…” Optimus let his voice trail off. “I didn’t stay long; they obviously just needed some time together.”
“Sir, if you sensed something was wrong, there’s no doubt the rest of the Protectobots know it, too,” Silverbolt said confidently. “They know how he works. My guess is that jumping in right now and trying to fix things without knowing exactly what’s going on will do a lot more harm than good. Just give them some time.”
“Prowl?” Optimus asked, looking at his second in command.
“Time. I suppose I can give them time. I can put them on light duty rotation.”
Silverbolt didn’t quite repress his snort in time, and Optimus looked at him in amusement. “You’re right, it’ll be a hard sell,” Optimus said, followed by a laugh. “How is it all of our meetings about the Protectobots turn into discussions of how to keep them from working themselves into stasis lock?”
“You have meetings about them?” Silverbolt asked.
“Not as many as we do about you guys,” Ratchet smirked. “Except in Aerialbot meetings we’re usually discussing how we can prevent you from working us into stasis lock.”
“Hey!” Silverbolt protested, “I thought we agreed, no rubbing it in.”
Optimus chuckled, amused again. He was in a good mood, Silverbolt thought. Happy they had First Aid back safe and (hopefully) sound. He knew Optimus had been deeply troubled when the negotiations had reached a dead end, and not only because of the potential strategic loss of a junior medic and the likely incapacitation of a gestalt team. Optimus had always taken a personal interest in the members of both gestalt teams-of course, it was hard not to have a soft spot for First Aid, but Silverbolt knew he would have been the same had it been any one of them. Any of the Autobots, for that matter.
Optimus was looking at him, still smiling, but a little thoughtful. “It’s never easy, being the first one.” Silverbolt tilted his head, inquiring. “The Protectobots, while certainly unique in their…precociousness, have also reaped the benefits of all of your mistakes, and in many ways their path has been easier because you walked it before them. I don’t think any of us fully realized the difficulty of the task we asked of you, to be a gestalt leader with no blueprint, no training manual of how such a thing could be done, but you paved the way down an unknown road. You should be proud, of yourself, of your team, and of what you have become.”
Silverbolt couldn’t quite meet Optimus’ gaze as he tried very hard not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat at the praise. He risked quick glances at Prowl and Ratchet, and they were both nodding in agreement, Ratchet smiling slightly, Prowl serious, but the rare approval in his expression made Silverbolt suddenly hold his head up higher and straighten his shoulders where he sat. He wanted to say something to Optimus, something about how much his unwavering support and belief in them had meant, but his vocalizer would not cooperate. The best he could manage was a slightly squeaky and inadequate, “Thank you. Thank you, sir,” as he got up and exited Ratchet’s office with as much dignity as he could manage, glowing inwardly with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment.