Never Give Up - Part 4 of 12
Title: Never Give Up
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Chapter 4
Mirage hesitated for a long time before fading into view. He stood in the half-open doorway of Optimus's office and watched his Prime work steadily through a load that would break a lesser mech.
The Prime was weary and, believing himself alone, showed it. His exhaustion was more than simply physical. Broad red shoulders bowed under a weight Mirage couldn't imagine.
The spy had let his leader's voice coax him from the ruins of his beloved Towers. He'd followed the mech onto more battlefields than he could remember, walked into the jaws of death on Prime's orders and never doubted that the cost was worth it. Optimus Prime's unshakeable belief in their cause was the foundation on which each Autobot built their own. Mirage had never had cause to question that belief. Seeing Optimus, optics dim, half-slouched across a cluttered desk and staring at a single document for long breems, was more unsettling than former noble would have guessed.
Prime straightened, his attention snapping to the door as Mirage faded into view. His optics glowed a little brighter, but Mirage's Ops scanners betrayed the secondary systems Optimus shunted offline to power the illusion of alertness. The spy didn't call him on it. Half the Ark's crew was still getting overenergised in their down-time. Others seem to be sunk in a depression that could only be attributed in part to energon hangovers. Even those determined to shake off the grim atmosphere had a frenetic air about them. Everyone was adjusting in their own way. Prime had a right to that same grief.
"Sir?" Mirage couldn't keep a tentative note out of his voice as he stepped into the room. He straightened his back-struts and let his Towers accent strengthen to cover his unease. "You asked to see me."
"Come in. Sit down."
He obeyed the abrupt commands without a sound, and no more than a murmur of dismay escaped him when Optimus stood to bring them both energon from his dispenser. Old programming insisted that Mirage ought to be serving his Prime, or even that servants should serve them both. His vorns in the Autobots, not to mention long conversations with Prime and Jazz, kept him in his seat, and put a courteous half-smile on his face as he thanked his Prime for the glowing cube.
He sipped at it, automatic analysers testing the blend even here. The mid-grade registered as bland and tasteless to systems that had once sampled the finest high-grades. He dismissed the redundant report. The relevant facts - safe, with no sign of poison or tampering - would have to be enough.
Optimus Prime settled back into his seat. The larger mech played with his own cube, translucent case and luminous fluid visible between his broad finger-servos as he twisted it back and forth. Reaching out with the other hand, he pushed a datapad across the table, manoeuvring it between piles of its fellows.
"Read this. I want your honest assessment."
Intrigued, Mirage took the 'pad. Thumbing it on, he blinked at the mission proposal markers. This was a surprise. He'd more than half expected that Prime's unease portended the promotion he was resigned to, if dreading. He hadn't reckoned on being presented with a new field assignment. Sipping again at his cube, he took a few klicks to build the encrypted firewalls this security level required. Nodding in satisfaction, he set his cube on the desk in front of him, and settled down to do as he was told.
Three breems later, putting the 'pad down and feeling the fresh energon churn in his tank, he wished Prime had just promoted him.
"Well?" Optimus Prime's optics were a little brighter now, and his inscrutable expression gave Mirage no cues to follow. The spy let the datapad fall to the desk top with a clatter that rang far too loud through the silent office. He looked at it, torn between admiration and distaste.
"You wish to know what I truly think?" Hard to gauge whether Prime's nod meant that in truth, or whether he merely assumed it was what he wanted. Mirage vented a near-silent sigh; Prime would have to be told either way. "I think Prowl is trying to get himself killed."
It wasn't entirely a surprise. Mirage saw that at once. Optimus must have wondered and worried, even if he had no grounds for his suspicion.
"I feared as much." Prime's optics shuttered momentarily, his vents pausing and resetting. "It wouldn't work then?"
"I did not say that." Now it was Mirage's turn to cycle his optics, his systems dragging as if Prime's weariness were catching. He waved a hand at the datapad. "It is a work of genius. A plan I'd never have thought of in a thousand vorns." If nothing else, it told Mirage just how much their tactician had learnt from Jazz over their long acquaintance. This proposal for infiltrating the Nemesis read more like something the Chief Tactical Officer and Head of Special Ops might thrash out together than something Mirage expected from Prowl alone. The reckless creativity of it was breathtaking.
He reached out, tapping the screen until he brought up a tactical projection. He studied it with cool blue optics. "It would take both Bumblebee and me to run an infiltration and distraction scheme this complex. If we do though… the chances of uncovering Megatron's latest schemes and returning with the data are likely as high as the mission proposal quotes."
Prime leaned across the desk, his forearms resting on its surface, his optics locked on his master spy. "But…?" he pressed.
"But it requires someone with data processing and hacking skills beyond mine or 'Bee's." As a spy, Mirage had always focussed more on observing mechs than mining data. Bumblebee's strength lay in scouting. Both were competent hackers, but up to taking on Soundwave directly… no. Once again, Mirage grieved for Jazz's absence. "I am only aware of two mechs on the crew that meet the specs for this: Red Alert and Prowl."
Prime hummed, optics thoughtful. "And while Red Alert is valuable in his own role…"
"For this job, Bumblebee and I would have to take Prowl. We could get him in past the Nemesis's defences, and get him in place, but the chances of getting him out again without discovery…" Mirage's voice trailed off. He gave a helpless shrug, feeling the weight of Optimus's pained gaze. "It's there in the specifications if you know what to look for. The mission success is predicated on the assumption that three mechs will break in." He had to look away, unable to take the knowing expression in Prime's optics. "And that two will return with the information."
"Unacceptable."
Mirage's first instinct was to agree without question. His second instinct, the one that had been sparked when the Towers fell, and kept him alive through half a lifetime in Special Ops, said 'wait'.
"How much do we need this information?"
Prime's response to his spy's calm question was a look of sheer disbelief.
Mirage tapped the datapad with one slender finger.
"Primary objective: Identify and retrieve files relating to current Decepticon strategy. Secondary objective: determine current whereabouts and activities of Starscream. Tertiary objective: search Decepticon records - official and private - for any record of Autobot Jazz."
Prime's optics cycled, and he frowned at the datapad, reviewing its contents. All the information had been there, albeit phrased with enough care that the obliquity had to be deliberate. Prime had depended on his second and third as interpreters and advisors for too long. It took an Ops-trained eye to see just how much Prowl could hide in plain sight.
Mirage hesitated. Prime had no way of knowing what he and Bumblebee had done. At the same time, the spy couldn't pretend complete ignorance. He tilted his helm to one side, his sombre expression warning Prime of the difficult question he had to ask. "Optimus, how did Jazz die?"
Optimus Prime wouldn't meet his optics. "Would knowing for certain help?"
Mirage vented a sigh, shaking his helm. "Prowl evidently believes the Decepticons were involved."
That got another, deeper frown.
"It is not an uncommon belief," Mirage pressed.
"Prowl is searching for a truth I fear may not exist. He will not find it on the Nemesis." Prime vented hard, servos coming up to rest on his brow, just beneath his finials. "I do not know how long I can allow unjust assumptions to persist. Paranoia cannot be allowed to destroy us." His hand dropped away, his fists clenching by his side. "Whatever the hand that extinguished him, it was this war that killed Jazz, and for that Megatron and I must share the blame."
"No." Mirage had never said that word to his Prime before. Not like this: firm and certain and more than a little angry. He stood abruptly, pacing. "Do not take this upon yourself, Optimus. I've seen what that did to Jazz." He paused, doubt wavering in his processor for a few klicks. Anger and concern drowned out the small voice of uncertainty and he waved a hand at the datapad as he finished his thought. "What it's doing to Prowl. This is not your fault! You cannot seek penance for Megatron's sins, or beg forgiveness for doing only what you know to be just. Or would you dishonour the fallen who've fought for your cause? Do you think Primus would look any more kindly on a Prime who stood by and watched the Decepticon shadow spread? Do not lie to yourself, Optimus. No mech is blameless in this war, but nor can any bear the weight of it alone."
The spy blinked, surprised at his own passion. Light flared in Optimus's optics, and Mirage could only thank Primus for lending him the words his Prime needed to hear. He felt drained, as if he had taken on the exhaustion now lifting from Prime's shoulders. It was a burden he'd gladly accept. Prime met his optics and nodded slowly, recognising the curious intimacy of the moment. His engine rumbled as he studied his spy.
"Mirage? You have something more to say?"
It was an invitation to speak his mind - perhaps the only time he'd ever feel comfortable doing so in this company. Still on his feet, Mirage nodded towards the datapad. His expression, he kept deliberately blank.
"That scheme… it's the best I've seen for a long while. It would work. There is a price to pay, but it could put us ahead of the Decepticons' plans for vorns. It won't win us the war, but it might save tens of thousands of human lives, not to mention some of our own. If Prowl's right and someone on the Nemesis truly drove Jazz to this, it could bring us justice too." He paused, looking up at his Prime with sorrow on his faceplates. "If he's wrong… I fear we'll have lost our second-in-command either way."
"Unacceptable," Prime repeated, more quietly this time. "Find me a plan that will work, Mirage. One that won't cost more than I can afford."
It was an impossible command. If infiltrating the Decepticons' headquarters were that easy, this war would have been over within short vorns. Even so, Mirage nodded. This war had cost him almost everything he cared about, the loss of his friend and Ops mentor only the latest blow. He wouldn't let it take anything more.
Dirt and shrapnel flew, stinging against his plating like the patter of acid rain.
"Frag!"
Rumble ducked behind a human outbuilding with a yelped profanity, arm clutched to his chestplates. He tried to shake the noise and chaos out of his processor, dazed by how quickly this situation had spiralled out of control.
He'd kind of expected the skirmish. Sure, the Ark seemed to be slacking off on patrols over the last couple of days, but Autobots had an annoying habit of turning up whenever Decepticons went 'shopping' for energon. Usually though, the 'bots would just fire a few desultory shots, more interested in driving them off before any of their precious squishies got hurt than injuring the 'Cons themselves.
Rumble: report.
The thought wasn't his own. Rumble grimaced, flexing his arm and checking the charge on his blaster.
Still here, Boss. Still reckon the 'bots are too busy to notice a raid?
If Soundwave objected to his cassette's snippy tone, there was no sign in his mental voice.
Autobots: deeply disturbed.
Got that right.
The full-sized battle squad that had turned up to drive Soundwave, Astrotrain and the cassettes from the oil well were more 'murderously insane' than merely 'disturbed'. They seemed to have lost the plot entirely - instead of warning shots and distractions, every blast was on target and at full strength.
The cassette had seen fury on the faces of Autobots before. It was just that he usually had a vague idea why.
"Decepticons: withdraw."
"Well, finally!" Rumble answered Soundwave's shouted order aloud, swinging around the outbuilding and trying to get a line-of-sight on his host. The red and yellow legs that filled his view instead were less welcome.
"Going somewhere, 'Con?"
For a moment, Rumble assumed it was Sunstreaker who'd spoken. It was a shock to realise those cold tones came from Sideswipe instead. A black hand closed around Rumble's waist, fist clenched tight enough to make the cassette's plating creak and burst the energon lines beneath.
Sunstreaker towered over him, a sneer painted across his handsome face-plates. Reaching out, the warrior ran a finger over the cassette's helm, trailing it down through the energon that seeped from Rumble's seams and between Sideswipe's finger-servos. "Looks like you're coming out of this raid with a net loss."
Rumble's vocaliser echoed with pain-filled static. His arms were pinned to his sides, his pile-drivers useless. He managed to force a grin onto his faceplates nonetheless. The whole situation was weird. This icy fury, coming from twins that usually laughed their way through the heat of battle, was truly unsettling.
"Hey, a mech's got a right to keep himself functioning," he ventured. "Didn't know you guys were so attached to the squishies here."
Sideswipe's fist tightened, wrenching a cry of pain from Rumble. He cried out again, the release of pressure almost as painful, as Sunstreaker plucked him from his brother's grip. Blue optics had never held so much malice. Rumble dangled in front of the warrior's snarling denta and, for a wild moment, the cassette was sure they'd close around him.
"This isn't about the humans, 'Con. This is for Jazz."
Rumble blinked, quickly reprocessing his memories of the battle. The saboteur hadn't even been there, but then nor were the 'bots Praxian tactician or the Prime. If they had been, Rumble wouldn't be quite so terrified for his own plating.
"Uh…?"
Sunstreaker shook him, hard. "Did you think we'd let you get away with it?"
"Get away with what?" Rumble's vents stuttered, his intakes struggling against the shaking. "This about Shockwave and the Seekers? I don't fragging know what they're up to!"
Rumble: transform
The order spoke directly to his transformation sequence. He folded down without another thought, slipping between the front-liner's large fingers only to land securely in a dark blue hand.
He was already sliding into the Boss's chest compartment when Soundwave's weapon fired point-blank, downing both Autobot warriors. There was no time to savour the victory. Rumble could feel his fellow cassettes around him, more than one of them nursing injuries of their own. Soundwave's scorched plating was a nagging pain in the back of all their minds and Astrotrain's thrusters smoked when the shuttle swung around to pick them up.
Rumble was still leaking, still hurting. He pinged Soundwave with the strange conversation regardless, feeling a grim acknowledgement before his host's steady spark lulled him into recharge.
"Was it Shockwave?"
Ratchet blinked, gently removing the yellow servos that had wrapped themselves around his wrist.
"Lie still, Sunstreaker. You and Sides are going to be my guests for a day or two." It was easy to put a snarl in his voice… easy now that the twins were finally stable. "Don't start it by annoying me."
The hand fell away, sedative programming reasserting its hold. Ratchet had to lean over the supine front-liner to hear his mutters.
"Shockwave and the Seekers… was it them? Gonna make them pay…"
Sunstreaker's optics faded to darkness, and Ratchet tucked the limp hand back against the warrior's side. Venting a sigh, he scanned the medical monitors and looked over Sideswipe's for good measure. Both twins would be fine given a few joors under his expert care. According to Ironhide, it could have been a lot worse. Soundwave had been too busy recovering his cassette to aim or fire with any care. Ratchet knew that protective instinct well. He felt it for all his charges, and some more than others.
Ironhide was already hearing from Prime for letting that counterattack get so out of hand. Ratchet would save his own scolding until both twins were healed and online, but there would certainly be one.
He cast a steely optic over the recharging twins, making one more check before ramping up the sedative a little. He didn't need any more distractions. He had other work to do and he'd put it off too long already.
Making a Final Report on a mech under his care was never easy. He'd never faced one quite as hard as this though. As Sunstreaker had declared for the whole crew to hear, this was Earth, and no-one and nothing was quite the same as it had been on Cybertron.
The lights in the treatment room came up as he entered, casting the frame within into sharp relief. Venting a deep sigh, Ratchet sent the command to open Jazz's grey chest-plates and set to work.
Denial was only to be expected. Optimus Prime had seen enough offlinings, in battle and out of it, to realise that. Half his officer corps, if not more, were clinging to the emotion. He'd seen it on Ironhide's face when they brought Jazz home. On Red Alert's in the security office. He'd seen it time and again as he passed through the Rec Room over the last few days, or helped over-charged mechs back to their rooms.
He didn't expect to encounter it here, from the medic charged with Jazz's final evaluation and with his friend's empty frame lying between them.
"Clarify."
Prowl was taking this better than Prime would have expected… or maybe not. The tactician's façade of calm had done a lot to reassure the crew after his initial wobble. Optimus suspected that the mech was even fooling himself with his careful attention to routine, his research and rationalisations. Despite his attempts to shield the tactician, and even without his conversation with Mirage, the Prime would have been far less convinced that his friend was coping with their loss. The mech stood in front of Jazz's frame, intent optics locked on Ratchet, door-wings held high and rigid, his tone brittle.
Optimus Prime should have listened to his instincts when Ratchet summoned them both to medbay and ordered Prowl to stay behind. His second should be on the command deck, not listening to this.
"Ratchet, Prowl has other things to do. Perhaps you and I should discuss this…"
"No."
"I will remain."
The two refusals overlapped, cutting off Prime's attempt at damage control. Prowl spread his door-wings a little wider, anger smouldering in his optics as he turned back to Ratchet.
"Explain your statement. Immediately."
"Jazz didn't destroy himself," Ratchet repeated. There was an odd animation to the medic as he paced alongside Jazz's berth, throwing frequent glances back at the frame. He stopped, level with the frame's chest-plates, reaching out to spread the open armour a little more widely. Optimus glanced away, respecting a modesty Jazz no longer required.
"I've seen inside a good two-thirds of this crew, but there aren't many I'd recognise from their spark chamber alone. Sunny and Sides. Ironhide. Prowl." Ratchet paused and Optimus shifted uncomfortably. The medic was naming those whose spark chambers carried scars, each one a near-death earned in their Prime's service. Ratchet looked up, optics locked with Prowl's. "Jazz." He waved a hand at the berth between them. "This isn't Jazz."
Prowl's optics flickered. Optimus felt his own systems hiccup in shock. Ratchet didn't seem to notice.
"It's Jazz's frame sure enough, and the spark chamber is a generic that's right for his model, but I've had this mech under my servos often enough to know what I'm looking at and that…" he poked at the ruined spark chamber, "Is. Not. Jazz."
"He's still online?" Prowl voiced the question before Prime could. Ratchet's tense posture slumped a little.
"I don't know that," he admitted. "I'm telling you someone swapped his spark chamber out from his frame, carefully enough that any medic but me would have been fooled by the double. Especially after…" He waved a hand at the damaged chestplates.
"Bumblebee and Mirage were inspecting his servos when I caught them here." Prowl's outward demeanour didn't change, but his voice was shaky.
Prime and Ratchet both blinked, and not just at the non sequitur. A shared look confirmed that neither has been aware until that moment of the other Ops mechs visiting their commander's frame. Shaking his helm, Ratchet reached out, taking hold of the servos he hadn't had time or will to examine before now. "I see it. These marks… he wasn't damaged elsewhere so I didn't check… It might be nothing, but… his hand could have been forced." Ratchet sighed. "It's not hard to arrange an empty frame, or wrap a limp finger-servo around a trigger before pulling it. Someone wanted us to believe... But Jazz had already been taken when the shot was fired." He huffed air through his vents, looking ill. "What happened to his own chamber, though, and the whether the spark inside survived…?"
"How?" Prowl demanded, a flick of his door-wings expanding his question to encompass the whole situation.
"Skywarp." Red Alert's demand rang in Prime's ears, and he spoke without thinking. He hadn't shared Red's speculation with Prowl, not wanting to compound his second's turmoil with fantasies born of his junior officer's grief. Not he ran a hand over his battle-mask, optics distant. "Red Alert already believes he teleported into the blind spot." He frowned, running through the same thought process he'd already been over with his security director. "Jazz has handled Seekers before without a problem, Skywarp included."
Prowl looked in his direction, door-wings lifting to a sharp peak. Prime could see the processor working behind over-bright optics "Any mech can be caught unawares. Starscream armed his trine with null-rays; given the element of surprise, they could have been sufficient to neutralise even Jazz."
"Skywarp couldn't have planned this." Prime was sure of that.
Ratchet snorted, waving a hand at the grey torso. "He sure couldn't have done that kind of surgery."
Now Prowl was the one pacing. His arms were folded across his bumper, his frown obvious. "Starscream has been absent from battle for some time. Has he been planning…?" He shook his helm, sharply, as if he could dislodge a stray logic process. "This doesn't fit his methodology. We're missing something… something important!"
Optimus Prime moved a little closer to his second, concerned by the open emotion there to be seen. Ratchet moved a step too, before stopping in his paces, his optics blinking through a reboot. He waved a vague hand back towards the repair bay's main ward.
"I wonder… Shockwave? Sunny mentioned…"
"Shockwave? Here on Earth?" Prowl froze, his door-wings vibrating. For a few seconds, Prime was afraid his second had glitched for the second time in under an orn. Then Prowl spun on the spot, optics bright, and raised a hand to point at Jazz's helm.
"Open it."
Ratchet moved to obey, but couldn't hide his concern. "Prowl?"
"Jazz's personality components." Prowl leaned forward, looking for himself as the helm panels opened. "His core access chip and memory crystals," he demanded, "are they there?"
"Give me a moment." Ratchet reached into the delicate circuitry, subspacing a slender tool to probe, and then to nudge free a small, cloudy crystal. Prime felt the tickle of the medic's scanners nearby, before Ratchet took the memory node between his servos and held it up to the light. He slumped, his jaw hanging loose in disbelief. Servos came up to massage dimmed optics.
"Well, Pit." There was silence as Prime and Prowl both waited for Ratchet to recover himself. The medic's tanks rumbled, unsettled, and his voice was streaked with static. He cleared his vocaliser with a whirring click. "These aren't the original components. This memory crystal is flawed. It could never have been used by a functioning mech."
Prowl nodded, faceplates grim. "Shockwave would not waste a valuable resource on this if he had useless components available."
"I'd never have scanned it," Ratchet agreed slowly. "A mech's personality components are quantum locked to his spark, without it, they're just crystals like any other."
"Except these aren't Jazz's memory crystals." Prowl frowned, crossing his arms. "And that's not his spark chamber. Everything he is, everything he knows, is gone. Taken." His optics dimmed, his door-wings dropping into what Optimus recognised as his 'thinking' stance. Prime could almost hear the battle computer cycling up to full speed. The tactician looked up. "There were rumours… back on Cybertron, when the Combaticons disappeared."
"Thought Megatron had those lunatics offlined," Ratchet scowled.
"They were rebellious, but useful." Prowl tilted his helm, thoughtful optics still on Jazz's frame. "And Shockwave doesn't waste a valuable resource."
Prime frowned, a seldom accessed memory file replaying. "Special Ops picked up rumours, something about Shockwave keeping them in a prison?"
"Storage. Not prison." Prowl's voice was cold. "Jazz heard 'Cons whispering about some kind of storage for mechs Megatron saw as… inconvenient, but might yet find of use as more than cannon fodder. But not for the whole mech."
Ratchet huffed through his vents. "What the frag does that mean?"
Prowl shrugged. "Most of the Decepticons didn't know. The rumours were enough to keep them well behaved. Jazz was still trying to get close to someone who might have solid information when we left on the Ark." The tactician looked up, his engine rumbled queasily and his door-wings trembled. "If Shockwave is on Earth now… I'm very much afraid Jazz has learned the truth behind those rumours."
Prime shuddered, his engine echoing Prowl's.
Part of him wanted to rejoice, thanking Primus for the mere possibility that his friend might be alive. The other part looked down at the empty frame and thought of Jazz's fragile spark and personality components, unprotected by a mech's armour, naked without Jazz's complex processor and elaborate firewalls.
Cold fear closed around his spark.
He straightened, Matrix burning bright within him, optics ablaze with a fury that would give even his erstwhile brother pause. "Ratchet, find Mirage and Bumblebee. I'll call Ironhide and Red Alert. Prowl..."
His second in command nodded, optics already bright as his tactical processor shifted into maximum output mode. "Effective communication has been lacking," Prowl agreed. "We need to coordinate and pool our information." His servos clenched into fists, determination written through his frame. "And then, I believe, I will have some serious thinking to do."