Never Give Up - Part 10 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 10
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Too slow. Sideswipe was just too slow.
His scream was lost amidst the alarms as he dived forward, Prime by his side, each of them seizing an arm or a wing, and Prime wrapping one strong arm around the Seeker's throat. They were too late. Already the monitors were showing red, Ratchet and Wheeljack moving with frantic urgency around the fallen officers.
Sideswipe and Prime hauled Starscream backwards. Somewhere in Sideswipe's spark, Sunstreaker was snarling about Seekers escaping. His own stunned and guilt-stricken thoughts ricocheted back across their bond and Sideswipe felt his twin freeze in shock. He was frozen himself. He held tight to the Seeker still in his grasp, and felt Prime vibrating with anger and grief beside him.
"Let me go." Starscream snarled the words, his attempts to shrug off his captors only making them tighten their grips. "This needs to be done quickly."
The red front-liner choked. "What the frag…? After that…?"
"Do you imbeciles even begin to understand how my null-rays work?"
How they worked? Sideswipe knew only what he'd witnessed on the battlefield more times than he could count. They dropped a mech into stasis faster than anything else Sideswipe had ever seen, fast enough to deactivate an injured mech through spark-shock alone. He was pretty sure even Ratchet was hazy on the mechanism. He'd heard the medic curse Starscream's name often enough, when he or Sunstreaker was the one struggling their way back to consciousness.
"Optimus!" Ratchet's shout broke through Sideswipe's moment of confusion. Wheeljack had broken off from Prowl, fussing over Jazz's grey frame for reasons that escaped the front-liner. Ratchet was still bent over the tactician and the box, fingers flying faster than Sideswipe could see. "I need more servos. Trained ones. Let him help!"
Sideswipe wasn't sure who was most surprised. His servos dropped away, leaving Starscream in Prime's grip. Optimus hesitated a little longer, his large finger servos making the Seeker's wings creak under the strain.
"Slag it, Prime!"
Optimus Prime's grip slipped away. Starscream lunged forward. The Seeker's strident voice rose in a stream of barbed insults and instructions that mingled with Ratchet's deeper tones, the two of them lost in opaque technical terminology. Alarms from the medical sensors still filled the air. The thick, uncomfortable sensation Sideswipe had become accustomed to was gone, even the residual charge fading fast. Jazz no longer filled the room with his vibrant energy. Prowl's calm presence no longer pressed in against the front-liner's senses.
But Ratchet hadn't given up.
Sideswipe's optics scanned the medical readouts, searching frantically for some clue as to what was happening. A lifetime spent under Ratchet's energon scalpel himself, or watching the medic struggle for his brother's spark, had taught the warrior more than he wanted to know about how to read those red-tinted displays.
"Prowl's still alive," he whispered the words aloud in his surprise, and saw Optimus glance sharply in his direction. He forced himself to go on, hoping desperately that he wasn't misinterpreting what he saw. "Those are the readings for emergency deep stasis."
Of course, essentially the only thing that would trigger stasis that deep that quickly was spark failure. If Prowl's spark output had dropped hard and fast enough to trigger his frame's emergency response, then he was in trouble. The stasis cycle would hold him stable for a while, but sooner or later, it would break and that bright spark would gutter. It gave Ratchet a little time, perhaps, if a solution was there to be found. If…
Sideswipe's optics slid reluctantly to the second bank of monitors, energon already running cold in his lines as he heard an ominous, persistent note develop in the alarms there. His vents choked, his processor not wanting to deal with the input as he saw the readings settle to a still, flat line.
His optics off-lined.
A heavy hand fell to his shoulder, Prime's finger servos squeezing his plating.
"Sideswipe, look."
The front-liner's optics rebooted reluctantly, his obedience to his Prime overriding his emotional turmoil. The berth bearing Jazz's grey frame had been pushed close enough to touch Prowl's, machines hooked to it driving air through its vents and warming its inactive systems. Medic, engineer and scientist fussed around the pair of berths, moving with quick, precise movements.
Ratchet held something in cupped servos, lifting it slowly and carefully towards Jazz's forcefully animated remains. Wheeljack and Starscream stilled, blue light and red mingling as they watched the medic with sharp optics.
No one moved. No one even dared vent until Ratchet's servos lowered out of sight into Jazz's gaping chest cavity.
The click sounded loud in the empty med-bay.
Ratchet drew in a shuddering vent.
A third bank of sensors and readouts began to chirp a warning note.
And Jazz's grey plating began to flush with just the barest hints of black and white.
Ratchet's servos began to move again, this time across Jazz's frame, closing plating, adjusting connectors and hooking up feeds and extra sensor rigs. Wheeljack moved around him and with him, completing work Ratchet started and taking on some of the easier tasks, drifting over to work on Prowl from time to time. It was a full breem and a half before Ratchet spun away from his patients without warning, his fist closing around Starscream's neck assembly and choking off his energon lines.
"You built a weapon that acts on a mech's spark?"
"No wonder we never figured it out." Wheeljack glanced up from his work, his interested tone a wry contrast to Ratchet's snarl. "All the internal logs we looked at were recording frame activity."
"Because only a mad-mech would use something that insanely dangerous as a non-lethal weapon!"
Starscream sneered, twisting and breaking Ratchet's hold with the skill expected in the Decepticons' second in command. Sideswipe tensed in readiness, but the Seeker threw up his arms in disgust, not attack.
"Who said anything about non-lethal? I wanted to put enemies out of the battle fast, I never claimed I wanted them alive."
"Ratchet." Prowl's low rumble filled the room. "Report."
Ratchet scowled at his Prime.
"This lunatic dropped Jazz - Prowl and Jazz both - into spark-shock stasis. It's a miracle they didn't extinguish."
"Please! Skywarp gave me the calibration Shockwave gave him. You both wanted the slagging saboteur stable enough for transfer. I knew what I was doing." He glared at the frame, silent and barely shaded. "Now it's your turn. Do you?"
Ratchet turned back to his still-fragile patient, swearing in a steady stream of muttered words. Prime gave the Seeker an angry look, the big mech still shaken.
"And should I assume was there a reason we couldn't be warned?"
"As if you'd have let me fire null-rays in here," Starscream sneered. "There wasn't time for arguments, and I sure as slag wasn't going to give you a null-ray to analyse. Understand this, Prime: I didn't do this for your second and third, or out of the goodness of my spark. I did it to stop my trine being hunted for something they had no control over." He held his helm high, servos resting on his hips. "So much for honour, Prime. So much for justice!"
Optimus Prime held still for a long moment, before nodding at him.
"Your trine-mates are free to leave."
"Ah…" Optics settled on Sideswipe from every direction. "Sunny says they, ah, already have?" he offered tentatively.
Prime shook his helm, expression unreadable behind his battle-mask. "Sideswipe, please accompany Starscream to the exit and allow him to leave the Ark."
"But, Prime…!"
"Starscream entered under an agreement of truce, Sideswipe. I will not break that."
"And make sure Thundercracker rests!" Ratchet didn't look up from his patients to issue the order. "We spent too slagging long repairing him for you to undo all our hard work."
Starscream glared at the medic's back. He moved to the door, turning an expectant expression on the front-liner. Sideswipe moved with him, his pedes dragging as he threw an anxious glance back over his shoulder at the med-berths. Jazz and Prowl were both still weak and in a critical condition, their readings edged with red. Prowl's chest-plates were closed now, and Jazz's open barely wide enough to let slender wires trail up to the monitors. Optics and visor lay dark, the vents and cycles of both frames almost entirely reliant on the machines around them.
If Sunstreaker was in this condition, Sideswipe would never leave his side. Giving Starscream a rough shove to get him moving, the front-liner consoled himself with one indisputable fact: in all the times it had been Sides or his twin under Ratchet's servos, the medic had never once let them down.
"Ratchet."
The medic jerked from recharge to fully-aware in nano-klicks, his automatic routines bringing him online and readying his medical algorithms for any challenge.
His internal displays lit before his optics rebooted. He scanned the medical monitors urgently, relief and disappointment mingling when he found them unchanged.
Venting a sigh, Ratchet blinked his way past the readouts to gaze up at the orange ceiling plates above his berth. It took him a moment to remember what had woken him, and a moment more to brace himself before finding out why.
"Red Alert?"
"Ratchet, you have visitors."
The security officer's com-voice was low and sombre, a far cry from the strident tones that would indicate his paranoia at work. Frowning, Ratchet let his powerful sensors extend, tapping into the medbay sensors to boost their range.
Pushing himself up to sit on the edge of his berth, Ratchet let his shoulders slump, shaking his helm.
"I'll deal with them," he sighed. "And, Red? Thank you."
The security mech signed off with a sigh of his own, returning to his night-cycle vigil. Ratchet stood, rubbing his chevron in weary dismay. By rights, Red Alert should have brigged and reported the twins for breaking into the repair bay. In any other circumstances, Ratchet would be storming from his quarters, through his office and into the bay proper, with wrench in hand. Not this time.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were the only mechs outside the Autobot officer corps who knew the truth of what happened in that clearing almost an orn before, in medbay four days ago and in the long joors since. They were still dealing with that knowledge, just as Ratchet and Red themselves were. That cut them slack, even this deep into the hours of darkness.
Medbay was still dimmed for the night-cycle, the light panels overhead dark. The only illumination spilled around the door of the side-room, casting long shadows across the metal deck. There was no sound from within, none of the noise and chaos Ratchet usually associated with a visit from the front-liner twins. He paused, palm resting against the cool metal door, and girded himself to enter.
Sideswipe sat perched on the edge of a berth, frowning as he searched through the kit bag he'd dumped beside him. His gold-clad twin brother stood over the second berth squeezed into the small room, shaking his helm as he contemplated the still frame in front of him.
Scowling to himself, Sunstreaker leaned forward, adding the finishing touches to the shine he'd put on Prowl's red chevron. Working in equal silence and with equal care, Sideswipe began to touch up the black paint-work on Jazz's limp right hand.
Ratchet stared, watching the boisterous, impulsive twins paint and polish their stasis-locked officers with the same delicate care a genitor might show to the smallest sparkling.
Prowl's frame was smooth after Ratchet's repairs, his paint scheme vibrant and elegant in its simplicity. Jazz's colours were still dull by comparison, his systems taking time to reclaim the long-vacant frame.
That either frame still held colour was testament to the skills of the Autobots' chief medic and the strength of the sparks they sheltered. Ratchet shuddered, remembering how close both had come to guttering under his finger servos. Expression pensive, he contemplated the two stasis-locked mechs, wondering even now if he'd done enough.
"How long?"
Sideswipe spoke without turning around, his question startling after the silence that came before.
"Until I try lifting the stasis blocks? Another three days."
"Not that."
Sunstreaker shot a glare over his shoulder, and Sideswipe shook his head. Ratchet found himself at the focus of two pairs of cool blue optics. The weary medic leaned back against the door frame, his arms folding across his chest. He should have known that wasn't the question Sideswipe was asking. The timeframe for releasing the protective blocks - for discovering whether or not the over-strained sparks had it in them to rouse a frame - was fixed in the processor of everyone involved. The twins were no more likely to forget than Prime, or Ironhide, or Ratchet himself.
Sunstreaker turned back to polishing, working now on Prowl's slack door-wings with an artist's care and a friend's gentle touch. His red-clad brother frowned, his crossed arms mirroring Ratchet's.
"When will Prime tell everyone Jazz is alive?"
It came out abrupt, pointed, almost as a challenge. Sidewipe knew it too. His frown turned stubborn and a touch defiant.
The focus of Ratchet's scowl shifted to the saboteur's black and white frame. He considered the dull lustre of Jazz's armour, and the other signs he'd seen, both good and bad. Sideswipe was looking for answers. His bright optics demanded them from Ratchet - pleading with the medic who'd pulled off so many miracles to accomplish just one more.
The truth was that all Ratchet's hard work could only do so much. The saboteur's spark was in control now - and despite four long days and longer nights of careful monitoring, the end result was still too close to call.
"He'll tell the crew when we know." Ratchet kept his voice soft, and saw both twins flinch. Jazz was framed now, his spark stable, but fundamentally the situation hadn't changed since the twins first stumbled across the secret. The crew was still missing their third in command. Ratchet still couldn't say if they'd ever get him back. "When we know - one way or the other."
The medic's engine grumbled, his system queasy as he turned his gaze on Prowl instead. The tactician was doing better. Ratchet was almost certain he'd come online smoothly, almost certain he'd be awake and back at work before the orn was out. He was far less certain how Prowl would fare beyond that point if the medic's worst fears were realised.
He calmed his systems, pulling his gruff persona into place as much in self defence as for the sake of the watching twins. Pulling a wrench from subspace, he let it play across his knuckles, aware of Sideswipe tracking it with wary optics.
"So, tell me why I shouldn't kick your sorry afts out of here, right now?"
It was amusing, and just a touch irritating, that both twins seemed to feel more comfortable with a wrench-wielding Ratchet than his soft-spoken alter-ego. The medic didn't have to force the growl into his voice.
"Well?"
Sideswipe grinned at him, still defiant, but with the challenge lingering in his optics.
"Don't you think Prowl deserves to walk out of medbay in tip-top condition?"
Ratchet raised a brow-ridge. "And you don't think I can handle that myself?"
The glance Sunstreaker threw in his direction, sweeping critically over his white and red plating, was frankly insulting. The yellow front-liner gave a half-shrug, running a servo down his own smooth armour and then turning back to Prowl. "Up to a point."
Ratchet couldn't help it. He snorted, his amusement showing in his bright optics. It faded as he turned back to Sideswipe, aware of the red-clad twin once more leaning over Jazz's still frame.
The front-liner exchanged a look with his brother, their expressions unreadable. Then Sideswipe looked down, not meeting Ratchet's optics as he spoke.
"And when Jazz saunters out of here after him, it's going to be with style."
Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to argue. He subspaced the wrench, stepping around Jazz's berth. A sigh gusted from his vents as he sat and extended one hand.
"Hand me a cloth then," he said and settled in for another shift in their long vigil.
"Prowl. I want you to stay calm. Just lie still and let your systems reset."
It was the second time in just over an orn that Prowl had woken to feel Ratchet's steady presence buffering his processor. The first time had been riven with grief and confusion, and the memory of that now was enough to send a pulse of energy to his up-cycling engines. Ratchet soothed it easily, keeping the tactician's systems level, and maintaining a tight hold over any excess in his processor activity. Prowl was grateful for the precaution, and grateful too that it wasn't strictly necessary.
Prowl was anxious and disoriented. He had no idea what had happened in the eight days his logs told him he'd been in stasis lock. His spark ached. But his memory was intact, his processor's core algorithms clear and far from looping. He knew that Ratchet was there to help him, knew he was safe in the medic's repair bay and knew what was important.
"How's Jazz?" he asked, angling his door-wings against the cushions supporting them, trying to get a better feel for the saboteur's nearby spark resonance even before his optics lit and focused.
Leaning over him, Ratchet sighed. Prowl half expected the medic to stop him as he pushed himself upright on the med-berth and swung his legs over the side. Instead Ratchet merely extended servos to support him, steadying the tactician as he finished his reboot, processed the repairs made while he was offline and reset his gyroscopic stabilisation.
It felt good, and somewhat unfamiliar, for Prowl to be fully fuelled and his systems tuned to near perfection. The internal logs reporting new bearings in his chest-plates, not to mention the repair of a dozen minor dents and abrasions, relieved any concern he might have had about his own condition. Instead, he stared across the bay to the door beside Ratchet's office. The side-room screened its occupant from casual observation, but its door stood open, a narrow gap facing the newly-awakened tactician.
Jazz's frame was whole, repainted and finished with a care that suggested the twins' involvement. He lay still on the polished metal of the med-berth, surrounded by machines that ticked and whirred in a near-constant, low-level chorus. His visor was dark, his frame limp and faceplates slack.
The medical monitors assured Prowl that his friend's spark was still burning. He would have known, even with his optics and audials offline and his sensory-wings dampened.
"Prowl, stop."
It wasn't until Ratchet pressed gently backwards on his chest-plate that Prowl realised he was on his feet and drifting slowly forwards. Ratchet's finger-servos brushed Prowl's own, cupped over his spark as if it could ease the ache there. He could still feel Jazz's presence - in the same way that a listener would still hear the diminished and dying echo of his own voice in a deep cave. Jazz was there, but weak and distant. Prowl's spark strained for the resonance it had grown accustomed to, and his pedes moved without conscious volition, straining against Ratchet's resistance in the effort to recapture that warmth. He conquered the impulse, bringing his tactical processor online just long enough for it to remind him of common sense.
Standing still, optics locked on the black and white frame of his closest friend, Prowl shook his helm.
"I'm fine, Ratchet. Jazz...?"
"He's stable." Ratchet's flat tone brought Prowl's helm around sharply. The medical officer's optics had followed Prowl's to their saboteur, his faceplates blank with the careful neutrality of his profession. There was no fire in Ratchet's optics, no scowl on his face. That was alarming. Ratchet sighed again as he pushed Prowl to sit on the nearest berth. "Improving maybe. Slowly. We were able to move you out here..." a brief scowl put in an appearance and Ratchet jerked his helm towards the berth where Prowl had awakened, "...over there... yesterday, and we took Jazz off spark support this morning, once we were sure his spark was accepting the frame."
Prowl studied the medic, a frown furrowing the plating below his chevron. "Continue," he said, his curt tone making it an order.
"His spark's taken the strain so far. His frame is functioning correctly, and we're seeing processor activity at a stasis-lock maintenance level."
Prowl just waited. Ratchet paused for a long moment, before settling onto the berth beside the tactician.
"But we're not seeing any sign that his spark is trying to rouse his frame beyond that level. And until it does, it's impossible to tell whether it's reintegrating his personality components... or not."
Prowl's door-wings flared behind him. He felt a shudder ripple through his frame, and gazed at Ratchet with horror. His old friend's sympathy and frustration rippled in the energy field between them. The strength of the reaction only underlined the weakness of Jazz's fully-framed presence in that same field.
"You're saying that Jazz is alive and likely to remain so..." Prowl cleared his vocaliser with a whirr of static. He had to articulate his fear, and put the horror into words, "...but may never wake from stasis."
Ratchet's grim expression spoke for him. The medic sat beside Prowl, his posture slumped, his hands resting on his lap.
"I'd hoped to have better news for you before your systems were back up to spec." He cycled his vents, his engine note rising for a few klicks before subsiding. "His spark output was fragging low before we made the transfer. It might just be taking longer to recover than he's had. But this is what it is. I'll do my best, Prowl, but I can't promise miracles."
Prowl nodded. He could keep the keen from his vocaliser and the fear from showing on his faceplates; he couldn't stop his door-wings from slumping against his back.
Tearing his optics from the still form on the berth was one of the more difficult things Prowl had ever done. He needed to do it, needed to put space between him and Jazz, needed to function without the spark that called constantly to his own. If he couldn't stand alone now, he knew instinctively, he never would. He might as well curl around his unwitting bondmate and join him in stasis.
For a moment, just a moment, he was tempted.
The tactician looked down at his clenched finger-servos and then back up towards the medic sitting beside him.
"Thank you, Ratchet," he said in a level voice. "You will keep me informed, of course." He slipped down from the berth, hiking his door-wings up behind him and allowing them to block his faceplates from Ratchet's view. "I must report to Optimus Prime."
"Prowl!" The medic's startled call stopped the tactician halfway to medbay's outer door. Ratchet stared at his patient's taut back-struts, servo rubbing his grey chevron. "You're just going to walk out of here?"
"I understood that my repairs were complete. I register full functioning of my systems."
"That's not what I…"
Prowl's door-wings lowered. He looked back over his shoulder, expression impassive.
"In the condition you describe, Jazz is entirely dormant and unaware. He is likely to remain so for the indefinite future. My presence in the repair bay cannot benefit him. It will serve no purpose, save for leaving me restless and frustrated, and robbing the Autobots of my service and capabilities."
"Prowl…" Ratchet's voice trailed off. The medic shook his helm before bowing it. Prowl knew that he was trembling, the finest of tremors visible in his clenched servos and lowered door-wings. He knew too that Ratchet had picked up on the strain. "You might not find walking out of here as easy as you think."
Prowl half-turned, the movement attracting Ratchet's optics. He met them, gaze steady and almost too intense.
"You believe that I find any of this easy?"
Ratchet's optics dropped away. The medic's fists clenched by his side, his vented sigh shaking his frame.
"Half-shifts only. And you'll be back if Jazz needs you?"
Prowl turned to leave, his door-wings rising once again to conceal his features. Every step was torture. Every vent threatened to choke him.
"In a spark-beat," he promised quietly.
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Chapter 10
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Too slow. Sideswipe was just too slow.
His scream was lost amidst the alarms as he dived forward, Prime by his side, each of them seizing an arm or a wing, and Prime wrapping one strong arm around the Seeker's throat. They were too late. Already the monitors were showing red, Ratchet and Wheeljack moving with frantic urgency around the fallen officers.
Sideswipe and Prime hauled Starscream backwards. Somewhere in Sideswipe's spark, Sunstreaker was snarling about Seekers escaping. His own stunned and guilt-stricken thoughts ricocheted back across their bond and Sideswipe felt his twin freeze in shock. He was frozen himself. He held tight to the Seeker still in his grasp, and felt Prime vibrating with anger and grief beside him.
"Let me go." Starscream snarled the words, his attempts to shrug off his captors only making them tighten their grips. "This needs to be done quickly."
The red front-liner choked. "What the frag…? After that…?"
"Do you imbeciles even begin to understand how my null-rays work?"
How they worked? Sideswipe knew only what he'd witnessed on the battlefield more times than he could count. They dropped a mech into stasis faster than anything else Sideswipe had ever seen, fast enough to deactivate an injured mech through spark-shock alone. He was pretty sure even Ratchet was hazy on the mechanism. He'd heard the medic curse Starscream's name often enough, when he or Sunstreaker was the one struggling their way back to consciousness.
"Optimus!" Ratchet's shout broke through Sideswipe's moment of confusion. Wheeljack had broken off from Prowl, fussing over Jazz's grey frame for reasons that escaped the front-liner. Ratchet was still bent over the tactician and the box, fingers flying faster than Sideswipe could see. "I need more servos. Trained ones. Let him help!"
Sideswipe wasn't sure who was most surprised. His servos dropped away, leaving Starscream in Prime's grip. Optimus hesitated a little longer, his large finger servos making the Seeker's wings creak under the strain.
"Slag it, Prime!"
Optimus Prime's grip slipped away. Starscream lunged forward. The Seeker's strident voice rose in a stream of barbed insults and instructions that mingled with Ratchet's deeper tones, the two of them lost in opaque technical terminology. Alarms from the medical sensors still filled the air. The thick, uncomfortable sensation Sideswipe had become accustomed to was gone, even the residual charge fading fast. Jazz no longer filled the room with his vibrant energy. Prowl's calm presence no longer pressed in against the front-liner's senses.
But Ratchet hadn't given up.
Sideswipe's optics scanned the medical readouts, searching frantically for some clue as to what was happening. A lifetime spent under Ratchet's energon scalpel himself, or watching the medic struggle for his brother's spark, had taught the warrior more than he wanted to know about how to read those red-tinted displays.
"Prowl's still alive," he whispered the words aloud in his surprise, and saw Optimus glance sharply in his direction. He forced himself to go on, hoping desperately that he wasn't misinterpreting what he saw. "Those are the readings for emergency deep stasis."
Of course, essentially the only thing that would trigger stasis that deep that quickly was spark failure. If Prowl's spark output had dropped hard and fast enough to trigger his frame's emergency response, then he was in trouble. The stasis cycle would hold him stable for a while, but sooner or later, it would break and that bright spark would gutter. It gave Ratchet a little time, perhaps, if a solution was there to be found. If…
Sideswipe's optics slid reluctantly to the second bank of monitors, energon already running cold in his lines as he heard an ominous, persistent note develop in the alarms there. His vents choked, his processor not wanting to deal with the input as he saw the readings settle to a still, flat line.
His optics off-lined.
A heavy hand fell to his shoulder, Prime's finger servos squeezing his plating.
"Sideswipe, look."
The front-liner's optics rebooted reluctantly, his obedience to his Prime overriding his emotional turmoil. The berth bearing Jazz's grey frame had been pushed close enough to touch Prowl's, machines hooked to it driving air through its vents and warming its inactive systems. Medic, engineer and scientist fussed around the pair of berths, moving with quick, precise movements.
Ratchet held something in cupped servos, lifting it slowly and carefully towards Jazz's forcefully animated remains. Wheeljack and Starscream stilled, blue light and red mingling as they watched the medic with sharp optics.
No one moved. No one even dared vent until Ratchet's servos lowered out of sight into Jazz's gaping chest cavity.
The click sounded loud in the empty med-bay.
Ratchet drew in a shuddering vent.
A third bank of sensors and readouts began to chirp a warning note.
And Jazz's grey plating began to flush with just the barest hints of black and white.
Ratchet's servos began to move again, this time across Jazz's frame, closing plating, adjusting connectors and hooking up feeds and extra sensor rigs. Wheeljack moved around him and with him, completing work Ratchet started and taking on some of the easier tasks, drifting over to work on Prowl from time to time. It was a full breem and a half before Ratchet spun away from his patients without warning, his fist closing around Starscream's neck assembly and choking off his energon lines.
"You built a weapon that acts on a mech's spark?"
"No wonder we never figured it out." Wheeljack glanced up from his work, his interested tone a wry contrast to Ratchet's snarl. "All the internal logs we looked at were recording frame activity."
"Because only a mad-mech would use something that insanely dangerous as a non-lethal weapon!"
Starscream sneered, twisting and breaking Ratchet's hold with the skill expected in the Decepticons' second in command. Sideswipe tensed in readiness, but the Seeker threw up his arms in disgust, not attack.
"Who said anything about non-lethal? I wanted to put enemies out of the battle fast, I never claimed I wanted them alive."
"Ratchet." Prowl's low rumble filled the room. "Report."
Ratchet scowled at his Prime.
"This lunatic dropped Jazz - Prowl and Jazz both - into spark-shock stasis. It's a miracle they didn't extinguish."
"Please! Skywarp gave me the calibration Shockwave gave him. You both wanted the slagging saboteur stable enough for transfer. I knew what I was doing." He glared at the frame, silent and barely shaded. "Now it's your turn. Do you?"
Ratchet turned back to his still-fragile patient, swearing in a steady stream of muttered words. Prime gave the Seeker an angry look, the big mech still shaken.
"And should I assume was there a reason we couldn't be warned?"
"As if you'd have let me fire null-rays in here," Starscream sneered. "There wasn't time for arguments, and I sure as slag wasn't going to give you a null-ray to analyse. Understand this, Prime: I didn't do this for your second and third, or out of the goodness of my spark. I did it to stop my trine being hunted for something they had no control over." He held his helm high, servos resting on his hips. "So much for honour, Prime. So much for justice!"
Optimus Prime held still for a long moment, before nodding at him.
"Your trine-mates are free to leave."
"Ah…" Optics settled on Sideswipe from every direction. "Sunny says they, ah, already have?" he offered tentatively.
Prime shook his helm, expression unreadable behind his battle-mask. "Sideswipe, please accompany Starscream to the exit and allow him to leave the Ark."
"But, Prime…!"
"Starscream entered under an agreement of truce, Sideswipe. I will not break that."
"And make sure Thundercracker rests!" Ratchet didn't look up from his patients to issue the order. "We spent too slagging long repairing him for you to undo all our hard work."
Starscream glared at the medic's back. He moved to the door, turning an expectant expression on the front-liner. Sideswipe moved with him, his pedes dragging as he threw an anxious glance back over his shoulder at the med-berths. Jazz and Prowl were both still weak and in a critical condition, their readings edged with red. Prowl's chest-plates were closed now, and Jazz's open barely wide enough to let slender wires trail up to the monitors. Optics and visor lay dark, the vents and cycles of both frames almost entirely reliant on the machines around them.
If Sunstreaker was in this condition, Sideswipe would never leave his side. Giving Starscream a rough shove to get him moving, the front-liner consoled himself with one indisputable fact: in all the times it had been Sides or his twin under Ratchet's servos, the medic had never once let them down.
"Ratchet."
The medic jerked from recharge to fully-aware in nano-klicks, his automatic routines bringing him online and readying his medical algorithms for any challenge.
His internal displays lit before his optics rebooted. He scanned the medical monitors urgently, relief and disappointment mingling when he found them unchanged.
Venting a sigh, Ratchet blinked his way past the readouts to gaze up at the orange ceiling plates above his berth. It took him a moment to remember what had woken him, and a moment more to brace himself before finding out why.
"Red Alert?"
"Ratchet, you have visitors."
The security officer's com-voice was low and sombre, a far cry from the strident tones that would indicate his paranoia at work. Frowning, Ratchet let his powerful sensors extend, tapping into the medbay sensors to boost their range.
Pushing himself up to sit on the edge of his berth, Ratchet let his shoulders slump, shaking his helm.
"I'll deal with them," he sighed. "And, Red? Thank you."
The security mech signed off with a sigh of his own, returning to his night-cycle vigil. Ratchet stood, rubbing his chevron in weary dismay. By rights, Red Alert should have brigged and reported the twins for breaking into the repair bay. In any other circumstances, Ratchet would be storming from his quarters, through his office and into the bay proper, with wrench in hand. Not this time.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were the only mechs outside the Autobot officer corps who knew the truth of what happened in that clearing almost an orn before, in medbay four days ago and in the long joors since. They were still dealing with that knowledge, just as Ratchet and Red themselves were. That cut them slack, even this deep into the hours of darkness.
Medbay was still dimmed for the night-cycle, the light panels overhead dark. The only illumination spilled around the door of the side-room, casting long shadows across the metal deck. There was no sound from within, none of the noise and chaos Ratchet usually associated with a visit from the front-liner twins. He paused, palm resting against the cool metal door, and girded himself to enter.
Sideswipe sat perched on the edge of a berth, frowning as he searched through the kit bag he'd dumped beside him. His gold-clad twin brother stood over the second berth squeezed into the small room, shaking his helm as he contemplated the still frame in front of him.
Scowling to himself, Sunstreaker leaned forward, adding the finishing touches to the shine he'd put on Prowl's red chevron. Working in equal silence and with equal care, Sideswipe began to touch up the black paint-work on Jazz's limp right hand.
Ratchet stared, watching the boisterous, impulsive twins paint and polish their stasis-locked officers with the same delicate care a genitor might show to the smallest sparkling.
Prowl's frame was smooth after Ratchet's repairs, his paint scheme vibrant and elegant in its simplicity. Jazz's colours were still dull by comparison, his systems taking time to reclaim the long-vacant frame.
That either frame still held colour was testament to the skills of the Autobots' chief medic and the strength of the sparks they sheltered. Ratchet shuddered, remembering how close both had come to guttering under his finger servos. Expression pensive, he contemplated the two stasis-locked mechs, wondering even now if he'd done enough.
"How long?"
Sideswipe spoke without turning around, his question startling after the silence that came before.
"Until I try lifting the stasis blocks? Another three days."
"Not that."
Sunstreaker shot a glare over his shoulder, and Sideswipe shook his head. Ratchet found himself at the focus of two pairs of cool blue optics. The weary medic leaned back against the door frame, his arms folding across his chest. He should have known that wasn't the question Sideswipe was asking. The timeframe for releasing the protective blocks - for discovering whether or not the over-strained sparks had it in them to rouse a frame - was fixed in the processor of everyone involved. The twins were no more likely to forget than Prime, or Ironhide, or Ratchet himself.
Sunstreaker turned back to polishing, working now on Prowl's slack door-wings with an artist's care and a friend's gentle touch. His red-clad brother frowned, his crossed arms mirroring Ratchet's.
"When will Prime tell everyone Jazz is alive?"
It came out abrupt, pointed, almost as a challenge. Sidewipe knew it too. His frown turned stubborn and a touch defiant.
The focus of Ratchet's scowl shifted to the saboteur's black and white frame. He considered the dull lustre of Jazz's armour, and the other signs he'd seen, both good and bad. Sideswipe was looking for answers. His bright optics demanded them from Ratchet - pleading with the medic who'd pulled off so many miracles to accomplish just one more.
The truth was that all Ratchet's hard work could only do so much. The saboteur's spark was in control now - and despite four long days and longer nights of careful monitoring, the end result was still too close to call.
"He'll tell the crew when we know." Ratchet kept his voice soft, and saw both twins flinch. Jazz was framed now, his spark stable, but fundamentally the situation hadn't changed since the twins first stumbled across the secret. The crew was still missing their third in command. Ratchet still couldn't say if they'd ever get him back. "When we know - one way or the other."
The medic's engine grumbled, his system queasy as he turned his gaze on Prowl instead. The tactician was doing better. Ratchet was almost certain he'd come online smoothly, almost certain he'd be awake and back at work before the orn was out. He was far less certain how Prowl would fare beyond that point if the medic's worst fears were realised.
He calmed his systems, pulling his gruff persona into place as much in self defence as for the sake of the watching twins. Pulling a wrench from subspace, he let it play across his knuckles, aware of Sideswipe tracking it with wary optics.
"So, tell me why I shouldn't kick your sorry afts out of here, right now?"
It was amusing, and just a touch irritating, that both twins seemed to feel more comfortable with a wrench-wielding Ratchet than his soft-spoken alter-ego. The medic didn't have to force the growl into his voice.
"Well?"
Sideswipe grinned at him, still defiant, but with the challenge lingering in his optics.
"Don't you think Prowl deserves to walk out of medbay in tip-top condition?"
Ratchet raised a brow-ridge. "And you don't think I can handle that myself?"
The glance Sunstreaker threw in his direction, sweeping critically over his white and red plating, was frankly insulting. The yellow front-liner gave a half-shrug, running a servo down his own smooth armour and then turning back to Prowl. "Up to a point."
Ratchet couldn't help it. He snorted, his amusement showing in his bright optics. It faded as he turned back to Sideswipe, aware of the red-clad twin once more leaning over Jazz's still frame.
The front-liner exchanged a look with his brother, their expressions unreadable. Then Sideswipe looked down, not meeting Ratchet's optics as he spoke.
"And when Jazz saunters out of here after him, it's going to be with style."
Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to argue. He subspaced the wrench, stepping around Jazz's berth. A sigh gusted from his vents as he sat and extended one hand.
"Hand me a cloth then," he said and settled in for another shift in their long vigil.
"Prowl. I want you to stay calm. Just lie still and let your systems reset."
It was the second time in just over an orn that Prowl had woken to feel Ratchet's steady presence buffering his processor. The first time had been riven with grief and confusion, and the memory of that now was enough to send a pulse of energy to his up-cycling engines. Ratchet soothed it easily, keeping the tactician's systems level, and maintaining a tight hold over any excess in his processor activity. Prowl was grateful for the precaution, and grateful too that it wasn't strictly necessary.
Prowl was anxious and disoriented. He had no idea what had happened in the eight days his logs told him he'd been in stasis lock. His spark ached. But his memory was intact, his processor's core algorithms clear and far from looping. He knew that Ratchet was there to help him, knew he was safe in the medic's repair bay and knew what was important.
"How's Jazz?" he asked, angling his door-wings against the cushions supporting them, trying to get a better feel for the saboteur's nearby spark resonance even before his optics lit and focused.
Leaning over him, Ratchet sighed. Prowl half expected the medic to stop him as he pushed himself upright on the med-berth and swung his legs over the side. Instead Ratchet merely extended servos to support him, steadying the tactician as he finished his reboot, processed the repairs made while he was offline and reset his gyroscopic stabilisation.
It felt good, and somewhat unfamiliar, for Prowl to be fully fuelled and his systems tuned to near perfection. The internal logs reporting new bearings in his chest-plates, not to mention the repair of a dozen minor dents and abrasions, relieved any concern he might have had about his own condition. Instead, he stared across the bay to the door beside Ratchet's office. The side-room screened its occupant from casual observation, but its door stood open, a narrow gap facing the newly-awakened tactician.
Jazz's frame was whole, repainted and finished with a care that suggested the twins' involvement. He lay still on the polished metal of the med-berth, surrounded by machines that ticked and whirred in a near-constant, low-level chorus. His visor was dark, his frame limp and faceplates slack.
The medical monitors assured Prowl that his friend's spark was still burning. He would have known, even with his optics and audials offline and his sensory-wings dampened.
"Prowl, stop."
It wasn't until Ratchet pressed gently backwards on his chest-plate that Prowl realised he was on his feet and drifting slowly forwards. Ratchet's finger-servos brushed Prowl's own, cupped over his spark as if it could ease the ache there. He could still feel Jazz's presence - in the same way that a listener would still hear the diminished and dying echo of his own voice in a deep cave. Jazz was there, but weak and distant. Prowl's spark strained for the resonance it had grown accustomed to, and his pedes moved without conscious volition, straining against Ratchet's resistance in the effort to recapture that warmth. He conquered the impulse, bringing his tactical processor online just long enough for it to remind him of common sense.
Standing still, optics locked on the black and white frame of his closest friend, Prowl shook his helm.
"I'm fine, Ratchet. Jazz...?"
"He's stable." Ratchet's flat tone brought Prowl's helm around sharply. The medical officer's optics had followed Prowl's to their saboteur, his faceplates blank with the careful neutrality of his profession. There was no fire in Ratchet's optics, no scowl on his face. That was alarming. Ratchet sighed again as he pushed Prowl to sit on the nearest berth. "Improving maybe. Slowly. We were able to move you out here..." a brief scowl put in an appearance and Ratchet jerked his helm towards the berth where Prowl had awakened, "...over there... yesterday, and we took Jazz off spark support this morning, once we were sure his spark was accepting the frame."
Prowl studied the medic, a frown furrowing the plating below his chevron. "Continue," he said, his curt tone making it an order.
"His spark's taken the strain so far. His frame is functioning correctly, and we're seeing processor activity at a stasis-lock maintenance level."
Prowl just waited. Ratchet paused for a long moment, before settling onto the berth beside the tactician.
"But we're not seeing any sign that his spark is trying to rouse his frame beyond that level. And until it does, it's impossible to tell whether it's reintegrating his personality components... or not."
Prowl's door-wings flared behind him. He felt a shudder ripple through his frame, and gazed at Ratchet with horror. His old friend's sympathy and frustration rippled in the energy field between them. The strength of the reaction only underlined the weakness of Jazz's fully-framed presence in that same field.
"You're saying that Jazz is alive and likely to remain so..." Prowl cleared his vocaliser with a whirr of static. He had to articulate his fear, and put the horror into words, "...but may never wake from stasis."
Ratchet's grim expression spoke for him. The medic sat beside Prowl, his posture slumped, his hands resting on his lap.
"I'd hoped to have better news for you before your systems were back up to spec." He cycled his vents, his engine note rising for a few klicks before subsiding. "His spark output was fragging low before we made the transfer. It might just be taking longer to recover than he's had. But this is what it is. I'll do my best, Prowl, but I can't promise miracles."
Prowl nodded. He could keep the keen from his vocaliser and the fear from showing on his faceplates; he couldn't stop his door-wings from slumping against his back.
Tearing his optics from the still form on the berth was one of the more difficult things Prowl had ever done. He needed to do it, needed to put space between him and Jazz, needed to function without the spark that called constantly to his own. If he couldn't stand alone now, he knew instinctively, he never would. He might as well curl around his unwitting bondmate and join him in stasis.
For a moment, just a moment, he was tempted.
The tactician looked down at his clenched finger-servos and then back up towards the medic sitting beside him.
"Thank you, Ratchet," he said in a level voice. "You will keep me informed, of course." He slipped down from the berth, hiking his door-wings up behind him and allowing them to block his faceplates from Ratchet's view. "I must report to Optimus Prime."
"Prowl!" The medic's startled call stopped the tactician halfway to medbay's outer door. Ratchet stared at his patient's taut back-struts, servo rubbing his grey chevron. "You're just going to walk out of here?"
"I understood that my repairs were complete. I register full functioning of my systems."
"That's not what I…"
Prowl's door-wings lowered. He looked back over his shoulder, expression impassive.
"In the condition you describe, Jazz is entirely dormant and unaware. He is likely to remain so for the indefinite future. My presence in the repair bay cannot benefit him. It will serve no purpose, save for leaving me restless and frustrated, and robbing the Autobots of my service and capabilities."
"Prowl…" Ratchet's voice trailed off. The medic shook his helm before bowing it. Prowl knew that he was trembling, the finest of tremors visible in his clenched servos and lowered door-wings. He knew too that Ratchet had picked up on the strain. "You might not find walking out of here as easy as you think."
Prowl half-turned, the movement attracting Ratchet's optics. He met them, gaze steady and almost too intense.
"You believe that I find any of this easy?"
Ratchet's optics dropped away. The medic's fists clenched by his side, his vented sigh shaking his frame.
"Half-shifts only. And you'll be back if Jazz needs you?"
Prowl turned to leave, his door-wings rising once again to conceal his features. Every step was torture. Every vent threatened to choke him.
"In a spark-beat," he promised quietly.