(no subject)
I should be heading to bed, or even working on Star Crossed, but I needed a break from the uber angst. May finish another chapter of this before I go back to it. Since the next chapter might actually be fluffier than this one. O_o I hope, if it all works out.
Big battle scene chapter, at least that's what I was going for. If you notice anything glaringly confusing, or wrong or tactically unsound feel free to point it out. :)
Title Nowhere to Turn
Characters Jazz, Ratchet, brief Sideswipe and guest-starring Bulkhead. Continuing with the eventual Jazz/Sideswipe and other pairings implied if they haven't already been outright stated.
Summary A wounded, cornered mechanimal would aptly describe the red warrior that stumbles his way into Jazz’s life. Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered. Now, if only Jazz could find out what the slag was going on with him.
Author's Notes There's actually not much in the way of Jazz-Sideswipe interaction, but hopefully next chapter (though planned to be rather short) will make up for that.)
Part 1
Part 6
Chapter 7
Everything went to the Pit far faster than Jazz would have ever been able to imagine. Roars and explosions assaulted his audio sensors, deafening them to everyone around him. Seekers swept by overhead, adding to the clamor and cacophony reverberating off the streets. They'd come out of nowhere. Decepticons pouring from every alleyway and intersecting street. They streamed through the skies, dropping bombs and missiles on the Autobot convoy.
Jazz ducked behind the broken form of a large tank drone, dodging the wires spitting and sparking from several sizeable holes in its hull. Bulkhead crouched next to him, shallow cranium peeking over the edge of the tread they hid behind and returning fire on the Decepticons a block away.
“Where’s my gunners?” Jazz shouted over the comm. unit as another trine dropped bombs on the rear of his convoy. “Take down those jets!”
“We need a medic over here! Doubleshot’s taken a hit, he’s leaking all over the place!”
“Wheeljack leave whatever the slag you’re working on and get your aft over there, I’ve got my hands full here.”
A single trine of rainbow-hued jets burst through a lazy cloud of smoke. They artfully wove their way deep into the Autobots' line, lasers scoring their bellies even as they dodged fatal shots. They fired upon the mechs, their forward artillery lighting up their nosecones. And yet they withheld the missiles surely tucked within their bombholds.
Jazz slid up the side of the tank, targeting array wavering in and out of his vision with the motions of his gun and he opened fire on a group trying to slink into an alley. “WHERE’S MY GUNNERS??” he boomed again.
“I can't get through ta Prime,” Ironhide grunted, a jet falling in his vicinity. “Transmissions outta the area are bein' jammed. We only got short-range communications.”
“I have them,” finally came the calm reply. “Positioning them now. One more breem and those Seekers are so much slag.”
Jazz vented harshly, running the calculations through his processor. Oh Primus, they were heading for...
“We ain't got a breem, 'Screen! They're targetin' th' medical section.” Jazz switched from the secure channel to general transmission. “Open fire! All units protect our medics!”
Turrets swiveled and guns swung about.
The Seekers swerved away from their intended target, but another trine broke through the line, aiming for the medics in the center.
“'Screen, we need cover!”
“Are ya slaggin' insane?” Ironhide retorted suddenly. “That's a stupid idea, Jazz.”
Jazz looked in the direction he knew Ironhide to be, though he couldn't see the big red mech through the haze already in the air. “Y' gotta better idea, 'Hide? Now's the time to share it.” The acting Commanding Officer ducked the Decepticons’ return fire, slapping in a second charge for his gun.
“We got a circuit fire over by the artillery. We need retardant.”
“I have a shot on that heavy tank. Clear out!”
“Jazz?”
At Smokescreen's soft query without any further input from Ironhide, Jazz hesitated. “This is yer area, Screen.”
Black smoke poured over the battlefield, reducing visibility to negligible factors. Bulkhead's gun resounding near by was the only hint of his presence.
The Seekers cursed at the Autobots on the ground, weaving out of the thick, clinging cloud.
Jazz moved closer to Bulkhead. “Sensors on me, Bulkhead.” Jazz dropped to the ground, magnetic plates humming to life just before they struck the ground. He could hear the much larger mech transform, engine rumbling beside him and vibrating through the black and white plating.
“You sure it’s a good idea for me to leave that tank, Jazz?”
The white Sleektilt swept toward the big green Tanker, nudging against the mech’s mag plates. “Don’t ya think I know what I’m doin’, Bulky?”
Bulkhead dropped lower to the ground on his plates. “I’m not saying that, but we had it covered.”
“Sensors on the ground, Bulky.” Jazz kept his sensors to the sky, depending on the large mech to point out any potential obstacles on the ground.
“I thought we had it covered,” Bulkhead repeated, his tone petulant and worried.
Jazz braked suddenly, flashing his headlamps at the Tanker to do the same before he darted off to the side, aware of the lumbering vehicle behind him. An explosion ripped through the cloud of clinging smoke in what used to be the two mechs’ path, burning through the Autobots’ cover, only to have the void just as suddenly filled in by more of the smoke pouring from a single Autobot.
Bulkhead suddenly transformed and nabbed Jazz-still in alt-mode- pulling the Sleektilt under him. Bullets rattled against the Tanker, and Jazz could hear the few that penetrated the thick hide and the vulnerable joints and seams on the larger mech. The mech’s systems whined above him, and Jazz revved his engine comfortingly.
He took that moment to get his bearings. There, the abandoned trailer of a Convoy, smoke trailing over the offline bodies lying exposed.
“Primus slaggit! Bulkhead, soon’s that gun stops, you cover that trailer. Why no one’s already doin’ that-“ Jazz halted as Bulkhead’s optic peeked out from where it had ducked into his chestplate. “What?” he asked aloud, certain the Tanker would hear him so close.
“Jazz... they're all... uh, dead.”
“Say wha'?” A second scan of the trailer and Jazz noticed that, yes, the bodies were all indeed cold and silent. The metal that supported them twisted and burned, curling over the inert frames and melting into their profiles. It would explain why they were no longer functioning, and why no one guarded them.
The flash scan took a bare astrosecond during which the constant stream of bullets stopped. Bulkhead transformed and Jazz led them onto the next carrier, this one deeper in the center line. Jazz commed over the appropriate code, and the line opened to let them through. A large grey Convoy stood in front of his trailer, all four of his rifles blazing relentlessly at distant Decepticons, over the heads of his shorter comrades.
“Duck and cover!” The large mech boomed suddenly.
Bipedal frames suddenly dropped to the ground, just as a missile cruised by overhead. Nitro smacked at the tail end,sending the missile spiraling away from his trailer. It hit open ground, and sent shrapnel raining down on them. Another trailer crashed onto its side from the concussion.
Identifiers immediately pulled up in Jazz's HUD. Vitran Convoy. Transporting Reliance, Whirlidervish, Sunstreaker, and...
Aw slag.
That was Bumblebee's trailer!
Jazz turned at Nitro's angry shouts.
“Get back in your slot! That's your assignment, that's what you'll do!”
Sideswipe answered, his words broken by the continued cacophony of battle. He wrenched free, Nitro no longer able to argue with him as he brought his rifles to bear again.
“Sides what the frag are you doing?”
Jazz zipped over and transformed as Sideswipe stood up and pulled his rocket launcher from subspace. Pale optics glared down at the acting commander . “Just because I'm injured, doesn't mean I can't stand here and shoot! Don't make me die doing nothing!”
Jazz wanted to yell that the mech wasn't going to die, but the wrecked trailer haunted his visual sensors. “Ya stay right there and don't move! Do ya understand?”
Sideswipe didn't even look at Jazz, his hand on his launcher as he took aim on approaching jets. “Fine! Won't take a step even if they burn me to slag! I hear ya!”
He didn't have time for insubordination. Jazz snapped his head around to his escort. “Bulkhead, stay here, give them the support they need. Don't let any Cons through!”
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Jazz dropped back to his alt mode, wrenching joints in his haste. He scraped along the ground, barely giving the mag plates a chance to take hold before propelling himself into the backlines.
“We need a medic! Bang's been hit!”
“Get him over here! I can't leave!”
“Negative. We can't spare a body, the Con's are trying to swarm us over here.”
“Driver! Balance! You're close by, can either of you reach him?”
“Negative.”
“Not happenin', I'm still workin' here!”
“He's losing coolant and going into shock! Can we get some help over here?”
Jazz burst into the stream of communications. “Ratchet, yer the only medic available! What've ya got yer hands in?”
Ratchet answered over a private channel, his words snarled and tone vicious. “I am not leaving Prowl!”
Vents spat hot air and Jazz picked up speed. “Ya gotta! Ya need t’ mobilize anyways, yer all sittin’ targets!.”
“Oh, well thanks for that observation, Jazz!”
Jazz whirled to his feet as he came upon Ratchet's little enclosure. Walking wounded assisted the medic in toting those in stasis into empty trailers cleared of mechs who hadn't made it. The saboteur snagged the larger mech's arm, using his momentum to spin Ratchet toward him. “Yer needed elsewhere!”
“I'm needed here!”
“If Prowl were online, he'd order ya to go too!”
Pale blue optics seemed to ice over. “If Prowl were online, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Jazz winced at his mistake. Where was Prowl's cool commanding tone when he needed it? “Yer needed elsewhere, Prowl ain’t goin’ nowhere. I can supervise. Stabilize Bang and get ‘im back here.”
Ratchet slid wide optics toward the incumbent form on the ground.
Black fingers squeezed the white paneling. “I’ll watch Prowl.”
The large frame hissed, moving away from the saboteur. “If anything happens…” The threat lingered in the air.
“Ain’t no one gonna touch him.”
Ratchet turned and transformed, his ping rattling off of Jazz’s sensors.
Jazz stood over Prowl’s too still form, directing the crew in maneuvering the offline wounded about. He didn’t need medical programming to tell them where to handle gently, Ratchet-nearly as anal about his patients as Prowl was his unit- had clearly marked weak and damaged areas.
“What the frag are you doing, Sideswipe?”
A disruption in the normal sound of battles drew his gaze back toward Nitro’s position, but he couldn’t see anything through the obscuring cloud of smoke. He could only listen and extrapolate what was going on.
“These jets are a pain in the aft! They won’t leave, so I’m getting rid of them!”
“Get back down here right now!”
“Sideswipe, I toldja not t’ move!”
A jet roared by, its engines stuttering inexplicably. A missile hit?
“Promise I’m not using my-“ The transmission broke off abruptly, startling Jazz.
Not even the buzz of communications touched his audio receptors. A jammer, but where? They had been using short range just for this-
Jazz whirled, a small movement catching his attention.
A turbohawk glared up at him, red optics flaring balefully. It stood on Prowl’s neck, thrusters scraping his helmet and his shoulder plates.
It shifted its stance, claws hooking into powerlines. The threat clear.
How ‘d that get through the line? Jazz lifted the gun in his hand, intending to blast the stupid bird off his friend.
Red optics narrowed, and the bird-bot squawked.
His finger refused to squeeze the trigger. His processor whirred with conflicting information. The desire to shoot the pest flailing against the possibility of ripping important lines out of Prowl’s cortex, and possibly killing his best friend.
“-ceive me? Come in! Are -ceiving?” Prime’s voice filtered through the jam, static and interference breaking his words up.
“Optimus, this is Jazz, do you copy?”
“-azz? New - channel! Filter 8433. Decode authorization Theta.”
Jazz switched channels, his optics never leaving the turbohawk. “Blaster got through the jam?”
“He’s secured this channel for us to converse for now. Situation? Where’s the Commander?”
Jazz frowned, puzzled why Optimus was asking that. “Prowl’s down sir, remember? I’m acting Commander.”
Static bursts broke the transmission, an electronic hesitation. “Of course. Do you need assistance? We are close to your position.”
“If y’can. They’re swarming us sir, I’m not sure how much longer we can hold this position.”
“Can you hold for another few breem, Jazz?”
“Yeah, I think-“ Jazz broke off as something large and red crashed to the ground next to him. The turbohawk shrieked and its thrusters ignited, launching it off Prowl’s neck. “The frag?” Jazz leapt over to the black and white mech, using a wiper cloth to beat out the fires from the bird’s take off. He shook off any flames that caught on the cloth, too intent to worry about the wiring catching to mind the burns on his hand.
The half-slagged frame moved, and moaned. Jazz paused briefly in putting out the small fire to glance toward what he thought to be a Seeker corpse. His jaw fell as he recognized the red and black paintjob and mech’s shape.
“’Swipe?” Jazz couldn’t spare his attention for long, he finished with the flames and rushed over to the prone form. He knelt, putting a hand on Sideswipe’s shoulder, listening for some sign that the mech was functioning. He clenched his teeth, and tightened his joints until the pale optics flickered on, and the black-crowned face turned toward him.
“J’azzzkk?”
The saboteur released a breath of hot air, cycling to cool his heating systems. “Primus, ‘Swipe. What- You-“ He buzzed his vocalizer, stopping himself. He couldn’t handle this at the moment. “ I don't know what y' were thinking,” he forced a smile, scanning over the mech’s damage and seeing that Sideswipe would be okay with a little Ratchet-flavored TLC, “but you’ll live long enough for Prowl t' strip ya down to yer casing.”
“They're pulling back?”
“They're wha'? Yer pullin' my wires?”
“No, seriously! They are!”
“Really 'Hide! East side too!”
“North too!”
“And south!”
Jazz looked up, optics flickering in surprise, but he couldn't see anything through the thick screen of smoke. The weapons fire slowed down, the rattle echoing off the buildings until pauses breached the noise. “'Hide? 'Screen? Can ya get a look? Ratch are you in a position to see?”
“Call me that again, Jazz, and I'll turn you into an outlet.” Static burst in a brief pause. “They're backing off from what I tell.”
Ironhide and Smokescreen concurred.
Jazz accessed the coded frequency he'd been reaching Prime on. “I hope yer givin' us that assist, sir?”
“I worried when you didn't respond. Yes. That is my unit. I'm afraid though that I won't be able to stay, I trust you can handle things from here? We'll make sure the Cons have something else to think about.”
Jazz blinked. “Of course. Everyone will be disappointed that you couldn't say hi.”
“I spoke to them before we parted ways.” The transmission trembled, a low vibration reverberating through Jazz's sensors. “Jazz, this is an alpha level security frequency, only you and Prowl will be authorized to utilize it to contact me.”
“Yessir.”
“I look forward to hearing your future reports.”
“Thanks for the assist, Prime.” Jazz turned, kneeling down next to Sideswipe. The mech had gone offline while he'd been distracted, but his systems whirred with stasis settings reassuring Jazz that the 'Swipe would come online again.
He stood, and let Ratchet take over the moving of the wounded, joining Smokescreen and Ironhide in getting the unit together again and ready to move out.
Now he wanted to know what the frag Sides had been doing to get this badly fragged. It wasn't all the crash. Not with those burns and bullet holes.
Part 8