I'm totally not trying to hide from RL behind bunnies. I don't know what you're talking about.
I seriously need to work on finishing up SC. So this is the last time I'm poking this bunny for a while. I don't care that it's got the next scene outlined in my head. I won't be tempted, you hear me bunny! I also seriously need to do some poking at that summary, my subplot is taking over and the summary is becoming rather misleading. ^^;
Ooh! On the good side, this is a step ahead in the Jazz/Sideswipe relationship! Yay! Even though there's still less Jazz-Sides interaction than I wanted. Ah, well. I'm also pleased with the way this chapter came out. Actually feels like there's more characters than just Jazz and Sides. XD
Title Nowhere to Turn
Characters Jazz, Ratchet, Red Alert, Ironhide, Smokescreen, Wheeljack, Sideswipe, OCs as needed, eventual Jazz/Sideswipe, others to be implied (unless they're outright stated. :P)
Warnings None
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 Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered.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.
Chapter 8
They were talking when Jazz entered the room. Mostly Ironhide regaling them with some derring-do of his (quite likely involving a Decepticon WMD and a leap and a certain nameless Prime). Ratchet and Wheeljack had their heads tucked together; Wheeljack’s indicators flashing softly and Ratchet’s moving mouth the only other indication that they spoke to one another. Smokescreen seemed to be listening to Ironhide, but Jazz knew better, and the diversionary tactician had this utterly blank look on his face of pretending to be listening. Occassionally the colorful Enforcer would lean toward Wheeljack and add a comment to the two’s conversation. Red Alert’s attention shifted to Jazz long enough to give a nod in recognition before turning back to the large red mech. Frequency gave Jazz a jaunty grin, his head bobbing to some rhythm only he heard.
Jazz smoothly inserted himself between Ratchet and Ironhide, creating a little more of a buffer between Smokescreen and Ironhide. Ratchet’s head jerked up to see who had intruded on his personal space. The corners of his mouth briefly dropped as he took in the saboteur’s grin.
Jazz let Ironhide finish his tale, and the medic and scientist end their conversation. He waited until everyone turned their optics on him, and then he waited another quarter of a breem, before he pulled his mouth into a lopsided smile.
“Well, I don’t know about y’all, but I’m waitin’ fer Prowl t’ give us the go ahead.” Jazz dramatically gestured to the spot that he had purposefully left open at the end of the table.
A smattering of laughter met that joke, and Jazz purposefully bumped Ratchet, whose optics had dimmed in response. At the slight nudge, one optic brightened to glare down at Jazz’s grinning face.
“I don’t know about y’all, but havin’ Prowl be outta commission has sure left a dent in m’ duties, an’ I wanna get on the stupid slaggin’ reports I’m supposed t’ read an’ y’all are supposed ta be givin’ me more stuff to slagging go through.” Jazz paused to hang his head, earning another round of chuckles. “So, let’s get this over with so we can all get back t’ work.” Jazz did a quick scan of the mechs around the table and decided to start on a slightly less sensitive (though no less important to him) topic.
“Ratchet, what’s the status on that deep scan fer ‘Bee?”
“Done,” Wheeljack interjected, suddenly. His optics flickered in amusement as gazes turned from the Chief Medic to the Engineer. “Ratchet had me take over so he could deal with the casualties.”
“Whatcha find?” Jazz asked before Ratchet had a chance to berate Wheeljack for his word choice.
Ratchet glared at the table, his engine growling in irritation.
“Same thing Ratchet did. There's an invasive program running in his processor. It’s altered at least some of his memory files.”
Jazz glanced at Ratchet. “Recommended course of action?” he asked softly.
Wheeljack's optics dimmed. “Memory wipe. We'll have to take it at least as far back as that last battle. There might be more, but at the rate the program’s been running, I don’t think any files would be fragmented enough to have been unnoticeably affected.”
Red Alert twitched, his joints whining as he buzzed for attention. “This is a major security breach, and the intelligence officer didn't even have to come within normal field influence. One can only assume that proximity will give him greater access to a victim's higher functions.” Red Alert looked to Frequency for agreement and the mech gave him a thumbs up and a cheery 'Right-o'. “Do we know if Bumblebee's spark had been breached?”
“Thank the Matrix, no,” Wheeljack sighed. “I wouldn't have recommended only a memory wipe, Red.”
Red Alert nodded at that.
“Ya can tell fer sure, Jack?”
Wheeljack's optics flickered in brief communication with Ratchet, the medic's pale gaze still fixed on the table. “I'll take a spark reading after the procedure, but it was reading clean before.”
Ratchet finally spoke up, “Even if he’s altered his spark readings, the fluctuations should still let us know if he’s attempting to hide anything.”
One aspect of special ops training covered cycling energy through your spark until it became nearly unrecognizable and unreadable to interpreters. Jazz tucked his hands under his bumper, ducking his head to hide the grimace on his face. While considered basic training, it was normally reserved as a last resort tactic. ‘Then again, a lot of special ops trainin’ should be last resort.’ “Ya didn’t find any damage though right?” Normally the best way to encourage spark fluxing would be through overclocking due to injury. Superficial damage wouldn’t have suited the purpose, it would have to be something major: puncture, busted linkage, severed limb relays, massive fuel loss, sliced power cables these were normally the best ways to attain a fluxing spark. Despite the ease such conditions would be to attain in a torture scenario, Jazz didn’t see how they were possible with this situation.
Wheeljack waved the suggestion off. “Nothing, he’s been offline since we left the camp.”
“Are ya gonna try t' clean the bad codin' out?”
Ratchet shook his head. “I can't do that here. But if Ironhide can take it back to Iacon, then Longview and Blaster can examine it and see if they can't extract clean data. Sorry, Jazz, but 'Bee's not going to remember anything that happened since then and his waking up.” The medic sighed, tossing a quick smile at the black hand patting his arm.
“Ah can certainly do that for yah, Ratch. Ah'm needin' ta head back anyways, just so long as y'all have everythin' under control.”
Assuring murmurs circled the table until they reached Red Alert. The security officer didn't seem the least bit pleased, if one could tell by the frown on his face and the fingers tapping his datapad. “While Ironhide's actions are greatly appreciated, this does not negate the fact that we have, essentially, had a spy in our midst for the past several megacycles. I request that all the records he dealt with be pulled for examination, as well as changing access codes earlier than normal. I will be pulling footage to attempt to piece together exactly where he went while he was in the base. If I could receive assistance in tracing any contacts he might have in the city-”
“Whoa whoa whoa there Red!” Jazz waved down Red Alert's enthusiasm. “We ain't interrogatin' no civilians just cause 'Bee happened to wave at them! Everythin' else is fine, but that I simply ain't gonna tolerate, and you know Prowl wouldn't either, so don't try t' fuel me with that sludge.”
Frequency bopped his hand back and forth, gaining the attention of the table. “I can scour the air waves and see what our little Bug's been up to. Who he's been jammin' with, if anyone's been playin' DJ to all'a his music.” He grinned as Red Alert's optics brightened. “I knew that you would dig that, Red, I already got my compacts pullin' the records, I just gotta give my sig to the stuff too high for them to access.”
“Your assistance is appreciated Frequency,” Red Alert said, but he turned to Jazz expectantly. “There is still one last issue to address. I hope that Ratchet will concur with the need to have the entire Special Operations team deep-scanned for invasive programming.”
Jazz's fingers twitched, and it was all Jazz could do to keep from bouncing to his feet and crying out in outrage. “Hang on, Red, Raj and I haven't seen this new intelligence officer. Yer sayin' we're guilty 'fore we even commit any crimes.” He leaned toward the sceurity officer, keeping a sweet smile on his face despite the glare hidden by his visor. “I ain't gonna tell Raj that he's a traitor, and I ain't gonna stand for anyone else saying that slag in my presence. Am I clear?” He swivelled his head, including everyone at the table. He waited until they agreed, resigned to Jazz's decision.
Red Alert did not seem so ready to admit defeat on the topic yet, however. “Jazz, I don’t think you’re looking at this objectively enough. His memory has been altered, he is the reason that the battle went as badly as it did.” Red Alert waved the datapad he held, optics flashing in anger. “He gave us inaccurate coordinates and botched your mission. This all by just being within sight of that intelligence officer, there is no telling what may happen with closer contact. I stand by my request to have the Special Ops team scanned.”
Jazz leaned forward, dental plates bared in a silent snarl. “I haven’t seen him, Mirage says he ain’t seen him. Now unless yer gonna sit there and call us liars then let’s carry on with the next topic.” Jazz paused a moment, his gaze never breaking from the Security Officer’s. “Are ya gonna call us liars?” He said it in his sweetest tone, but the snarl never left his lips.
Red Alert stared back, his indecision almost palpable. He looked to Ironhide, and Jazz nearly lunged across the table, but Red Alert, living up to his name, jumped out of the saboteur’s reach.
Half sprawled across the table in a most undignified manner, Jazz shoved himself up so that he could more effectually glare at Red Alert. “I’m in command here, not Ironhide.”
The Security Officer didn’t blanch from Jazz’s gaze again. “I stand by my suggestion,” he finally said, his tone wavering only slightly.
Jazz’s glare hardened behind his visor though he froze his cheek and lip motors. “An’ I’m vetoin’ that suggestion.” He ended the discussion with a look at Ratchet. “Ratch,” Jazz asked, letting the tension out of his servomotors, “how's things lookin' for Prowl?”
Ratchet shifted as every optic turned to him. “I'm still trying to trace the source of the glitch.”
“There's no estimation for his recovery time then?” Red Alert asked, shuffling the datapads in his hands.
Ratchet only glared at the security officer. “I've got the majority of his damage repaired, the only thing left is cosmetic, but I'm waiting until the medbay's cleared before I worry about that.”
“Ratch-man, what's the hold-up with good ole Prowler? I don't jive with you sayin' you can't fix it. There ain't a tune you ain't heard in your field.” Despite his jocular tone and smile, Frequency still managed to convey a sincerity with the weight of his hands on the table and the angle of his lean toward the medic.
Air rushed out of the white frame and Ratchet shifted his weight, his glare once again centering on the tabletop. “It keeps coming back.”
Engines revved in surprise.
“After I delete it, he's lucid for approximately half a joor before it reinstalls itself. It's getting past any firewalls I set up...” Ratchet stared contemplatively at nothing in particular. He glanced toward Jazz. “If we're done here, I'd like to get back to work.”
Jazz nodded. “We all got our assignments-well, hey wait a tic.” Jazz's grin turned positively devilish. “Smokey, y' ain't got any new assignments? Thanks fer volunteerin' t' help me go through the reports! Meetin' adjourned.”
Smokescreen sputtered, “Wh- Butbutbut-”
~*~*~*~
The main doors were closed and locked.
Jazz could override the lock, but he didn't really want to face the wrath of an outraged CMO. He entered through the side door, standing patiently as cleansers pulled the dirt and dust off his frame. The disc rotated him to allow the cleansers full access to his plating.
After a breem of the cleaners drawing dirt from his frame the door to the medbay interior finally opened.
Medics huddled over still frames, working feverishly to finish the mech they worked on and move onto the next. Others turned parts in their hands, repairing what they could before placing it in the sorting bins for the medics.
Jazz danced around the mechs rushing back and forth. Ratchet didn't even look up from the wires he was splicing. “He's in Room 3, and last I checked he was offline and 'charging like a sparklet.”
The saboteur blanched. Ratchet must have been really busy not to know right offhand the status of that one particular patient. “Thanks Ratch!”
A grumbled retort followed him as he made his way through the lines of occupied gurneys heading for the back room. He stumbled to a stop, and darted between two of the berths to stand next to what was becoming a terribly familiar red frame: Sideswipe. He stared down at the offline mech, relieved to see that the worst of the damage had been mended already.
“What’ve you got there?” Ratchet asked suddenly, startling Jazz. The medic could be as silent as a prowling autolion when he wanted.
Jazz turned to the larger mech, hastily coming up with an excuse to be over here when he noticed Ratchet’s optics were firmly on the datapad he held.
“Uh, I thought Prowler could use somethin’ t’ read whenever he comes online.”
The red hand reached out, clearly intending to pluck the datapad out of Jazz’s grip. The saboteur didn’t even try to resist as the device left his fingers. “Weren’t ya just fixin’ someone?”
“He can wait a breem,” Ratchet grunted, turning the datapad over and putting his welder torch to the side of the device.
Jazz yelped, snatching the ‘pad out of the medic’s hands, but too late as the dataports were already warped beyond usability. “What the frag was that for?”
The torch suddenly waved under Jazz’s nasal ridge, blue flame dancing too close for his liking. “I don’t know what Prowl has, but the last thing I need is to have it start spreading around the unit because he decided to jack in and pull the file straight from the datapad.” Ratchet’s gaze finally turned toward the gurney Jazz stood next to, and he arched an inquiring optic ridge at the saboteur. “Doesn’t look like Room 3, much less Prowl.”
Jazz buzzed his vocalizer, resuming his hasty excuse making. “How’s ‘Swipe?”
Ratchet’s optics flickered as he accessed the patient database. “Besides a pain in my aft?” he rumbled good-naturedly. “He’ll live, lucky fragger.” The pale blue optics narrowed suddenly and turned the full intensity of Ratchet’s glare on the saboteur. “Do you have any fragging idea what he was doing after I told him to stay put?”
Jazz shook his head, moving the datapad to draw the medic’s attention. “No idea, no one saw. I’m hopin’ Prowl might be able t’ figure it out.”
The medic harrumphed, casting one last glare at the warrior before turning back to his current patient.
Jazz stood for another breem, looking at the patches that covered the plating, and the sealed tubes waiting for replacement. He moved on when a junior medic stepped over, hesitant at seeing a senior officer standing by the gurney.
He gave the femme a charming grin as he left, not stopping for anything else. He didn't even realize that he hadn't registered her name until he was across the room.
The door to the room opened just enough to permit Jazz in. Cool air rushed out, brushing against Jazz's face and audio horns, sending chills down his plating. As soon as he stepped into the room, warnings popped up in his HUD, informing him that he'd just entered a jamming zone. Ratchet's comment about the persistently reappearing program popped up in his processor. He gritted his dental plates and shut down his transceiver and any other receiving equipment, ignoring the feeling of being wrapped in packing fluff.
His optics automatically sought out the black and white frame. Any relief at seeing the mech repaired died at the sight of the open chest (the chestplate nowhere in sight) and wires attached to his processor and spark chamber. Jazz hissed as he recognized a manual firewall, breaking the connection between spark and processor: a safety precaution that kept the processor working but prevented an infection from reaching the spark.
No wonder Ratchet was so stressed.
Jazz took another step into the room, glancing at the monitors set up next to the tactician. “Hey, Prowl...” He allowed himself a slight smile as the spark monitor fluttered; recognition of Jazz's voice reaching down even to the spark. An interpreter sat next to the monitor, and Jazz stared at it in shock. He hadn't expected to find Ratchet going to such lengths to trace the problem.
He felt unaccountably guilty as he approached the offline mech. His holding tanks churned uneasily as he noticed how slack his friend's face was. He cycled air in a rush as he brushed the white fingers, sliding his hand up to grip the black forearm.
“I know ya can't hear me,” still the monitor continued to fluctuate to his voice, “but I brought ya somethin' t' read whenever ya come online.” He managed a smile as Prowl's spark reacted to the particular energy in Jazz's voice. He reached up to the white helm, fingers resting lightly on the curved metal. His optics never left the monitor as his engine grumbled for a moment and then revved high and strong before wending down and revving right back up. The monitor arced with each cycle, reacting to the pulsing of Jazz's energy field.
Knowing Ratchet wouldn't appreciate Jazz heating his cool room, Jazz stopped after the seventh cycle. He patted Prowl's helm, wishing his friend could respond.
Jazz moved to set the datapad on the counter. Shards of glass fell from his fingers, and he stared in shock. He hadn't even realized that he'd been holding the device that tightly. Wincing guiltily, he quickly accessed the file still on his harddrive and downloaded it to another datapad he pulled from subspace.
Placing the new datapad on the counter, he shoved the other into his trash pocket.
“You rest an' get well, Prowl. Things just ain't th' same wit'out ya.”
The monitor flickered at him, a continued reassurance that the frame in front of him was indeed his best friend and still functioning.
~*~*~*~
By the time Jazz managed to hit the rec room (courtesy of being dragged out of his office by an insistent Mirage), most mechs had already cleared out for their extended duty shifts, or recharge. A few frames still loitered around in small groups, voices soft in the nearly empty room. Each of them had been listed as still in repair last he checked. Primus, how long ago had that been? He noted Bluestreak sitting with Hound and Trailbreaker on one of the couches, the two Roughriders talking to the miserable-looking gunner. Whirlidervish hovered over the back of the couch, his shoulders twitching where his gravity lifts normally would be. Trailbreaker looked up, his visor flashing at Jazz; signalling that they had the situation in hand. Jazz went to the bar and ordered two rounds of mid-grade, intending to down one and take the other with him to his quarters.
He paused in turning toward the door. Sideswipe sat on a bench, his optics bright, but his lips pressed together. The mech held an empty energon cube in his hand, his elbow resting on his thigh. Jazz’s optics narrowed and he approached the lone mech sitting on the couch.
“Man, 'Swipe, ain't ya got any friends? I'm always findin' ya by yerself in here.”
Sideswipe straightened, not in surprise, but to turn his attention to the black and white mech. “Yeah, I do. Just didn't feel like company, right now.”
“Oh, well, I'll go then.” Jazz turned to leave.
Sideswipe's optics flashed and he half-stood as though to block the officer's path. “No, you're fine-I mean, you're not a bother.”
Jazz sat down, offering his spare cube to Sideswipe. “Somethin' glitchin' ya?”
Sideswipe took the cube from Jazz's hand, his expression guarded. “Not really. I just needed some quiet time.” A grin pulled at his mouth. “Especially since my hearing’s still a little staticy from Prowl's lecture.” He rubbed at his audio horns, and then his gaze slipped sharply toward Jazz. “Do you have any idea what his glitch is? You’d think he had to stand over my offline frame and do all the repairs. Slag, I thought Ratchet could yell, I think I'd rather get yelled at!”
Jazz snickered, not bothering to shield his amusement behind his fingers to spare his friend. “How long?”
“How long what?”
Nor did he bother to hide the grin either. “How long was the lecture?”
Optics flaring, Sideswipe downed a gulp of energon. “Slagging lasted three slotting cycles! I thought I was going to die of boredom.”
“I hope ya were running that li'l program of yours so he didn't think y' were fallin' into recharge on him.”
Wide optics turned to Jazz. “And he doesn't need to know about that.”
Jazz's grin widened. “Ain't gonna hear it from me, that's fer sure.”
Sideswipe sighed in relief, his fans running briefly as he sat back. “You're a good mech, Jazz. But this is normal for him?”
“Well, it don't help that he ain't got nothing t' do. An, Ratch was pretty hot at you, so he really couldn't help it.”
Sideswipe choked on his energon. “Say what?” he demanded, wiping at the stray droplets that dribbled down his chin
“They really can’t help it. An’ I wouldn’t make Prowl upset whenever he’s up an’ about, either. Or at least, avoid th’ medbay if ya do.”
Sideswipe stared at Jazz, optics resetting a few times as the warrior absorbed that information. “You're fragging me! They're... bonded?”
Jazz nodded, enjoying Sideswipe's surprise too much to pity his naivety.
“Primus! Well, that explains a lot.”
Patting Sideswipe's shoulder, Jazz chuckled, his engine echoing his amusement. “Ain't no one told ya that? Who the frag handled your orientation?”
Sideswipe's optics dimmed with embarrassment and he hid behind another swig of energon. “Didn't exactly get one...”
Jazz vented in exasperation. “Slag...”
Sideswipe grinned at Jazz, nudging the saboteur's shoulder with his elbow. “Well, you could do something about that. I'm a little tired of getting surprised.”
Jazz took another mouthful of energon, giving himself a moment to consider. “I could see if 'Screen...” he trailed off as disappointment dropped across Sideswipe's face. He didn't really need to ask after the change in expression. “Hey man, I'd love ta give ya the run down, but that's more 'Screen's area. He knows most of the ins and outs.” The red mech's expression didn't change. “An' I need to head to recharge, I'm only gettin' half a recharge cycle as is...” Primus, why was the mech affecting him like this? He wanted nothing more than to lift the drooping mouth, and brighten those blue optics. “If ya haven’t told anyone about the mistake before now, then ya can’t tell me y’ were worried about it. What’s th’ matter?”
Sideswipe said nothing, more concerned with swirling the energon around the rim his cube. He hunched his shoulders for a brief astrosecond, though it could have qualified as a half-hearted shrug.
A black hand rested lightly on a rounded shoulder mag plate, attempting to draw the warrior’s attention up and away from whatever disturbed him. “Y’ know, I’ve been wonderin’ how you and Sunshine managed to survive when the base was hit?”
It didn’t work as Jazz had planned.
Sideswipe’s optics blinked out, coming back online in that disturbing pale hue. He straightened against whatever memory Jazz had called forth, though his mouth tilted in a half-smile. “We were in the brig.”
‘He’s lyin’,’ Jazz realized, staring at the odd combination of expressions, ‘or there’s more to it, that he don’t want t’ tell me. Or both..’ “Why don’t that surprise me?”
The smile wavered a moment and the red shoulders sagged. Static hissed from Sideswipe’s vocalizer and he took a gulp of energon, swirling the fluid around his mouth before he turned to Jazz. “You say you’re my friend, right?”
Jazz had to reset his sensors, but the words didn’t change. “Yeah, a’ course, ‘s why I get so fried when yer bein’ a dumbaft.”
Sideswipe looked back down at his cube, his guarded expression relaxing. “I could really use a friend right now...”
Jazz's engine gave a small sputter in surprise, but when Sideswipe leaned toward Jazz's hand, the saboteur pulled the unresisting mech snug against his side. Sideswipe sighed, as though a weight had been taken off him, leaning into Jazz. Though they spoke for the next cycle, Sideswipe didn’t speak another word on the subject.