Chapter Text
During the final act of the War for Cybertron, the Autobots, under Optimus Prime’s leadership, embarked on a black operation in a last-ditch effort to accomplish two things: one, to locate and unmask a Decepticon mole, most likely stationed in the Autobots’ main branch, the city-state of Iacon. Reportedly, this mole was responsible for dozens of data breaches, many of which resulted in the loss of Cybertronian life. It is widely believed that this mole was the catalyst for the solemnly titled Jailbreak Massacre, which exterminated a grave percentage of what eventually became known as the Lost Generation.
Motivated by the endless losses their faction endured, the Commander of Special Operations, Jazz, insisted on forming countermeasures and making an effort to finally even the playing field. This is where the second goal of the operation began: to send in a small team of undercover operatives to various highly secretive Decepticon strongholds. With these specialized bots, the hope had been to create their own team of moles, in a sense. This operation was unique in many aspects. Throughout the duration of its effectiveness, the knowledge of this mission was severely limited to fewer than ten bots, including Optimus Prime’s High Command.
All information was kept physically for extremely short periods, utilized only when necessary, and then destroyed to ensure complete secrecy. The very nature of the operation was inherently underhanded, which ultimately aided them. Autobots abide by a strict code of ethics and honor, and while no historian would claim perfection, missions like this were not common in the least. Undercover work was not unheard of, but long-term, highly perilous deep covers were simply not the way they operated.
But the end times bred desperation, and this mission was the offspring of such fear. Unlikely bots were recruited, unassuming and young enough to take to their assignments with naïve fervor. Sent away from home with the weak promise of returning once their work was finished, they endured the destructive and oppressive dogmas of the Decepticon faction for vorns, biding time and earning trust, with the small hope of being entrusted with information capable of rending the Decepticon forces crippled. Isolated from every peace they had ever known, these underground Autobots served diligently, falling deeper and deeper into the dark world of war amongst the Decepticons, and Lord Megatron’s iron-fisted authority.
Information was leaked slowly, with far more caution than Iacon’s Decepticon mole. Absolute discretion was crucial. After all, any sort of interloper discovered within their ranks would be treated far more harshly than a Decepticon spy. This truth was proven when one of their precious team members was discovered. The story was never made clear, only that his light went out in agony, Primus rest his spark.
The game of back and forth continued, foolishly, childishly. The Iacon mole would leak information, and the Autobot moles would leak something back. The Autobots’ only advantage was that they had managed to avoid suspicion of insurgency, only by virtue of their reputation. It would be completely unlike the Autobots to engineer an operation with more than one player on the board, and Lord Megatron, under the council of Commander Starscream, initially dismissed the idea as it was raised.
However, this advantage could not be held forever. The Decepticons had much brewing under the surface, and the faithful spies inside uncovered the truth of what was truly at stake for the Autobots and the planet itself. The Well of Allsparks, and any smaller offshoots of the Well wherein, had slowed to an absolute crawl, producing little to no New Sparks for stellar cycles at a time. Cybertron was poisoned by the conflict it had endured, and Primus, in His grace, bore no new life in His decline.
Troops were low on both sides, but Lord Megatron, avaricious as he was, could not be sated by his diminishing numbers, declaring that they would take control of the Allspark and, through whatever means they could, cultivate new life for the planet. Under his rule, for his purpose.
Despite temptations to entertain the idea of revitalizing Cybertron, Lord Megatron could not be the guiding servo for such growth, not after the destruction and pain he reaped for eons. So, a hard decision had to be made, but made, it was.
The Autobots would have to steal the Allspark first.
A team would need to be formed. The Autobot spies would act as the wire for faulty intel, leading the Decepticons to believe that the Allspark had already been taken, right under their mandibles, and securely hidden within the city of Tyger Pax. Dummy guards would be posted throughout the streets, and conflict would likely ensue, but this was by design. A distraction would be the only way to take hold of the Allspark without Decepticon interference.
The spies would be extracted discreetly throughout the operation. The risk of their discovery would all but triple once the protection of Tyger Pax was discovered to be a sham. Through the death of their planet, they would finally get to return home.
This battle would become known as the Battle of Tyger Pax, or, to those with a more morbid spark, the Fall of Tyger Pax, and the news of its outcome became the ringing death knell to both sides; the final ventilation of their war. The war with no winner.
The plan was risky and far-fetched, but the Autobots were renowned for their imperishable faith, and so they went through with it.
All they needed to do was make sure that their spies remained undiscovered before the operation could commence.
All they needed to do was keep the intel away from their persistent, cancerous mole, and things would go smoothly. Nobody would be hurt.
But that isn’t the way things went, is it?
***
Bee’s spark pulse is racing by the time he stumbles through the courtyard of Iacon Tower. This place hasn’t changed at all, compared to the rest of the city. It remains upright and unfathomably tall, reaching through the chromatic clouds and piercing the heavens. He knows he should wait for Jazz to receive his instructions, but the idea of trying to focus on work right now makes him sick to his tanks.
Soon enough, the Neutrals would scatter to the stars, and he would remain here, grounded on this planet, praying for his God to just push through another cycle, over and over again.
He recognizes none of the bots he passes by, but he memorizes their faces on instinct, too frazzled to turn off the unnecessary cataloging. It doesn’t matter. His security clearance must already be updated, because the doors to the tower’s main lobby open for him without fanfare, sliding to reveal the familiar sweeping floor plans and diverting hallways along the walls. The sight of it stops him in his tracks, and his engine rumbles to keep up with the fuel pumping inside him.
So awestruck by the place he didn’t know if he would ever see again, Bee just misses the small crowd of bots standing near the main elevator, and almost jumps out of his plating when a scream echoes throughout the vast space. He trips back a few steps, harshly gripping his chest plates with one servo.
Locating the source of the noise, Bee’s rippling panic stills almost immediately at the sight of Elita-1, standing horrified at the front of the group, pointing at him and covering her intake. “Oh scrap!” She exclaims, reanimating to frantically glance throughout the lobby. “You’re not supposed to be here yet!”
Shuttering his optics a few times, Bee’s vocoder cuts out a few times as he tries to understand. “Uh—”
Elita rushes forward, clearing the distance between them in a manner of nano-kliks. Without another word, she clamps her servo around his wrist, all but dragging him back outside into the courtyard. Once she lets go, she sighs, shaking her helm. “Wait here for like, two kliks!” She points a commanding digit towards a poor bot passing by. “Do not let him back in until I say so!”
The bot nods violently. “Uh—Oh, of course commander,” He stutters. He and Bee share an awkward glance, and Bee’s head is a turbulent storm.
He’s so distracted by his odd predicament that he doesn’t pick up Jazz’s wavelength as he approaches, and jolts slightly when his servo rests upon his shoulder. “Primus, kid, if I’d known we were gonna race back to base, I woulda’ had my lines flushed first,” he teases, somewhat breathless.
“Sorry,” Bee mutters airily, vaguely guilty now that his mind has settled a bit more. He feels foolish and immature and small, not at all like the esteemed Scout he’s supposed to be. His vocoder is prompted to say more, but the sensation of dozens of optics staring at him hits him all at once, and he finds he can no longer speak.
Bee is used to staring, but this is different from the blanketed animosity he’s grown used to. Curiosity flickers through the web of EM fields in the courtyard, and the pressure to perform rears up and makes him fidgety.
Jazz squeezes his pauldron, letting him go and giving him his space. “Man, ‘Lita’s gonna string me up by a live wire.”
His antennae spin, and Bee breaks himself from his nervous trance. “Why would she do that?”
A tad sheepish, Jazz rubs the back of his helm. “Cuz I was supposed to give her a helm’s up whenever you were gettin’ close so we’d all be ready fer your welcome.”
“My welcome?”
He gives Bee a squinted look, tilting his helm and raising an optical ridge through his visor. “You didn’t think ya’ could just waltz in here after all this time an’ avoid a big fuss, huh?” Jazz asks, grin growing wider and wider as he speaks.
In hindsight, Bee supposes he should have expected it – Autobots are not immune to the love of drama – but a thick syrup of anxiety still settles inside him, heavy in his tanks. After all this time, Bee doesn’t know if he can give them the same B-127 he once was.
A short time later, Elita-1 comes bursting through the doors once more, with a smile so bright it could be seen from space. It’s as if their previous interaction hadn’t happened at all, because she surrounds him with a tight hug around his midsection, completely uncaring of how this might look to the soldiers idling nearby. “It’s so good to see you,” she mutters into his shoulder, and Bee exvents slowly, closing her into the embrace.
She escorts him back into the lobby by his servo, after sharing a few sharp words with Jazz about his poor communication skills. Jazz is gracious and doesn’t rat Bee out for ditching him, nor does he inform her of his less-than-stellar attitude. The lobby is pretty much the same upon walking in, with the main key difference being that there now floats a holo-sign in the center of the room, projecting the words, “Welcome home B! :D” in big, blocky letters.
Looking down from the sign, he warms at the sight of several familiar faces. Ironhide and Chromia stand off to the side, both looking just as mighty as he remembers them to be. Cliffjumper and First Aid stand near the front, along with some bots from Special Operations, including Ryle and Thunderstruck, who both wave excitedly to him. He notes the absence of Optimus and Ratchet, but honestly, this is far more than he was expecting anyway. Despite his earlier dilemmas, the sight forces a genuine smile from him, the thoughtfulness of this gesture hitting him all at once.
Ryle wraps an arm around his neck cables, pulling him in close. “Good to see you again, Bee! Congrats on the Tox-En bust, that’s a huge deal, man!” He compliments him in a whisper. Bee wonders how he is doing since the attack on Sanctuary.
A bit shy, Bee chuckles awkwardly. “Oh, you heard about that? I thought it was a closed thing.”
Ryle winks. “Dude, I’m Spec Ops, I can get whatever info I want!”
Bee laughs, feeling lighter in the face of more familiar and friendly bots after so long.
It’s a surprisingly public affair, and Bee is a bit embarrassed by the attention. Chromia approaches him only to smack him upside the back of his helm. It’s a loving gesture despite what it appears, and Bee realizes how much he’s missed everyone and suddenly feels like such a jerk for trying to enter this tower with such melancholy. They’ve gone out of their way to greet him here, when he knows they could, and probably should, be doing something else. He can face his demons later.
“I don’t know what to say,” he tells Elita after he’s gone around to embrace everyone fairly. The ends of his appendages tingle with uncertainty. He’s lost the softness he once had for their affection, and he feels out of place among them, even now that his mettle has been proven. Ironhide’s approval is alien to him now, and it’s like he is lying to Cliffjumper whenever he talks to him. He’s visited him in Kalis enough times to know when he’s faking a smile. To his credit, the loquacious bot doesn’t call him on it.
Elita holds his servo, her small palms not quite reaching the ends of his. “Well, I guess I can get by with a thank you,” she teases with a wink. She’s more observant than she lets on; that’s something Bee has always respected about her, and like Cliffjumper, she must be privy to the heaviness of his spark.
“And maybe thirty shanix, that sign wasn’t cheap,” First Aid says with a wry smile. He hasn’t changed at all since Bee last saw him.
Winking, Bee tries to recall what he would have said before Kalis. “You can win it from me in poker.”
Shaking his helm, First Aid laughs with mirth. “Hell no, I lost to you as a scrappy teenager, and I’m not going to lose to you as a scrappy young adult with special operations training.”
That gets an honest laugh from him, and it feels almost normal.
The greeting is a short affair, and Bee is glad about that. The members of High Command scatter once they’ve given Bee a kind word; the war is still on, after all. Elita-1 promises to meet up with him in the morning, and with her, the crowd disperses. Only Jazz and a buzzing throughout his protoform remains.
“We got some filing to do, but it can wait till tomorrow, sound good?” Bee nods, reminded of the spark-deep weariness without the distraction of people. Jazz is gentle as he ushers Bee out of the now-silent lobby. A few lone bots watch them, but Bee doesn’t pay them any mind, though he’s sure their witnessing of such a grand display on his behalf will bother him later.
The layout of the tower hasn’t changed beyond the addition of another medical floor. Too many injured, not enough parts, according to First Aid. He expects Jazz to escort him to where he remembers the barracks to be, so when they step into the elevator and he takes them up instead of down, Bee’s mind clears enough for his natural curiosity to pique. “Uh, I’m not in trouble, am I?” Bee asks in nervous jest.
Jazz holds his mandible between his digits. “Depends, did’ja do something worth punishing?”
Plenty of things come to mind, but Bee figures that Jazz wouldn’t find an honest answer very entertaining, so he simply shrugs. Jazz gives him an odd look, and Bee almost apologizes for being such poor company. He’s become guarded since he lived here, and trying to recapture the person he was back then is proving to be more difficult than he ever thought it would be.
The elevator dings, coming to a soft halt as they reach their intended floor. Bee frowns as he recognizes the destination. “I thought I would be staying with the other soldiers?”
Walking ahead of him, Jazz waves his servo behind him. “The operation yer onboarding requires a bit more… discretion,” explains Jazz, turning a corner of the familiar floor of the tower. “’Sides, it’d be a shame if we let a perfectly good suite go to waste, when you did such a good job a’ taking care of it last time.”
Bee’s helm is alight with conflict as he turns his attention to the long, spanning windows that survey the now foreign city of Iacon. Back then, when he was newer and smaller, it was so busy that the constant movement could enthrall him for joors. He would focus on the passing vehicle modes, making up stories about what they were doing and who they were. Silly fantasies, but he’d give anything to be able to find that simple joy again. “Who knew I’d ever be so important?” He mutters sarcastically. In a way, he feels guilty for getting his own room back.
During his school career and subsequent deployment to Kalis, he dreamt of such privacy, such privilege. Now that he is apparently getting it back, all he can think of is how unearned it is, how easily this could have been someone else’s gift. How many equipped, experienced operatives are out there who lost out on this, simply because they never had the opportunity to be friends with Optimus Prime and his command?
The stars are peaking through the clouds, and Bee looks away. They arrive at his room. A plaque has been attached to the door with his ID number on it. He’s never been so grateful to see a number, and not a name.
“Your security privileges are already in the system. We’ll getcha briefed and everythin’ tomorrow,” Jazz tells him as he unlocks the door. “Try to get some rest.” Bee nods, though he isn’t certain he’ll be able to follow through with the request. Deceptively insightful as he is, Jazz pulls Bee into an embrace, holding him there until Bee relents and returns it. “Trust me, kid. Thing’s aren’t as bleak as they seem.”
“Yeah,” he replies, mind wandering to the Neutrals, and then to his ghosts. They bid each other goodnight, and the door slides shut with a whir, leaving Bee to the darkened silence once more. Without the oppressive push of disapproving wavelengths and unkind whispers, Bee isn’t sure what to do with himself. A sharp ventilation rips through him at the sight before him. His room, his space, hasn’t changed at all in all the vorns he’s been away. They kept it clean and ready for him, all this time.
They always intended for him to return here, didn’t they? The thought is warm and bright; it’s dark and frightening. He’s terrified of being loved so much, though he can almost hear Faylever and Newdawn gently telling him he’s welcome here.
Clumsily, Bee lowers himself to the floor, pressing his doorwings against his door. This room is the room of a teenager, a young mech filled with hope and pain, and so much more that he’s still digging through it after all this time. He’s become his own ghost, and he wonders how long he’ll have to wander the halls of Iacon Tower before everyone else figures that out, too.
***
Managing a few measly groons of recharge, Bee allows himself to bask in the enchanting sunrise, taking in the vibrant colors that reflect off the ever-present cloud cover. Though they shield the heavens from his view most of the time, they offer their own form of elegance. It’s a brief moment of peace, and Bee is wise to savor it.
He tries not to let his weariness show through when Elita-1 makes good on her promise to meet him in the morning. According to the schedule he received in the middle of the night, he has some time before he is needed in the command center for the briefing. Elita plans to inhabit much of his time, and Bee has absolutely no problem with that. She is energetic and lively, freely reminiscing with him and generally being her pleasant self. It’s bittersweet, but he’s missed her presence so much that he doesn’t care.
They sit down for morning refuel, and though their rations are meager, a small group of familiar bots appears to greet him, glad to see him again or to meet him in the first place. Their welcoming fields confuse him, but he smiles perfectly and jokes around like he used to. Cliffjumper joins them after a while, and Bee figures that this was a planned thing, narrowing his optics at the red and pink bots before him. As if his welcome yesterday wasn’t enough.
She asks him for stories of his time in Kalis, though he isn’t sure why. She visited often enough to know what it was like and why he was never very honest with her in his letters. Even still, he shares a few sanitized anecdotes about missions, but truthfully, he can’t recall the details of a lot of his operations. He’s spent so much time in a fog that his body moves efficiently without much input from his brain module. The reports he writes attest to the fact that some part of him retains the information, but it’s an uphill battle to try to construct an interesting narrative.
Some spec ops agents ask him appropriate questions, and Bee does have some fun going over his process as an operative without the judgment of his Kalis peers, or the open hatred of the warrior units. Blitz would probably make fun of him for trying to relate everything to Kalis, but it’s involuntary.
In the corner of his HUD array, Bee’s chronometer populates, and Bee stiffens, meeting Cliff and Elita’s optics. Judging by their sober expressions, they’ve received the same ping. “What do they say?” Cliff says, forcing a smile. “All work and no play?”
***
It’s been a long time since Bee and Optimus Prime have been face-to-face, and Bee wonders if he’s somehow gotten taller in his absence. He knows that isn’t true, and in fact, Bee is the one who has grown since his last frame update, but where his body has gotten larger, his spark has shrunk. The sins of Kalis cling to him like rust eating away, and in front of the majesty of a Prime, he feels dirty.
That doesn’t change how wonderful it is to see him again. It’s kliks before the onboard meeting is supposed to begin, but Optimus goes out of his way to greet him as he, Elita, and Cliffjumper walk in. “Beemim,” Optimus addresses, a soft smile adorning his face plate. “I am very thankful you could be here and return to us. Your presence was sorely missed.” He gives Bee’s shoulder an endearing squeeze, wrapping him tightly in his strong wavelength.
Something about Optimus has always been naturally soothing, and Bee feels the pressure in his fuel lines decrease. “It’s good to be back, sir.” It’s not a lie, but it doesn’t feel very true, either. “I’ll do whatever I can for the success of this mission.”
Optimus gives him that sort of weird half-frown he uses when he’s trying not to show that something has upset him. His spark spirals wildly, and he looks away, ashamed to have caused such an expression. Two nano-kliks in and he’s already making things awkward. Absolutely perfect.
There are several bots here that Bee does not know, but the overall turnout is extremely small for an operation worth transferring him for. They’ve sequestered themselves to a small operations room off on a less-frequented floor, where they are unlikely to be disturbed or eavesdropped on. It has three tall windows and thick, beige walls. Nondescript and perfect for something like this.
While he was somewhat shy in reuniting with Optimus, Bee has no qualms with tackling Ratchet and trapping him in a tight embrace. “I didn’t know you would be here, doc,” Bee says, grinning at the mildly startled medic. “Worried we’ll fall to pieces?”
Ratchet, who is gently wrestling out of Bee’s grip, rolls his optics fondly, fighting a smile. “With your luck, Beemim, I should consider finding a way to clone myself.”
Bee snickers, accepting the jab with a shrug. “C’mon, Ratch, you already do the work of twelve bots with only one body.” It feels good to talk to the older medic again, even with good-natured teasing.
Ratchet takes the statement well and sighs. “If only, Bee, if only.”
Elita-1 introduces Bee to a femme by the designation of Arcee, who is also being onboarded onto the operation. She’s of the same generation as Cliffjumper, but Bee recognizes the war-hardened edges to her frame almost immediately. They mingle for a while, and Bee decides that he likes her, reminded of ZB-12, if he had a cooler spark. “Do you know what this is all about?” He asks her once the room has filled out a little more.
The smaller bot shrugs, crossing her arms and tapping the tip of her pede. “No clue, I hate when they make us wait,” she mutters with a scowl. “They make us antsy to hear bad news.”
“It’s a tactic to ensure we take the mission seriously,” Bee explains mindlessly, before a flush runs through his lines, and he releases a nervous laugh. “… Which, as a former special operations operative, you already know, so I just told you that for no reason. Sorry.”
Arcee waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.” She offers him a playful wink. “My partner is a know-it-all, too. Between the two of you, you’re far less aggravating.”
Bee takes the hit with grace and allows Arcee to exposit on her current partner from her Warrior unit, Tailgate. Its meaningless noise help keep his nerves from fraying, but he finds the stories she tells entertaining, and Bee revels in being able to talk to someone who isn’t privy to his previous post in Kalis.
But the fun can’t last forever, and soon enough, they are all settled around a long, sweeping table, data pads lined up in front of each participant. There are fewer than fifteen bots in the room, some appearing more comfortable than others. Bee isn’t quite sure where he stands.
Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz, Ultra Magnus, and Prowl all sit at the head of the table, looking equally regal and intimidating. Prowl hasn’t said a word to him since he was a teenager, and Bee has only heard from Ultra Magnus in passing. By the end of his stellar cycle in the tower, they’d come to a sort of mutual understanding, but Bee never fooled himself into believing they would be close. Ultra Magnus doesn’t really do close.
A bit selfishly, Bee wonders what he and Prowl think about his transfer. Do they care? Do they approve? In a way, he knows they’d be the only bots to give him an honest answer. Elita stands off to the side, fiddling with her data pad with Cliffjumper on her side.
Standing to his pedes, Jazz clears his vocoder, and the room settles into a hush. “Kay, ladies and mechs of our esteemed tower, welcome to one of the most important meetin’s of your lives.” Bee rolls his optics at the drama, but sits up straighter anyhow. It isn’t often that Jazz appears in front of a group like this with complete sobriety, in more ways than one.
“I don’t gotta tell you all that this operation will require complete discretion. In front of each of ya’s, a custom data pad with all the info you could possibly need fer this mission. We’ll go over it once here, and then you’ll have one solar cycle ta’ look through the reports before your pads wipe themselves. They’re encrypted to your personal ID and EM field, but that don’t make them impenetrable.” Jazz rests his palms on his hips, frowning. “Not one spark outside of this room can know of their contents, no one. Not yer best friend, not yer partner, and not yer Conjux if yer lucky enough ta’ have one, understood?”
The room offers a general nod of agreement.
Taking in a deep ventilation, Jazz takes hold of his own data pad, holding it up in front of the group. “Alrighty, then, let me introduce everyone to Operation Ophiuchus.”
***
Jazz slogs through his briefing, fighting off the desperate thirst for a drink. He reminds the group of their tragic losses caused by leaked information and their own lack of preparedness, pacing the room despite knowing it makes him look emotional.
His spark is spiraling quickly in his chest as he goes over the details of the operation, keeping his explanations brief and aphoristic. There’s no time for that now; all that matters is getting this crew on board and ready for what is to come. Optimus pipes in every now and then, but otherwise gives Jazz the floor, which is probably for the best. Optimus hates the fact that this mission had to be enacted, and Jazz doesn’t blame him. What they’ve done in order to secure Decepticon secrets is no better than the side they are trying to defeat, but if it gives them an edge, Jazz is more than willing to be the enemy.
Tensions greatly rise when Jazz reveals the truth about the Allspark, the web of wavelengths snapping all as one and creating an almost dizzying miasma to push through. “There’s no way we can do that,” one of the Warriors selected by Ultra Magnus says, horrified.
A Scout nods along, clasping her shaking servos together. “To play a part in dooming our kind to extinction… Sir, is that right?”
“Oh, come off it, guys, our kind has been dying off for eons, it hardly fraggin’ matters if we’re the ones to doom the planet, or the Decepticons,” bleakly argues someone else, sitting back in his chair.
Jazz clenches his fists, opens his intake to respond.
Another mech stands, running his palms down his face plate. “How in the name of the Pits are we supposed to pull one over on the Decepticons? You expect me to believe that our embedded agents are gonna be able to keep this quiet, while we keep our own mole unaware? It can’t be done. They’ve got slaggin’ Soundwave as their special operations Commander—"
***
Bee filters out the chatter, more than a little disturbed by their mission, but unwilling to be slowed down by the pit forming in his tanks. He focuses his attention on his newly acquired data pad, squinting at its contents. Hundreds of reports sit filed there, all short, paraphrased communications between the various Agents and presumably Jazz.
It’s all a very deep cover. Bee doesn’t think he could stand to lie for that long, to pretend to be on their side for information.
Primus, Megatron really is planning to steal the Allspark.
Lycan’s wrecked, screaming frame haunts his mind, and Bee decides that he feels no more doubt. He can’t bear to witness anymore suffering from his generation and any that has come after. It’s too much. His frame locks onto his protoform, and he struggles to stay focused. Unemotional like a good operative.
He reads on.
***
“—No new life? No new sparks? We would cripple Primus like that—”
“—Who cares, he hasn’t helped us anyway—”
“—This would mark our tombs—”
A roar of conflicting voices quickly overtakes whatever reason Jazz might try to inject into the situation, and he simply stands at the head of the table, observing. Derision was expected for this mission, and Jazz knows that this will likely mark him in a negative light that most bots would not expect. To the average Autobot, he is fun and light-sparked, easy to talk to, and even easier to have fun with. This operation has his name all over it, and what they plan to do edges dangerously close to giving up, and no one wants to admit that reality.
Jazz doesn’t see it that way; giving up isn’t in his nature. He sees it as… pivoting, taking what they have and working a new angle. It’s how we works, but his personal views on the matter are of little consequence.
Not when you tell a group of some of the most accomplished Autobots that you want to essentially disable their ability to create new life, indefinitely.
***
Weeding through many of the reports is easy enough, and Bee is reminded of his studying cycles at the Academy. It’s sort of fun, in a morbid sense.
He sorts through the data pad until he finds more classified intel. This will be more important to memorize, and he’d rather be informed before they get through any more briefings, especially if he won’t have access to this information later on.
If they plan to extract the agents during this distraction at Tyger Pax, it’ll be crucial to know everything about them. Identity, cadence, build, ID number, EM wavelength, and all the other slag. This data is by far the most volatile here, and he doesn’t take that lightly.
He finds the personnel tab.
And freezes.
***
The chaos has just begun to grow stifling when Optimus quietly stands from his seat, and it’s like a great wind has snuffed out a trembling fire. Even the loudest of voices quiets, and a small bit of nerves unravels from Jazz’s frame. It’s not like him to be nervous, but this mission is different from any other he has ever carried out, and Optimus’s support, however reluctant, is keeping him from erupting.
“Friends,” Optimus begins, and it’s a booming greeting despite not being loud in the slightest. Tragic, knowing optics wash over the sorry group, and the Prime speaks. “This war has been a dark, bleeding burden on our planet for longer than many of you can remember, and I am deeply penitent for all of the pain I have caused by being a part of it.” His steps, despite being those of a proverbial titan, are light as he walks to the edge of the room, clasping his arms behind his back, face plate hidden from view. “I believe in a future for the people of Cybertron, and I believe that we, as Autobots, are tasked with righting the wrongs carried out by not only our enemies, but also ourselves as well.”
Optimus turns, and the air is thick with apprehension. “That is why I am grieved by the choices we have had to make as the war rages on. This operation is a pain in my spark, the same as it is in each of you, but make no mistake, the Decepticons must not gain control over our very spark of life. This war has raged on for long enough, and I cannot allow any new life to come into this world only to be enslaved by the chains of combat.”
“Until it benefits our side, though, right?”
A gasp escapes someone’s intake, and Jazz’s gears nearly lock up. His helm moves so fast that it makes his neck cables ache, but no, he hadn’t heard wrong. Staring, or rather glaring, down at his data pad, is Beemim, mandible set and servos dripping the device tight enough for Jazz to worry for the hardware. Surely he’d heard wrong, right?
Bee loves Optimus, and Bee loves the Autobots. He’s always had a penchant for speaking out of turn when he isn’t thinking, but in a meeting as important as this one? It’s wholly unlike him. Bee takes his job seriously, and giving Optimus Prime attitude isn’t something Jazz would have ever predicted. The rest of the bots present look mortified, and Ultra Magnus is already standing from his chair to reprimand him.
“Corporal Beemim, you have no authority to speak over a Prime, if you want to have a—”
***
Frag them all.
Frag them all, frag them all, frag them all.
Ultra Magnus and his superiority, protocol, his disregard, and his stupid, grating voice.
His anger burns so hot he vaguely wonders if he’ll supernova right here in front of all of these high-class strangers.
Is that why they promoted him? Because they felt bad? Is this pity?
Optimus looked him in the optic and didn’t even flinch.
Jazz…
Jazz.
Frag them all.
***
Beemim stands with great force, so quick that his chair topples behind him with a resounding crash. “You sent in Tick Tock and Ruster's Fate.”
The young Scout has never sounded so cold, so unfathomably angry that the heat of his spark turns to ice, and with a shockingly potent jolt of horror, Jazz realizes that this fury is now being directed at him. The sheer number of optics now on him is unnerving, and Primus, he definitely should have had a drink or two before this meeting.
Understanding trickles in slowly, before the rocks erode, and it becomes a flood. A darkness shrouds Jazz’s spark and, under the surprisingly weighty disapproval of Bee, he grows heavy. Damn that kid and his fast reading. If only they’d managed to get through this before he discovered the identity of their agents. Metal groans as bots shift uncomfortably in their seats, amazed at Bee’s gall. He doesn’t blame them.
Squaring his shoulders, Jazz nods, praying to Primus that this doesn’t turn into the scene he thinks it will. “Yes, I did, Bee. There was nothin’ else we could do.”
***
After all this time, praying for their safety, thinking they were at home, thinking that he was protecting them.
God, oh, God.
***
Arcee, one of Elita’s girls, raises her arm, eyeing Bee suspiciously. “Wait, wait, I thought this was supposed to be top secret. You’re telling me you know the agents involved?”
Bee’s mandible sets with an audible creak. “They aren’t agents, they’re survivors of Sanctuary.”
A confused murmuring overtakes the group, and Jazz can see the spiral as it happens, and he isn’t quite sure what to do to alleviate it now that Bee’s opened Pandora’s box. Optimus meets his gaze, slowly walking back to the table and to Bee’s side. “Beemim, I understand your frustration, and we did not mean you harm in keeping this from you. Until now, this operation has been completely in the dark, and your friends, though unexpected, were perfect for the task we required of them.”
***
Flor Del’s trembling voice and pungent sobs are like roaring torrents in his audials. It’s all in his mind as it always is, but the voices are growing louder by the nano-kliks, and Bee is terrified by what they might say.
The anger inside him is overpowering, violent, and aimed at the people who once saved his life.
***
For the first time since he’s known the kid, Bee isn’t soothed by Optimus’s words, not even slightly. Prowl and Ultra Magnus are disturbingly quiet, which just makes Jazz even more nervous. Redirecting his glare towards the Prime himself, Bee’s antennae almost pin themselves to his helm. “Oh, really? Is that so? Hah! And I bet that’s what you told them, isn’t it? That even though they were, well, fragged to hell by this war, they were still just fit as ever to join it!” An accusatory digit is pointed towards Optimus, and now, despite their united confusion, a few bots cry out in outrage at Bee’s actions. No one talks to Optimus Prime like that.
Except for Beemim-127, apparently.
Ultra Magnus scoffs. “Once more, watch your tone, Corporal. They knew the risks when they accepted the job. No one forced them to do anything they did not want to do.”
Undeterred, Bee barks with shrill laughter, turning on Ultra Magnus to look at him in slight hysteria. “Of course not! Autobots don’t force anyone! But you sure as hell know how to sell it, don’t you?” Then, unexpectedly, the Scout turns to Ratchet, voice quivering with fury. “Did you promise Tick Tock a fancy new pair of stabilizers? Did you tell her that she’d get to walk on her own two pedes if she just – took the job? Did you spin a tale for Ruster’s Fate? A story where a poor young Mechling without his Transformation Cog was finally able to be restored once he took on the glorious, inerrant Autobot cause?”
“Bee, stop!” Exclaims Elita, who appears at Optimus’s side in a flash, and Jazz can tell she’s mortified.
Slightly horrified and probably more than a little offended, Ratchet stands, spluttering. “Beemim, you a—”
***
“You’re burning up, B,” Faylever whispers, inches from his audials, and Bee’s engines hiss.
“You’re being irrational,” intones Newdawn, somewhere across the room. Bee’s fists clench.
***
Bee’s voice takes on a louder pitch, and it’s like his mind is fractured with fury, because now his attention is solely centered on Jazz, and his sneer is so sharp that Jazz’s spark skips a few pulses. “You knew they wouldn’t say no, you bastard!” Cliffjumper takes hold of Bee’s arm, but the younger bot shakes him off, stalking closer to Jazz. A few bots stand to impede him, but it’s like Bee can’t even see them. “You knew exactly what to say to make them feel important, to make them feel valued and irreplaceable.” Bee violently runs his palms down the sides of his face plate, visibly shaking now. “Primus, was I a test for you? A little experiment to see how fragging loyal you could make a youngling before asking them to give their life away?”
***
He’s speaking nonsense, but he doesn’t care.
He can’t stand over the body of another loved one.
He can’t fail anyone else again.
And if he does…
If he does?
***
Genuine disbelief flushes through him, and Jazz parts the crowd protecting him, facing Bee’s ire helm-on. “Hey, absolutely no one asked you to take up the sigil, Bee! Don’t go writin’ a novel where I’m the bad guy! Not when we’ve got a real enemy wit’ real plans that could destroy our planet as we know it!”
Bee actually cackles, throwing up his hands and accidentally hitting a bystander in the face. He doesn’t even apologize for it, which is so far beyond his normal character. “What fragging planet? Our planet has been dead for centuries! Longer than I’ve ever been alive. Who cares if we steal the fragging Allspark? We’ve already lost! As a race, we’ve lost!” His vocoder crackles out, and he clears it a few times, shaken and almost distraught. His optics glow a radiant yellow as he glares at him. It’s haunting. “We’re like petty children, taking each other’s toys, and my generation has suffered the most for it.”
***
Blue Breeze, what makes a good Autobot?
Are Autobots good, to begin with?
Does good truly exist?
If the only way to beat so-called evil is to flee, why does his spirit long to fight?
Have you met Tick Tock and Rusters, over there?
Are you alive?
***
Bee’s field is a mess of conflicting emotions, and Jazz doesn’t know what to say.
He’d known that Bee would be upset, but the pain in his expression has Jazz realizing.
This war has gone on for so long; are they just throwing things at the wall? His desperation to one-up the Decepticon mole has led him to cruelty, and there’s really no way to justify it. Sure, Optimus gave him the go-ahead, but it was his idea. He orchestrated the meeting between the specified younglings, knowing that two of them were close to Bee. He’d talked Ratchet into finding and repairing spare parts, including a precious T-cog. He’d talked Ultra Magnus and Prowl into teaching them the art of combat and espionage.
And he’d talked Bee into leaving Kalis, aware that the knowledge he’d be bestowing on him would hurt him.
There isn’t an excuse, not when they’re planning on shipping Neutrals off Cybertron by the shipload. Not when he easily could have just put Bee on the detail of bots who will remain unaware of their true intentions in Tyger Pax.
Elita-1 hasn’t looked at him the same since this operation began vorns ago, and he’s handled that just fine. Hell, he can handle the derision that he will receive because of this flop of a meeting.
He never thought Bee would be where he drew the line.
Because he wants to be important to him, and now Jazz doesn’t know if that’s possible anymore.
He loves Bee, but maybe he loves the job a little more. He hates himself for that, for the pain he’s caused these younglings.
Jazz is slow to respond, optics dim through his visor. Then, slowly, he raises his helm, hurt by Bee’s blanketed uncertainty. “Bee…” He exvents. What is there to say to a mech who knows all of your tells? He shakes his helm. “Tick-Tock made me promise me ta’ tell you that she missed you.”
Bee’s always been fast, and Jazz is impressed to note that this hasn’t changed, as a closed fist collides with his face, cracking his visor.
***
The voices are quiet, and Jazz crashes to the floor.
Other, more physical beings erupt with various, aghast reactions, with several servos grabbing for his plating to subdue him.
Using whatever composure he has left, Bee swings free, sprinting out the door with his data pad with him.
He waits for Faylever to say something scolding, but cruelly, his phantoms have returned to their muted vigil.
He wonders if they’ve prepared a space for his two lost heroes.
***
Unsurprisingly, the meeting is adjourned, with the promise of rescheduling it for the next morning, tentatively. Jazz is hauled off by Ratchet to be repaired, and the rumors begin.
The chain of whispers is a short one, since the nature of this mission is so sensitive, but such truths are never completely successful in quieting the stories, are they?
***
Acid rain pelts against his plating, tingling across his frame and making him shiver. Night has fallen since he retreated to this place that was once a precious hiding spot, after all but tossing his new data pad into his room. No one has come to speak to him or cart him off to the brig, despite them having access to his location. It doesn’t matter; none of it does.
The roof of Iacon Tower is as tall and steep as he remembers, high enough that if we were a little taller, maybe he’d be able to reach a star. If only. His audials ring with perpetual high-pitched tones, and his brain module is muddled with old grief and new fear. His knee spikes somewhat obstruct his view of the sweeping city, but he sees enough. It’s all so small from up here.
The hatch leading to the roof creaks, but Bee doesn’t bother to move. If they plan to detain him for insubordination, he won’t fight it. The whole thing is rather fitting, and he almost laughs at the fantasy of all of his peers in Kalis learning the news. They were right about him the entire time; Corvus was right.
Emotionally uncoordinated.
Heavy pede steps punctuate the rainfall, and Bee’s spark twists with quiet guilt. Still, he refuses to let it show through. “Come to tell me I’m off the mission?”
Optimus Prime quietly takes a seat beside him, crossing his legs and looking out towards his home city. “Though it has been advised, you have not been removed from the operation. Nor have you been transferred.”
“Why, because I’m just so different from Tocks and Fate that I get to stay and they don’t?”
A palm rests on the back of his helm, and he stiffens. Shyly, Bee turns his helm, looking up at Optimus with tired, yet curious optics. “Bee, there are many reasons why we have chosen to allow you to remain here, just as there are many reasons why we brought you back here to begin with.” His servo closes slightly, comfortingly, despite Bee’s shaking resonance. “None of which included believing you were better than your peers, or more deserving of mercy.”
Bee searches the Prime’s gaze, desperately searching for any signs of deception, but finding none. A part of him relaxes, but he is stubbornly determined to hold on to some of his anger. “Why did you let this happen, Optimus?” He weakly asks.
Optimus pulls his servo back, resting it on his knees and averting his gaze. Bee watches his expression shift to something pained and pensive. “I have been alive a long time, Beemim, and I have asked myself that very question thousands of times. I cannot always find an answer, and that plagues me. We do things under the guise of morality or justice, but over time, such lines become blurred, and desperation is born from the ashes.”
“Are you desperate now?”
Optimus shutters his optics, smokestacks rumbling softly. “I will be truthful with you, Beemim; I do not know. My knowledge and access to the Matrix of Leadership have failed to save many in these last eons, and while I believe our cause is just, the toll for our victory weighs heavily on my spark.” The admission is delivered with genuine remorse and an uncertainty that Bee has never seen before.
It soothes some of his wrath, and he turns, letting the sensation of the rain calm him. “I never wanted them to be soldiers, Optimus. Never. I didn’t want that for Blitz, ZB, or… or Flor Del, either, but I couldn’t stop them from making that decision. With Tocks and Fate, I could relax because they couldn’t join. Even though what happened to them was horrible, it… It protected them, almost. I took comfort in that, and now…” He shudders, door wings pinning to his back as he shoves his palms over his face. “I can’t watch anyone I love die, Optimus, I can’t do that again.” His digits close into fists. “But I can’t stop it, I can’t save them, and if something happens to them, I’ll never forgive myself.”
A servo lands on his back, just between his shaking door wings. “Their lives are not your burden to bear; they never were. This is our war, and by our own doing or the Decepticons, you and your cohort were born with no choice but to be caught up in it.” Slowly, Bee looks back at Optimus, weary. “I am guilty as any other for the position your friends find themselves in, and I do not attempt to defend myself, but know this, Beemim; your friends are valiant warriors who care deeply for your safety as much as you care for theirs.”
Warmth spreads like cold blue tendrils throughout his spark and all the way down to his pedes, and Bee finds an exhausted smile. “They were always the best of our group, Optimus. They would have done whatever you wanted if it meant they could help.”
Something twists in Optimus’s expression, and Bee takes some comfort in just how torn up he is about all this. “And they will be rewarded for their valor, Bee. They will be coming home, you have my word.”
Bee nods numbly. Tyger Pax will take orbital cycles more to plan and about three dozen miracles to execute with no complications. Extracting several undercover operatives on top of that will be nearly impossible to do subtly, and considering only team leaders will be privy to the agents’ identities, they’ll have to convincingly take them as prisoners without any friendly fire.
All while trying to distract the Decepticons from the Well.
To think that a mission like that will go off without a hitch is naïve, and Optimus knows Bee isn’t naïve.
But it’s an easy out, and Bee is too tired to lash out anymore. The betrayal will linger for a long time, but he’s a soldier, and soldiers don’t get to decompress. He wishes his ghosts would give him some guidance. He’s come home, at least he thinks it’s home, but Bee feels more lost than ever.
“I punched Jazz in the face.”
Optimus’s engine pops, and he quickly looks away. Bee wonders if that was a laugh or just a spasm. Do Primes get spasms? “Yes, you did.”
“And I said a lot of things that I really only sort of feel bad about.”
The Prime gives him a look. “Sometimes we must do things we might not want to for the sake of diplomacy.”
Bee scrunches his derma. “I’ll apologize to Elita and Ratchet.”
This time, he’s sure he hears a laugh. “Very well, Beemim. That will suffice for now.”
***
Somewhere, a few floors lower, the door to a berth suite sparks sporadically, fighting its own programming as it allows passage to an unknown bot.
This bot walks with purpose, servo taking hold of a slightly damaged data pad, having been thrown haphazardly into the space groons before. The rainfall covers the noise of the exchange as the bot quietly exits the room. The rain has another advantage: the very presence of the turbulent weather is known to cause frequent outages of the tower’s security system across the various floors. No one would question if the cameras and sensors went out for a few short kliks.
Not as a Decepticon quietly takes hold of some of the most vital Autobot secrets of the entire war.