[CtE] From the Shallows 08

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Eight

It felt like war.

Only instead of facing down the Decepticons, they stood alongside them, with Neutrals who volunteered their services, while evacuations through the spacebridge to Earth were underway, just as a precaution.

“How long do we have?”

“At the rate it’s moving, an hour. Maybe two, if the Seekers can slow it down. That army will reach us first. It’s faster.”

“Every aerial force we have needs to lay down cover fire.”

“What’s the point? Those things regenerate faster than we can kill them. It’s made of a substance unlike anything we’ve ever seen!”

“What do you suggest then? We abandon Cybertron?”

“Of course not. But throwing our soldiers out there to die isn’t a solution either.”

The arguments rose and fell behind him, unproductive and circular.

Hot Rod wished someone would make a decision and stick to it. He used to read stories about enemies coming together against a common foe, putting aside their differences for a greater purpose. Those stories always made it sound so easy.

Clearly, they’d never met three different armies composed of mechs who’d only recently learned to live together on the same planet without trying to kill each other.

A part of Hot Rod felt he should be in the thick of the arguments, making his own opinions known. He was supposed to be a Prime, right? He should be leading.

A larger part of him was glad to be on the periphery, staring out the window at a city in chaos, soldiers running toward the danger while civilians ran away from it, carrying everything that couldn't be replaced. It reminded him too much of Nyon, and the terrible choice he'd made. Funny how things came full circle.

Not funny at all actually.

"It's the Guardian!"

A new voice pierced the arguments. Running footsteps accompanied it, and in the reflection of the window, Hot Rod saw two smaller mechs running into the room, one of them with an armful of datapads. It took him a moment to recognize Cliffjumper, which meant the other must be Glyph. It was rare to see one without the other.

"Guardian? What do you mean?" Optimus asked as they skidded to a halt at the only available space at the conference table, datapads falling out of Glyph's arms to scatter across the surface.

"The starbridges," Glyph said. "They could be dangerous if improperly used, so a safety mechanism was put into place."

"The Guardian," Cliffjumper said.

"It protects the starbridges and the Primal Spark," Glyph rifled through the various datapads as though looking for one in particular. "We must have woken it up, except we didn't follow the rules, we didn't do things the right way because we didn't know, so it's reacting to a perceived threat."

"Us," Cliffjumper said.

“Sorry, sir,” Glyph added with a little bow. “It took us too long to find this information. We could have prevented this if we’d known.”

Optimus held up a hand. “This is not your fault, Glyph. If anyone is to blame, it is those who caused the war which destroyed so many of our archives.”

Hot Rod turned away from the window, joining Optimus at the table instead. He caught a look from the current Prime -- approval? concern? he wasn't sure -- but he put his attention toward Cliffjumper and Glyph anyway.

"How do we stop it?" Starscream asked, his optics narrowed, his arms folded over his cockpit. "That's the only important question."

Glyph and Cliffjumper exchanged a glance.

"Theoretically," Glyph said, and plucked one datapad out of the rest, flicking it on, "It can be controlled by a Prime."

"It's supposed to be programmed to respond to the orders of a Prime," Cliffjumper added with a little nudge to Glyph, maybe encouraging him. "It was originally programmed by, uh... Epistemus?"

Glyph nodded.

"Yeah, Epistemus Prime. He's the one who created the starbridges," Cliffjumper said, and he puffed up his chest with pride.

Optimus, Hot Rod noticed, was rubbing at his chassis again, tracing the seam of his chestplate, as if in memory of the weight of the Matrix. It seemed to be an unconscious motion, but it worried Hot Rod a little. Mostly because he didn't know what it meant.

Grimlock snorted. "Your ancestors put too much weight on the integrity of a Prime," he growled, giving Optimus a sidelong look. "No offense."

"None taken. I may not have all the knowledge, but I am aware that some of my predecessors did not treat the title with the gravitas it deserved," Optimus said.

"Hold on." Xaaron held up a hand, a frown deepening the age-lines in his facial derma. "I don't mean to insult your research, but these starbridges are far older than Epistemus. They predate the Primes."

Glyph and Cliffjumper nodded in unison. "Epistemus created them out of something the Quintessons left behind," Glyph clarified. "He modified their assault platforms to power an internal transport system rather than an external one."

"He's also the one who made and programmed the Guardian," Cliffjumper said with straightened shoulders. "I'll bet he figured they could be used as a weapon so he wanted to make sure if the Quintessons came back, or if something else happened, it wouldn't be so easy to get to the control panel."

"That's where it was," Glyph added. "Buried in and around the starbridge control. As soon as the scientists started messing with it, the Guardian woke and started attacking the nearest threat."

Ultra Magnus nodded slowly. "So you're saying it is reacting on its programming, but a more instinctual imperative. It sees everything as a threat because it was not given straightforward commands by a Prime figure."

"Exactly," Glyph said.

"No one told it who the bad guys are, so right now, everyone's a bad guy," Cliffjumper said.

"This is all well and good," Starscream said with a huff. "We appreciate the history lesson and all, but you haven't answered the most important question." He pointed in the general direction of the approaching threat. "How do we make it stop?"

"We tell it to," Glyph said.

Cliffjumper, however, looked at Optimus. "Or you do, sir. It'll only listen to a Prime."

"Making it stop is the easy part. Getting to where you need to be to tell it to stop is the trick," Glyph said. He pulled out another datapad, flicked a switch, and something like a schematic bloomed to life in the empty space above the changing battlefield displayed on the table.

"It's meant to be steered," Cliffjumper said. "From inside."

Jazz growled, and Hot Rod made himself look at Jazz, pretending it didn't hurt. He had to be professional here. He was going to be a Prime.

"Ya want us to get close enough to get inside this thing?" Jazz demanded.

"If you want to stop it," Glyph said, seemingly unperturbed that a Special Ops mech was glaring at him. He gestured to something that was central to the creature on the screen. "We're guessing the neural center is here because it doesn't have a discernible head."

"You're guessing?" Starscream asked with a frown.

"These schematics are composed of multiple scans transmitted to us by the Seekers and the scientists on the ground who were present when it emerged," Glyph explained as he pointed to several portions of the image where pieces were absent or missing. "We don't actually have blueprints."

"You've got to be kidding me," Springer said in a flat tone.

"I'm not," Glyph said. "If you want to take this thing down, this is what has to be done. A Prime has to go inside, find the central core, and communicate with the Guardian."

Hot Rod's spark throbbed. Or was it the Matrix nestled right up against it? He took a step back from the table, realization pouring through him at Glyph's words.

"I'll do it, of course," Optimus was saying. "It needs to be done."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Glyph, and he did sound apologetic at least. "You're our Prime, but this needs a Matrix."

Hot Rod's chest ached. He took another step backward, and froze when everyone looked at him, expectation heavy in their optics.

"Well," Xaaron said. "At least now we know why Primus chose to bestow the Matrix upon us once again. He must have known we'd have need of it."

Optimus looked pained, whether for Hot Rod or himself, Hot Rod didn't know. But his shoulders sank, and he gave Hot Rod a gentle look. "You offered to return it to me and I declined because I thought I understood Primus' plan better. Clearly, I was wrong. I would take it now, Hot Rod. This must be done."

There was a strangled sound behind Optimus, but Hot Rod didn't look. He shook his head before he thought twice about it. He was many things, but he wasn't a coward. He knew what sacrifice meant. He knew the weight of it.

Primus had given him the Matrix for a reason.

It wasn't Optimus he wanted to do this; it was Hot Rod.

It all made sense. Hot Rod was never meant to be Prime.

In a way, it was a relief. It felt like a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't a Prime; he was a weapon.

"No," Hot Rod said, and Optimus' field rippled with surprise. "I'll do it. Primus gave me the Matrix, so I'll do it." He aimed for a smile, and it slipped on the edges. "I mean, it makes sense, right? I'm the expendable Prime here."

Optimus seized him by the shoulders, though it felt far more gentle than Hot Rod expected. "You are not expendable," he said. "This is not a task which requires your death."

"We assume," Starscream said, probably to be contrary. "We don't really know what stopping this Guardian entails. For all we know, it does require a sacrifice."

"You're not helping, Screamer!" Jazz snapped, and Hot Rod's spark squeezed at the sound of his lover's voice.

Or ex-lover's maybe.

Hot Rod supposed they might not have to have that argument after all.

Starscream shot Jazz a narrow look. "Choosing to ignore the possibilities doesn't make them any less likely. You can draw on Autobot optimism all you want, but the fact remains, we don't know what we're doing. We're making educated guesses."

Hot Rod stepped out from under Optimus' hands, attempting to square his shoulders and project an air of authority he didn't quite feel. "It doesn't matter. It has to be done. Either I figure it out, or this thing destroys what's left of Cybertron, and we lose our home. Again."

He was tired of losing his home.

Springer stepped forward. "Roddy--"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to argue about it. I'm doing it even if I have to do it alone."

“Which you’re not,” Jazz snapped, and he pushed through the crowd, staring defiantly up at the two Primes. “You’re going in with a team. You won’t make it through that army without one.”

“Are you volunteering?” Hot Rod asked, and maybe his tone was a bit too barbed for their public location, but it slipped out before he could control himself.

“Of course I am,” Jazz said, and there was a moment of hurt flickering across his face, or did Hot Rod want it to be there, so he’d only imagined it?

“I’m going, too,” Springer said with a sidelong look at Jazz, just the edge of a sneer. “You’ll need firepower as much as you need to sneak around.”

“We need a plan of action. And quickly,” Optimus said, perhaps sensing the fight beginning to brew between Jazz and Springer.

A fight they did not have time for at the moment, not with the Guardian bearing down on them.

“A small group. No more than half a dozen,” Starscream agreed, stepping up beside Optimus with a contemplative frown as he scanned the holographic map on the table. “We’ll use Seekers to slow it down and distract it, along with ground forces to help clear a path to the main body.”

“And we continue to evacuate. I’d rather have to bring everyone back then take the risk and lose anyone,” Ultra Magnus agreed.

Hot Rod stepped back, away from the table, making more room for others to crowd in around the two holographic displays. He wasn’t a tactician. He didn’t have any experience leading troops.

He’d just go where they pointed him, and carry the Matrix along the way.

Movement in his peripheral vision told him he was no longer alone. The pulse of familiarity in his chassis made identifying the mech even easier.

“I was never much of a tactician myself,” Optimus said, his gaze focused out the window, but his field tentatively touching upon Hot Rod’s. “Times like these, I miss Prowl dearly. Ultra Magnus is brilliant in his own right, but few had Prowl’s talents.”

Hot Rod didn’t know what to say. Offering comfort wasn’t a talent of his either. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, because it might have been a decade ago, but Hot Rod was familiar with loss himself. Time made it easier to bear, but didn’t take the sting away.

Optimus rested his hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, which was still an odd thing, because they were closer in height and mass now than Hot Rod was accustomed to. He was a few inches shy of matching Optimus’ height, but much, much larger than he’d been before.

“I appreciate that, but my statement had another purpose,” Optimus said, and he got that look in his optics which always seemed to resonate with the Matrix, like he was about to say something the Matrix wanted Hot Rod to pay attention to.

“Do not think being a Prime means you must be alone or have all the answers,” Optimus said. “Learn who you can trust, who you can lean on, look to them to fill in the gaps where your own skill and knowledge is lacking.” His gaze turned distant, full of sorrow. “There is no shame in leaning on your friends.”

Hot Rod suspected that was a lesson Optimus took a while to learn.

He gave Optimus a lop-sided smile. “Honestly, I’m all for letting as many people help me who want to. I don’t want to die.” He didn’t want them to die either, but he also knew, he was surrounded by a lot of stubborn mechs. There’d be no stopping Springer or anyone else who volunteered for what was likely to be a suicide mission for all of them.

If Hot Rod screwed this up, he’d never forgive himself.

“I would take the Matrix and do this,” Optimus said, his tone now quiet and grave, so quiet no one could hear them over the spirited tactical planning a few paces away.

Hot Rod shook his head and touched his chassis, where the Matrix fairly hummed within him. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. I think I’m supposed to do this.” He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he supposed Optimus understood anyway.

Optimus sighed. “Very well.” He turned back toward the window, his armor drawn taut to his frame, lines of worry drawn around him. “I trust you, Hot Rod. I know you can do this.”

Hot Rod gnawed on his bottom lip and folded his arms, staring out the window as well, so he didn’t have to look at anyway. “Thanks,” he said.

He only wished he had as much faith in himself as Optimus seemed to have in him.

~

"Are all of the triage rooms ready?" Ratchet asked as more and more medics started to trickle in to the main hospital.

"They've been ready," First Aid answered from behind an armful of static bandages and nanite paste. "Peace or not, I've been prepared. I honestly expected a riot before this though."

"Not much of an optimist, are you?" Ratchet asked.

First Aid's orbital ridges lifted. "Are you asking me that honestly?"

Ratchet, despite the tension and the stress and the worry coiling in his spark because Wheeljack had been right next to ground zero, managed a chuckle. "Fair point." He patted First Aid on the shoulder and liberated half his armful to make it easier. "You know, you're becoming more and more fit to replace me every day."

"I'm starting to wonder if that's actually a compliment," First Aid grumbled, and there was something in his field, in his voice, which caught Ratchet's attention.

Were it not for the city-sized monster trundling their way, preparing to stomp them all to dust, Ratchet would have taken the time to poke at it. Instead, he filed it away for a later conversation.

"Do you want to take the field unit?" he asked instead.

First Aid shook his head. "You're worried about Wheeljack. I'll handle things here." He tipped his head toward the door where a familiar Neutral had just arrived, a medkit in each hand. "I've got Ambulon to help."

"And a dozen other medics, too. The goal is to withdraw mechs before anyone gets too hurt. We don't want to lose a single mech," Ratchet said as a subroutine kept a running update of new orders and deployments at the back of his processor. "I'll be running triage on site, but I'll ping you if I'm sending a worst-case your way."

First Aid nodded. "Don't worry about us. We’ve got this well in hand.”

"I know you do."

There was no one else Ratchet trusted more.

~

Madness.

Hot Rod had thought the war was a thing of terror, of madness, and he supposed he’d been right. But it was nothing compared to what they now faced. The war had been endless skirmishes, massive explosions, tiny clashes and thousands upon thousands of little missions, all tangled together.

Hot Rod had seen many battles, but he’d never seen war like this.

The air reeked of expended ammunition and scorched fluids. There was a riot of noise -- bombs and laserfire and the echoing clangs of metal impacting, the vibrating thuds of each Guardian step, the angry buzz of the Guardian’s army of mindless drones, chittering and breaking and reforming in an endless wave. Mechs shouted at each other, new soldiers arriving to take the place of those retreating when injured.

Hot Rod knew they’d made it a tactical point to lose as few as possible. The point wasn’t to throw their soldiers into the maw of the beast.

Ultra Magnus led the charge, with the Wreckers taking point, cutting a swathe through the endless army of strange metallic beasts. The massive bursts of firepower charred the air, stung Hot Rod’s sensors, but within his chassis, the Matrix fairly sang with excitement.

Bloodthirsty thing.

It was still the first opportunity Hot Rod had to try out his new frame, and the new weaponry associated with it. The moment the higher-powered blasters sprang out of his arms, he'd felt a great surge of charge throughout his sensory net, and the Matrix pulsed its approval.

Hot Rod ran central to the massive tidal wave of powerful Autobots -- and no few Decepticons who had volunteered -- and as the group drew closer to their target, Hot Rod's escort peeled off in twos and threes, until only the core of his escort remained. Jazz. Springer. Drift. Cyclonus.

One of Starscream's Seekers had pinpointed a hatch of some kind on the underside of the beast, nestled between two spiky protrusions that dripped sizzling acid on the unsuspecting assailant underfoot. And, occasionally, on its own army, not that it seemed to mind.

Hot Rod didn't have time to be afraid, though the fear kept rising up to introduce itself. Fear for himself, for his friends, for those he cared the most for.

Fear of failure.

He swallowed it down and focused.

Focused on Cyclonus and Springer leading the charge toward the hatch, peeling it open with little to no effort, and dropping down chains for the rest of them to climb. Hot Rod learning the strength of his new frame, hauling himself as Jazz scrambled ahead of him and Drift came last, hissing as the sway of the chain put him in the path of the acid drip and scored his shoulder.

"Drift?"

"I'm fine, keep going!"

Up and up they climbed, pulling themselves into a humid interior, lit with strips of dim emergency lights, the thudding-rattle of the Guardian's footsteps dulled by the mass of it. Drift closed the hatch behind them. His armor smoked and hissed, but Jazz sprayed something over it, covering the wound in a thick, spongy substance that rapidly hardened.

"Ratchet's gonna blow a gasket," Drift said with a sigh. "And so will Sunstreaker."

"At least you're alive." Jazz patted him on the uninjured shoulder. He touched his audial. "Infiltration team safe and sound, pull everyone back to defensive positions."

The Autobots and the Decepticons and the Neutrals would try to slow the Guardian, and attempt to stem the tide of its army.

"We're in some kind of manufactory," Springer said from just ahead. "Two, no, three hallways leaving out. No sign of defensive measures."

"Yet," Cyclonus affirmed from his perch a level above them, crouched on the rail of one of the catwalks like a bird of prey, his optics narrow slits of crimson. "We would be foolish to assume it does not know we are here."

Jazz keyed something into a small device and a holographic image sprang into view, painting his face in a pale blue light. "We're here," he said, pointing to a red dot on the image. He dragged his fingers through the hologram. "And Glyph thinks our best bet is here." He swirled his finger through a central area, vaguely spherical in nature.

"Honestly, we only have the vaguest idea of what we're doing. The best thing is to just keep moving forward. And stay alive," Drift said. He tossed a glance at Hot Rod, which was probably meant to be reassuring. "And keep our baby Prime here alive long enough to stop this thing."

"If we can find something I can plug into, we might be able to get more detailed schematics," Jazz said, dismissing the hologram with a flick of his fingers. "Keep an optic out for a control panel or a console or anythin'."

A rattling noise rose up around them, along with the chittering of dozens of tiny, spindly feet. The ambient emergency lights flashed from a dim yellow, to a bright orange.

The Guardian's defenses had found them.

"We need to move," Cyclonus said. "Now."

Hot Rod sighed. “Frag.”

~

The battle dragged on.

Optimus could not bring himself to leave the command center. He plugged into the main console, receiving updates as quickly as possible while he watched the moving dots and masses of the combined Cybertronian forces clashing with the Guardian and its endless army.

He was not used to inaction, or leading from behind the walls. He did not like knowing Hot Rod and a small unit were in the thick of it, while Optimus stayed behind, protected and useless. He should have insisted. He should have taken the Matrix and done this himself.

It was not right to put the burden on Hot Rod.

"All non-combatants evacuated," Flare said in Optimus' periphery, and Red Alert's vocals, even if it was not Red Alert, were a small comfort. "Remaining shuttles on standby to evacuate combatants as needed."

"Shut down the space bridges. Power them down completely. We need to conserve what energon we have left for the return trips," Xaaron said.

"Yes, sir."

"Hot Rod's team has been safely deployed," Ultra Magnus reported. "All we can do now is wait and hope."

More reports rose and fell in the background, though Optimus half-listened for any key words or phrases which might need his immediate attention. Grimlock and Starscream were on the frontlines, managing their ground and aerial forces and the attempts to slow the Guardian down. Optimus and Xaaron were charged with evacuations of the civilian population, and a second line of defense were the worst to happen.

"Optimus."

Soundwave's voice sent a wave of comfort through Optimus. He inclined his head to acknowledge his partner, and soaked up the heat of Soundwave's nearness.

"You have news?" he asked.

A gentle touch to his elbow preceded the offer of a cube of energon. Optimus managed a smile, affection flooding through him, chasing away the chill of anxiety.

"You always know what I need," he murmured as he took the warmed cube, quite sure it was spiced and flavored to his preferences.

"Optimus easy to read," Soundwave said as Laserbeak fluttered from his shoulder to Optimus', tucking in against his neck and nuzzling him. Soundwave was not one for public displays, but his field layered over Optimus' in warmly. "Feels guilty."

Optimus ex-vented and sipped from the cube to gather his thoughts. "As much as I want to retire and live a life of peace, a part of me feels the burden should have been mine," he murmured, too quiet for anyone but Soundwave to hear.

“Fought more than enough,” Soundwave said, and Laserbeak nuzzled Optimus as though to make up for the fact Soundwave could not. “Rest is earned.”

Optimus stared hard at the screen as more reports filtered in, lists of the wounded, supplies, ground covered and lost, and a steady blinking light that was Hot Rod’s team’s position, updated every time they checked in.

“It can only be earned once this threat has passed,” Optimus said with a set jaw. He finished off his energon and tucked the empty cube into his subspace. He gave Soundwave a warm look and murmured, “Thank you.”

It spoke more than he could at the moment. Luckily, Soundwave had come to understand him. HIs field nudged Optimus’, warm with support, before both of their attention -- and their hope -- refocused on the screen.

~

The Guardian’s inner defenses were as sturdy as the outer army. As many as they smashed, more filled in to take thier place, reforming as quickly as they were shattered and destroyed.

It became more prudent to run, smashing through the defenses without taking the time to stand their ground. It felt like fleeing a tsunami of chittering, clattering, teeth and talons and slicing limbs and mouths like giant scraplets.

They stumbled on a console, and Jazz jacked in, downloading as quickly as possible while Springer and Hot Rod unloaded on the defenses, and Drift and Cyclonus sliced them into bits, all four of them tossing out grenades whenever possible.

"Got it!" Jazz said, snatching his cable free from the console, whipping around to fire a blaster at an enemy leaping at him from the shadows. The core of it exploded into fiery sparks, but they all knew it would reform quickly enough. "Come on, out the south door!"

They obeyed.

Hot Rod was exhausted. His chronometer said they'd been fighting for an hour, but it felt like longer. He'd been in war, he'd been in battle, but not like this. Never this extended running and fighting, without a chance to rest or catch his breath or his thoughts.

Springer was limping, and Cyclonus had a gouge across the chassis. Drift's armor still occasionally smoked from the acid. Jazz's visor flickered from a hard blow he'd taken. Only Hot Rod was unscathed, and he felt it like a shame, deep in his spark.

"We're close," Jazz said, sliding to take point, jostling Springer out of the way, a map springing to life on one wrist, zooming and spinning and charting a course for them. He looked up, caught Hot Rod's optic. "This thing is semi-sentient, Rodders. You might have a fight on your hands."

He was ready for it. He wanted to fight.

Though he reconsidered that thought when -- fifteen minutes or so later -- they burst into a smaller room, the humidity in here thick and unpleasant, making it harder to drag in a vent. The air had a scent to it, like charred energon and ozone, and it was painfully bright.

Open space greeted them with a massive tangle of cables writhing across the ceiling above their heads, and on the far end, what could only be described as a throne, equally choked in cables. Some kind of helmet dangled over the top of it, like it was meant to be placed on someone's head, and there were half-circle doors to either side of it, large enough to enclose the whole thing.

The Matrix pulsed, and Hot Rod lurched forward like someone had taken control of his limbs. He dug in his heels, snagged the nearest arm -- which happened to be Cyclonus' -- and held tight.

"This is it," Jazz said as he dragged something heavy in front of the door. There didn't seem to be any other exits.

Drift moved to help him, yanking another console out of the wall to pile it in front of the door. "What now?"

Hot Rod realized he was shaking in the same moment Cyclonus looked at him. "You already know," Cyclonus said.

The Matrix all but writhed in his chassis, tugging him toward the throne-like chair, and the waiting cables and sockets and plugs. He had to connect himself to that thing. He had to go inside it and... and do something.

"I don't want to go in there," Hot Rod said, and hated that he'd said it aloud. The more he looked, the more the throne looked like something which would swallow him and keep him forever.

"But you must," Cyclonus said, his tone grave but understanding. "It is why we are here, Rodimus Prime."

He flinched.

"I hate that name," Hot Rod said, but he forced himself to stand upright, to uncurl his fingers from Cyclonus' arm, to take a step forward. And then another, and another, until he stood right in front of the throne -- control chair -- and stared.

"This isn't going to hold them forever," Springer was saying, and Hot Rod looked over his shoulder, where they'd piled as much as they could in front of the door, and started creating barricades to hide behind.

"It only has to hold long enough for Roddy to do his thing," Drift said.

And then Jazz turned and caught Hot Rod's gaze.

Hot Rod didn't know if Jazz let him see it, or if the Matrix stirring had made him more perceptive, or maybe it was some combination of both, but for the first time, he saw fear in Jazz's gaze. Not fear for himself necessarily, but fear for Hot Rod, and fear for the thing they had between them.

"I'll try to be quick," Hot Rod said and he turned back to the throne, trying to calm his ventilations through the mix of determination and panic crowding around his spark, while the Matrix jostled and twitched and sent little surges of charge through his sensory net.

Hot Rod climbed up into the chair and sat, his frame perfectly fitting into the molded dimensions of it. No sooner had he settled his weight than the cables reacted, snaking around his frame, their connective ends finding his various medical ports and spitting out licks of charge until his ports opened to accept them.

Hot Rod shuddered as the cold slice of the not-quite-sentience of the Guardian hovered at his firewalls. It didn't batter them, but it waited. Patiently? Respectfully? He wasn't sure.

"I don't like this," Jazz said, because Hot Rod blinked and he was there, standing in front of Hot Rod, close enough to touch, his hands resting on Hot Rod's wrists where his arms fitted perfectly into the control chair. "It looks like it's going to keep ya."

"Maybe it will. Maybe that's how I stop it," Hot Rod said, and flinched as another cable sank into his cephalic port with little preamble, sending a jolt through his entire frame. His spinal strut quivered from the abrupt charge.

Jazz's visor flashed. "That's unacceptable," he said, and his fingers curled in, digging under Rodimus' wrists, pressing at the sensitive understructures where his armor gapped for better motion. "You're not leavin' me."

Hot Rod chuckled, though his vision was starting to swim, and there was a seeping cold emanating from every cable connected to him. "Thought you were the one leaving me."

Jazz looked pained, and apologetic, and full of regret. "That was a mistake. I make a lot of those. But you're not allowed to die. You hear me? You're coming back to us."

"Sir, yes, sir," Hot Rod said, and was alarmed by how much static came out of his voice. Even more alarmed when manacles slid around his wrists and ankles, locking him into place, forcing Jazz to let go. "Don't worry. I don't have a death wish."

He really, really didn't.

"Good."

Jazz kissed him, and a new wave of electricity passed through Hot Rod, though it had nothing to do with the control chair. It felt different this time, like Jazz wasn't holding anything back, and the way he cupped Hot Rod's jaw suggested tenderness and care and feelings he always said he didn't have.

"You're coming back," he said, firm, as if Hot Rod had no choice about it, pressing their foreheads together as though he could will the statement into truth.

A creak and groan preceded the lowering of the helmet and the slow swivel inward of the enclosing arms of the throne.

"I promise," Hot Rod said.

Jazz pulled away from him, offering one last look before he slid out the doors, barely skimming between them.

Then it was dark.

***