Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was chaos in the med bay. The medics slipped on dirty floors as they dashed from one patient to the next. If a mech was able to hobble around and had any training whatsoever in how to patch up a wound they were working alongside the medics, stopping bleeds and sanitizing wounds. 

Prowl lingered in the doorway long enough to assess that Ratchet was not among the staff in the main treatment room. He caught the optics of First Aid who frowned deeply and titled his head a little towards the backroom. 

As quietly as he could, the Second in Command limped past the mechs. He knew he couldn’t avoid all optics, but he tried his best to not purposefully catch any. They didn’t need to see where he was going and make their own assumptions.

The door to the highly secure back room was firmly locked. Prowl took a moment to compose himself, pulling his sensor panels up even as that sent a jolt of pain firing down his spine. He had to force his hip back into position with his left hand.

Pointless, he thought, because he knew that the joint would slip the second he took a step. 

It took only a moment to send his access code to Red Alert. The door’s locking mechanism clinked softly open. Prowl stepped, trying his damnedest to not let his leg slip, and let the door close behind him.

The chaos of the main room was shut out, yet somehow this one was more suffocating.

Ratchet and Wheeljack worked furiously on the Prime, who was laid out on the floor instead of a medberth. Berths of size to fit Prime took a while to assemble and the medics didn’t have that time. Ironhide was already inside, standing at parades rest near the door. The old mech’s shoulders were tight and his optics constricted. Prowl gave him a small nod and Ironhide returned it tightly.

“Status update, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet.”

“Fragging terrible you thrice primus-damned cog shaft,” Ratchet swore, not turning from his work to face the Second in Command. “You see how you’d do with a pit-foresaken skewer in your cold sparkcase!”

Prowl didn’t react to the barbs, understanding that they were sharpened only by the sheer stress Ratchet was under. “What do you need to fix it?”

Ratchet didn’t answer for a breem. He was elbow deep in Optimus Prime’s chest. A spray of coolant fluid arched out of the beaten frame and across Ratchet’s own face. He didn’t flinch, but he did snarl at Wheeljack who was already pressing a mesh sealant over whatever had ruptured. 

“Chief Medi-”

“Frag off,” Ratchet snarled, “Give me a moment, I’m welding his compressor so just give me a primus damned moment.”

Prowl bowed his head and waited. Optimus Prime was turning grey at the extremities. Fingertips ashen, the single pede that still hung on already dead. His facemask had been torn off at some point. The exposed face, at least, appeared at ease. 

Jazz slipped into the room, quiet as a shadow. Prowl turned his head a little to watch as he sided up to Ironhide and embraced the mech a little, leaning in close to whisper something that Prowl couldn’t quite catch. 

“I can’t make it stop,” Ratchet said, bringing Prowl’s attention back to him. “This bar,” he points a dirtied finger to the offending object, “goes straight through. His spark’s still turning, but the Matrix is - it’s migrating up, pressing against the bar, which then presses against his spark.”

Jazz breezed past Prowl, always more ok with gore than Prowl could ever try to be. “What happens when ya try to just… stop the matrix?”

“It goes haywire and drains his energy to lash out at us,” Ratchet’s pauldrons were shivering and the armor along his back flexed sharply before he forced it to lay flat. “But I can’t repair his sparkcase before taking out the bar, and every time I get close to the bar the Matrix lashes out.”

Jazz reached a clawed hand out and carefully laid it against Ratchet’s arm. “So we need to take the Matrix out for a bit.”

The room went quiet, other than Prime’s wheezing vents. 

“You can’t just - just take the Matrix,” Ironhide said behind them, fear pushing him to anger. “He’s the Prime!”

“But if the Matrix is what’s causin’ the trouble, then maybe it needs to go - just for a bit,” Jazz stated, not looking away from the Prime.

Ratchet shook his head and snarled, “The Matrix needs a host, always. You can’t just take it out of him!”

“So someone will have’ta hold it,” Jazz supplied as if it was just that simple.

“ So someone will have to -- Can you hear yourself, Jazz?!” Ratchet snarled. His sharp medic optics catch something new and his arms plunge into Optimus’ lower abdomen. Jazz’s hand slipped off his arm in the process. “You can’t just hand a sacred artifact to someone, you rusted cog sucker , it’ll take a new host and we don’t have the resources to handle that!”

“Jazz,” Wheeljack spoke up for the first time, his face flashing a dull sickly yellow, “Optimus wouldn’t survive long without the Matrix either, it’s integral to his functioning. If we give it to a new host then…”

“Then we might as well not bother with his spark case,” Ratchet finished.

Jazz shook his helm, “Naw, the Matrix is picky, it won’t work with just anyone.”

“So what, we just hand it to someone and hope that the Matrix hates that bot?”

“No,” Jazz said, voice strangely tight but ringing clear. He turned his head just enough to catch and hold Prowl’s gaze. “We don’t hand it to just anyone, we hand it to someone that it’s already rejected.”

Ratchet turned to look at Prowl, confusion twisting his face. “We have no clue who that might be - it’s not like the Temple’s kept a public record of who was presented the Matrix!”

“No,” Prowl agreed, stepping forward, “but I was sent by the Praxus government and rejected by it.”

He let that linger in the air for a moment. It wasn’t public knowledge - how Jazz knew was beyond him, but Jazz loved nothing more than knowing everything about everyone so it wasn’t altogether unsurprising that Jazz knew this sacred secret. 

“I will hold it while you repair his spark case, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet.”

“Like pit you will!” Ratchet threw back at him. “The Matrix will drain you, you’re far smaller than Optimus Prime and it demands a lot of energy!”

Jazz pulled a cube of energon from a cleverly hidden compartment on his arm and handed it out to Prowl. “Then you should top off, Prowler,” he said, “and you better work quickly, Ratchet.”

The energon was shimmery - field grade, packed a lot of energy. Prowl nodded his approval as he took it from Jazz and then stepped forward - only for his hip to again pop out of place. Jazz caught his arm and held him, pulling the larger mech forward so that he was flush against the spy.

“You got this,” Jazz assured, squeezing his wrist and helping Prowl sit gingerly on the floor. Jazz folded his legs and sat with him, between Prime’s massive (and graying) frame and Prowl’s outstretched leg.

“No, frag no,” Ratchet spat, “This is my Med Bay and you can’t just--”

“Ratchet,” Wheeljack cut in, and bravely didn’t wince when Ratchet turned his fury him. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“And it’s the only plan we got,” Jazz said, placing one hand on Prowl’s injured hip and another on Prime’s leg. 

Prowl looked at the camera in the corner of the room, its red light blinking at them. [[Red Alert - lock down the Med Bay backroom, no one in or out until myself or Ratchet says so.]] 

[[Acknowledged.]]

Prowl shifted his gaze to the red mech by the entrance who had been suspiciously quiet. The guard had failed to protect the Prime, but just as importantly to Ironhide, he had failed to protect his friend. Prowl gave him a small nod, which was returned. Ironhide shifted to cover more of the door. He always did better when given a job. 

“Primus damn you all,” Ratchet seethed, “Primus Damn It! Fine - fine - Wheeljack, get ready to pull the bar. Prowl - hold the frag onto this fragging thing, we’ll shove it back into his stupid broken body as soon as I have the chamber welded.”

Prowl nodded. He chugged the contents of the cube and his frame buzzed with sudden energy. Jazz’s grip on his hip tightened a little, and while it caused a touch of pain it also grounded him. 

“Ready,” Wheeljack said.

Ratchet grabbed a pair of crude pliers and took a deep vent. No one moved for a heavy moment. Jazz held Prowl’s gaze.

“Go,” Ratchet grabbed the Matrix crudely with the pliers and yanked it out. Energy arched from it, slamming into Wheeljack who stumbled backward. The pliers were over Prowl’s head and the Matrix glowed white-hot, sparking as it prepared another attack.

Prowl reached up and grabbed it from the pliers before Ratchet could hand it to him, absorbing the strike of energy before it could go after the Medic.

The Matrix attacked.

--

I Reject You.

Prowl’s hands felt like they were melting. White-hot energy jolted up his arms and all of his cables seized. The energon in his lines boiled. He fell back but his wings didn’t hit the ground. He arched his spine and blew his optics wide. All he saw was white. Hot liquid escaped at his seams. His optics shattered.

It took a moment for Prowl to realize that the screams were his own.

I Have Rejected You Before. 

The voice was booming. It shook his struts. His battle computer threw itself into overdrive and he felt himself crashing over and over again. Energon boiled up his intake. 

Hands were on him. An arm was holding up his back. Over the sounds of his own wailing, he could hear the distant din of others yelling.

You Are Not Worthy Of Me.

No, no, no, Prowl thought, but couldn’t get his voicebox under control. He wreathed. His spark was spinning so fast it felt as it was going to go supernova in his chest. His fuel pump stuttered and couldn’t keep up.

You Are Weak. 

Yes, Prowl tried to cry in agreement. His body was seizing. He felt his pistons fire, felt his hip again pop out of joint, felt as his world crumbled. But he held on. He tightened his grip on the Matrix even as his fingers became brittle and gray. 

You Are Damned.

Yes, yes.

And then it fell. His fingers crumbled, his arms torn apart, and the Matrix left him, and his world instantly went black.

--

Jazz watched as Prowl reached up and snatched the Matrix before it could unleash another strike of energy. The energy built up was instead absorbed right into Prowl even as he curled his fingers around the sacred item. The SIC curled his arms in close even as he screamed.

“Frag it, frag it,” Ratchet snarled, grabbing the bar himself because Wheeljack was still on the ground, smoldering and struggling to get his feet under him, “ Frag it, frag it!”

With the sharp sound of metal scraping against metal that could be heard even over Prowl’s screams, the medic yanked the bar out of the Prime’s body and threw it to the side with a clatter. 

Prowl seized, throwing himself backward. Jazz caught him around the middle just before his doorwings could slam on the ground.

The sharp smell of burning plastic hit Jazz before it hit Ratchet, who was still swearing loudly even as his hands were steadily welding.

Hot energon bubbled past Prowl’s lips, splattering the air with his screams. Jazz forced his coolant levels to maximum and quickly moved to sit behind Prowl, careful to not touch the Matrix itself. He pressed his body against Prowl’s, trying to pull some of the heat out the officer and sink it into his own frame.

With sharp pops the glass in Prowl’s optics burst.

“Grab the hardened steel meshes,” Ratchet was yelling at Wheeljack, who was finally back on his feet. Wheeljack pressed something deep into Prime’s chest and Ratchet pulled out for a moment to attach more wires, moving quickly.

“Ratchet,” Jazz said as Prowl continued to seize, “Hurry up.” Prowl’s own fingers were turning gray and melting. 

At that exact moment, Ratchet reached down with the pliers and secured them around the Matrix. He pulled but Prowl resisted, holding on even as the thing tried its best to kill him. 

“Let go, Prowl,” Jazz murmured, grabbing at the other’s wrists and carefully but firmly pulling them apart. The Matrix came free and Ratchet pivoted to shove the damned thing back into Optimus’s chest.

The second the Matrix was no longer touching him Prowl stopped thrashing. He stopped screaming. He went entirely limp, and the gray spread.

“Ratchet,” Jazz alerted, turning Prowl so that he could lay him gently on the ground. 

“One tick,” the medic grunted. 

Jazz’s visor flashed and he looked to Ironhide. “IV and an E-bag,” he said, and Ironhide was quick to grab both and hand them down to Jazz who eased Prowl’s chestplate apart just enough to dip into the main energon line. The metal of his chestplate was burning hot and Jazz tried again to sink that heat into himself. “Coolant too,” he asked, and only had to wait a moment before the said liquid was placed in his outstretched hand. 

He had just given Prowl ten units of coolant when Ratchet slammed down to his knees on Prowl’s other side. Jazz scooted away, giving room for Wheeljack to take his place as the two more qualified mechs forced Prowl’s chest plates all the way open to expose a barely-turning spark. 

Jazz leaned against Optimus Prime’s leg, watching as the gray slowly receded and the Matrix forced life back into the mech. He patted the big mech’s kneecap. Ironhide watched from his post by the door, flexing his old fingers.

Ratchet and Wheeljack worked for another breem in silence, but Jazz could see the light of Prowl’s spark and knew he hadn’t given up on them yet. 

Finally, the medic leaned back, sitting on his aft and resting his helm against the arm that he threw across his knees. 

“Ratchet…?” Jazz prompted after allowing a moment of heavy silence.

“They should both live,” Ratchet’s voice was a bit muffled as he panted and allowed his systems to climb back down from their emergency high. A collective sigh was released across the room. “Stupid fraggers,” Ratchet sighed.

--

The lights were on low when he opened up his optics. Optimus Prime knew better than to move much. There were alerts in his HUD - some of them from his own frame, most of them dire threats left there by Ratchet. 

Searching his memory didn’t reveal much. Looking down at his chest assured him that something had hit him in the spark case. 

The soft sound of another’s vents caught his attention and he looked to his right to see Prowl on a med berth, hooked up to just as many wires and machines as he himself was. 

The door to the room opened and closed softly. Jazz slipped into the room and rested a gentle hand against his shoulder. “Glad to see you online, OP,” he murmured quietly, a genuine smile on his face. 

It took Optimus clearing his vocalizer twice before any words would be produced, as rough as they were. “What happened?”

Jazz hummed and pet his shoulder for a moment before answering. “Megs threw a damn sharpened and annealed bar through your chest. Hit you right in the spark casing.”

Optimus let that settle in for a bit, thinking of how strong that bar must have been to go through his substantial plating. 

“And then?” the Prime questioned.

“Then we brought ya back here. Miracle you survived transport, ta be honest, but once we got ya here the Matrix complicated matters,” Jazz frowned a little. “Thing didn’t seem to like Ratchet tryin’ to mess with your casin’.”

The Matrix was a mystery even to those who carried it. It was energy, it was alive, it had motivations all its own. 

“So,” Jazz drew out, tilting his head a little, “We took it out, for a bit.”

“You --” Prime blinked. The Matrix had - had left his body? Was it still there? Yes, of course, it was. He couldn’t survive without it. “You took it out for a - who - Oh.” Things clicked into place because Optimus wasn’t dumb.

“Yeah,” Jazz agreed, frown deepening.

Optimus looked again at Prowl. This time he noticed his melted fingers. His warped armor. His burnt-out optics. The coolant lines, the heating mat, the energon IV. 

Optimus had known of Prowl’s rejection before his own accordance. Prowl was the only mech still alive who had gone through the process. 

Twice, now.

Prime brought his hand up to cover Jazz’s hand on his shoulder as they sat there in silence. 

--

It took another decaorn for Prowl’s system to start cycling on its own. Ratchet fussed a little over some of the lines. He had long replaced Prowl’s optics and First Aid had done admirable work on straightening out the warped plating.

Wheeljack was still working on his hands. 

When Prowl’s optics lit they were dull and unfocused. Ratchet waited patiently, working on an inventory datapad. 

After a few breems Prowl’s optics moved to the side and took in the medic. “Welcome back, you stupid fragger,” Ratchet greeted. 

Prowl’s vocal box screeched in feedback before he shut it down and forced it to restart. “... worked?” he managed to get out.

“Yes, yes, it did, you rusted crank, Prime’s fine, he woke up before you and has already returned to work.”

Prowl didn’t answer verbally but he did shutter his optics and sigh before looking back to Ratchet. “When -skkrt - I workkkssshhhtt--?” his vocalizer gave some awful feedback.

The CMO traded his small smile for a stern frown and flicked Prowl on the side of his helm, “No, you will not be returning to work for a while yet.” He grabbed at Prowl’s arm and held it up so Prowl could see the stumps there. They’d removed the melted fingers shortly after Prime woke up. “Wheeljack’s working on replacements, but it’s going to be awhile, and - you know - You fragging crashed hard enough to wipe a mech, you will not be going back to work any time soon!”

Ratchet fell into his usual ranting and Prowl let himself sink back, comforted in some way by the antics of the medic. Because it meant he was going to be ok, eventually.

--

Jazz slipped into the med bay in the middle of the night. Prowl was awake - something the saboteur likely already knew - and greeted the spy by name when he sided up to Prowl’s bed.

“Jazz.”

“Heya Prowler,” Jazz said, “Heard you woke up earlier - took me a while to get down here though.”

Prowl hummed and inspected Jazz. He looked tired but otherwise ok. “Prime?” Prowl questioned.

“Doing ok. Checks up on ya a lot - he’ll probably come ‘roun after first shift.”

Prowl hummed again. 

Jazz sighed and pulled a stool up close to Prowl’s bed before sitting himself upon it. He folded his arms on top of one of Prowls and leaned forward so that he should touch his forehead against the side of Prowl’s face. “Glad to see ya awake,” he murmured quietly, “scared me, for a minute there.”

Prowl closed his optics. “It was your idea,” he rasped instead of agreeing that he, too, had been scared.

“Yeah,” Jazz admitted, face pulled tight, “It was.”

They sat like that for a long time. Quietly. Eventually, Jazz had to leave and Prowl was, again, alone.

--

As Jazz predicted, the Prime knocked gently on the med bay’s backroom door right as first shift ended. Prowl didn’t have the voice yet to carry through the door, but he sent an acquiescing ping.

Optimus Prime looked like he hadn’t been injured in the first place. The Matrix had many benefits, including incredibly rapid healing. 

“Prowl,” Optimus said, his rolling voice low, “I am happy to see you awake, my friend.”

“You too,” Prowl’s lips pressed into what counted as a smile for him.

The Prime grabbed the same stool that Jazz had sat on and brought it a little further away from his med berth before sitting on it. The stool groaned but held.

“Prowl--” Prime started, and Prowl knew that voice and wanted nothing to do with the almost-lecture that Prime had surely practiced multiple times.

“I am not sorry we did it,” Prowl interrupted, ensuring that the Prime knew that the plan had been a group effort, that this wasn’t all on Jazz or Ratchet or Prowl himself. Prowl had consented.

“I am sorry that you had to,” Prime said gravely. 

“Nonetheless. It worked.”

“Yes,” Prime looked down at himself, at his living body. “Ratchet says you held the Matrix for seventeen clicks.”

Seventeen clicks? That was it? Prowl was a little dismayed at that. It had felt like eons. The second in command had little to reply to that fact, so he opted to say nothing at all.

Waiting Prime out had always proven an effective tactic anyway. Prime shifted and the stool groaned. “The Matrix had rejected you before. It couldn’t have been pleasant to hold it a second time.” 

Prowl lifted up his arm to expose the still missing hand. “No. It wasn’t.”

Prime caught his optics and held them. “Whatever it told you - don’t believe it.”

Prowl tensed. He bit his glossa. He didn’t dare say anything.

“The Matrix,” Prime continued, “It’s unquantifiable, but it isn’t a deity. It isn’t an authority.”

Prowl let out a shaky vent. Prime reached a large hand forward and covered Prowl’s entire shoulder. 

“Whatever it said to you, know that you are more. The Matrix is opinionated and, at times, cruel. That is why we’ve had cruel Primes in the past. The Matrix is power, and power corrupts.”

His shoulders were shaking. Prime tightened his grip and stayed until Prowl had himself back under control.

“I hope for a speedy recovery, Prowl. Do what Ratchet says; we need you back on command as soon as he clears you.” You are needed, you are wanted, you are important are the undertones of that. 

Prime heaved himself up and squeezed Prowl’s shoulder once more before taking his leave. He lingered at the door and turned his optics back to Prowl’s. “Thank you, for saving me,” he said before he slipped out.

Prowl released a shaky vent and closed his optics and still felt the burn along his arms.