War and Wings Chapter 18 Part Two: Recoil

Continued from Part One...
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Io’s optics opened slowly as her higher functions re-initiated.

At first, she wasn’t certain if her t’vre were operational because everything around her was hazy and dark.  

Shaking her head, hoping that it would clear her vision—it didn’t—she considered her surroundings.

The smoke—some strange combination of particulates and foul-smelling aerosols—was everywhere; thick and impenetrable.  Even so, she got the distinct impression that she was underground, surrounded by large objects.  Here and there were several writhing areas of blue light…possibly energon fires, and though it was impossible to gauge distance, this revelation was anything but comforting.  

Energon fires could spread rapidly, and though Cybertronian armor was capable of withstanding high temperatures, there was an upper limit.  Eventually, the energon in her lines would vaporize, her internals would seize, and she would go offline, exploding from the inside out.

She’d seen Decepticon prisoners tortured in this manner, and it ranked just about as low on her list of “ways that I don’t want to die” as being thrown into a pit of scraplets.

It was no wonder, then, that the femme began to feel slightly uncomfortable.  

Shaking her head, forcing the feeling to the rear of her processor—now, was not the time to fall apart—Io redirected her focus forward…where she could sense the presence of something—something big.  The smoke prevented her from making it out and so she diverted a bit of air from her cooling system through her oral vent.  The haze parted, briefly, and the glow of her t’vre illuminated something enormous and dark in front of her face-plate: a support beam that had missed crushing her head by a few milivets.

Her optics widened, and she recoiled in surprise…only to find that one of her arms was pinned to the ground, and the other—her right—was actually twisted around behind her.  

They weren’t broken, but the thought of her own inability to free herself coupled with nearby energon fires was more than enough to cause her spark to race.

Calm down and focus!  She scolded.  

Trying her legs, they were just as useless, dangling freely with no surface to give her leverage…suggesting she was pinned somehow at the edge of a shelf, partially buried under debris of uncertain character.

Craning her head, she focused back on the blue glow of what she assumed to be the nearest energon fire. Though the light was blurry, obscured by motes of dust, its position relative to her optics suggested that it was on the same shelf as she, and that any escape would have to be through it…or down into the darkness below the ledge on which she was pinned.

And all of that was assuming she could free herself.

Which she couldn’t.

Her spark began to race.

In an attempt to dispel her growing fear, she called out to her comrades on their private channel.

All she got was static.

That didn’t mean anything of course, as the lack of a signal could mean she was too far away...or that they were indisposed.

She cut off that line of reasoning and tried vocalizations.

No response.

“Crossarm?  Powerglide?”  She yelled, pushing her voice-box to its limits.  “Can anyone hear me?” Despite raising her volume, she was certain that the thick haze prevented the sound from propagating more than a few mechanometers.

That didn’t squash her hope, however. Desperately, she waited nearly an entire breem, audio receptors straining to the utmost, maddeningly sure that the space would be filled by the sounds of her rescue.

Unfortunately, eight-hundred and seventy-three astroseconds later, she had to admit to herself there was no response.

This, of course, touched off an even greater wave of panic and her body responded accordingly.

Jerking her arms, suddenly, she tried to pull herself free of whatever was restraining her.

Her joints groaned with the effort, but no matter how much she pushed or pulled, they wouldn’t move.   She tried her legs, again, this time pushing her armor to its fullest flexibility, hoping that she could reach the beam by her face.

The tip of her right trod touched something hard, but she couldn’t bend enough to bring any more of the appendage to bear.

“Crossarm!?!  Powerglide!?!” She screamed in a distorted, high-pitched version of her voice.  

For a moment, she was seized with the sudden urge to transform, but the last remaining rational part of her processor squashed that desire.  Her arms were her engines, and given the way that she was laying, transforming would see them rotate violently toward her ventral surface, effectively ripping them off.  

The femme squeezed her optics shut; her spark was racing so fast that it felt like it would rupture.  And that brought up images of the fires… and the tortures… and the violent, painful explosions…

Claustrophobia was a common psychosis among aerial bots, and even though her clinical duties mostly kept her indoors, there were windows to remind her of the sky, and exits that allowed free access to the outside.  Her small size was a boon as well as some of the rooms and hallways—having been designed for larger ‘Bots like Optimus--seemed cavernous.

But here…here the space was constrictive, cramped.  There was no freedom of movement, no windows, nothing that even acknowledged the existence of the sky except the cruel mimicry provided by the flickering, blue energon suns and the clouds of oppressive, lingering smoke.

As the weight of that oppressive space pressed down upon her, as she thought of her own helplessness and the absence of her comrades, her unconscious mind triggered her automatic navigation hardware, firing a high-frequency distress pulse into the darkness.  Silent to non-fliers, any aerial bot within three clicks would likely register the signal on their receivers to pin-point her position.  It was a dangerous act of desperation—as the pulse could be detected by Autobots and Decepticons--but Io was beyond caring.

In fact, that her systems had sent the pulse was a prime indication of her current mental state as it could usually only be triggered when a ‘bot’s higher functions were offline and their body was working on primal instinct.

Survival was paramount; her programing demanded it.

Survival.

Survival.

A sharp, metallic clang off to her right shocked her back to her senses and gave her something tangible to focus on.  It wasn’t easy considering the depth of desperation, but as it seemed the only sound not associated with burning energon and the pulsing of her spark, it proved impossible to ignore. And it gave her hope. It also gave her the leverage to shove that consuming survival code back to the rear of her processor where it belonged.  She opened her optics, hoping that circumstances had changed for the better…but was disappointed to discover that the gloom was still as impenetrable as before.  

A second sound resonated through the dark…this one closer than the first.  

Io rotated her audio receptors toward it.  “Hello?”

For a time, nothing happened.

Then, so faint as to be almost a dream, a voice whispered back to her from the darkness.  
It seemed to be calling her name.

A relieved smile claimed her face.  “Powerglide!”  She called out, happily.  “I’m here!  I don’t know where, exactly, but I’m here!”

For a few cycles, the femme was left hanging, literally and figuratively.  But then, directly ahead of her, the haze began to brighten.  As the light grew stronger, she could see more and more of her surroundings, including the support beam and smaller pieces of metal that immobilized her arm.  Surprisingly, she was trapped only a few mechanometers above what looked to be a vast, metal floor, dotted here and there with smoldering debris.  

After a few more moments Powerglide’s familiar frame stepped into view.  

He was a welcome sight; no, a glorious sight.  Granted, had Megatron himself come to her aid, she certainly wouldn’t have complained.

“Thank Primus, you’re OK,” The acrobat said, stooping so that he could observe her clearly.  “When I saw you go down, I feared the worst. And then when I received the pulse, I couldn’t help but believe you were alive but close to going offline.”  

Io laughed, a gruff sound made deeper by stress.  “Do you honestly think I’d die and leave you all alone with Crossarm…?” Her voice faded as Powerglide’s optics took on a haunted glow.  

“Oh, Primus…” Io gasped, spark tightening.  “Please tell me that he’s ok…”  

“He’s…” A pause.  “He’s in bad shape.”  The mech managed, finally, fixing Io with an almost pleading stare.  “I’m no medic, and I did what I could for him.”  His optics lowered.  “When a distress beacon popped up on my radar, it was…well, I could only hope that it was you, and not some ‘Con.”  He shook his head and looked at Io, optics dim.  “H-he needs your help, otherwise...”

Io tapped his nearby bracer, reassuringly.  “I’ll do what I can.  Can you get me down?”

The acrobat nodded, set his left shoulder against the largest of the confining supports and leaned his weight into it.  At first, it didn’t budge, but the metal eventually gave with a shrill screech, and quite suddenly, Io found herself sitting on her aft.

Now that she was free, she wanted so desperately to make some joke about her treatment, but her recent brush with death coupled with Crossarm’s condition took all the joy from her lips and she decided to keep silent.  

Instead, she looked to Powerglide for assistance.

The mech smiled and helped the grateful femme to her trods.  “He’s not too far; I can lead you to him.”

“Let’s hurry.”

Squeezing her hand, tightly, the mech retraced his steps as well as he could.  But even with the trail fresh on his processor and lights along the fore-edges of his wings, the thick haze and smoldering clutter slowed their progress.  

Io studied the debris with a raised brow-ridge.  “There was some sort of explosion here…” She mused, side-stepping something what might have been a blackened corpse.

Powerglide nodded.  “That’s the only thing I can figure given how the tower collapsed.”  His optics became distant.  “Have you ever seen a voltari dig a new nest?  That’s the only way I can describe it; the ground just seemed to disappear, and everything that was on top dropped straight down.”  He shook his head.  “It was horrifying…”

Io looked up at him, and was surprised to see his normally passive features scrunched in despair.  “How did this happen?”  He looked down at her, optics glowing fiercely.  “How could something have gone wrong?  We took the tower without incident…”  His voice faded, and he averted his optics.  Though his expression was hard to read--given the lack of a proper mouth--it was one that she’d seen before.  

Almost guilty, it was as if he believed that Io may have had something to do with the debacle.  

The femme forced her face-plate to remain expressionless.  Here she had gone into the mission hoping to prove herself an asset to the Autobot cause, to finally distance herself from all the scrap that seemed to hover about her person…but it would seem that fate had other plans. “I-I don’t know how this happened,” She said in a neutral tone, a tiny glitch at the beginning of her sentence the only indication of her true emotional state.  “But ‘how’ is irrelevant…at least it is at the moment.”  Turning her head, she fixed the mech with a sad stare.  “Can I count on you to help to see us through this?”  

His optics widened, almost as if the implication of his earlier statement finally registered in his processor.  “I’m sorry, Io…”  He said, apologetically…and, perhaps, genuinely.  “I didn’t mean…”

The femme smiled weakly, and refocused on the ground beneath her trods.  “I-if what you described to me is true…and if all of this,” she gestured at another blackened corpse.  “-is any indication.  I would say that the Cons’ somehow got wind of our plan…and blew the cache to prevent its contents from falling into Autobot hands.”

Powerglide’s forward motion stalled, briefly.  “Primus…” He cursed.  “They’d so something like that?”

The femme nodded.  “They’ve done it before.”

“But, why?”  The acrobat gestured wildly with his free hand.  “Why would Megatron do that to his own people?”

“Because he can.”  Io replied, darkly.  “Sure, it might rob him of a few bodies and whatever resources might have been stockpiled, but given the ‘Cons greater numbers—to say nothing about his hold on global resources—losing a few dozen soldiers and a small supply of energon is irrelevant.”  She shook her head.  “He can stand to lose…we can’t.”  

As she spoke, Powerglide’s face-plate took on an increasingly flabbergasted expression, prompting her to keep her next thought to herself.  If Megatron had done exactly what she proposed here, it meant Soundwave had infiltrated Autobot communication channels much farther than any of them, Optimus included, could have ever thought possible.

She couldn’t believe it, and yet she had no better explanation.

Luckily, Powerglide didn’t seem to make the connection.  Instead, he pointed into the darkness.  “Crossarm’s just ahead…”

Despite all of her preparations for the worst, as his prone form resolved itself out of the haze, Io couldn’t help but stare down at him in disbelief.

His right arm was missing, entirely, and though Powerglide had attempted some basic first aid, the jagged stump that remained was still leaking, adding to the already obscene lake of energon which had all but encircled him.

She had seen more severe injuries on the battlefield; that wasn’t the issue.  What jarred her to her core was that of all the ‘Bots, it was hard to imagine Crossarm allowing even a smudge to mar his perfectly kept finish, and yet here he was dying.

And it shocked her even more that he wasn’t dead already.  Not many ‘Bots could lose so much energon and live.

Io’s optics narrowed.  No, now is not the time for such thoughts.  Moving quickly—out of concern, but also to banish her earlier line of reasoning—she claimed a place next to him and set to work closing off the main energon line in his severed arm.  
It was a difficult task.

Crossarm had a nor frame, same as she, and as such employed the arms-to-engines configuration during transformation.  Jet engines required large, sturdy energon lines to feed them, and she knew from personal experience that these were difficult to patch.  They were even harder to clamp without a tourniquet—she didn’t have one on her—and didn’t respond well to veranthisin.
 
Fortunately for her—or unfortunately, given its medical significance--Crossarm’s line pressure was low enough that she was able to pinch his main line shut just by closing her fist around it.  This didn’t stop all the minor lines in his stump—to say nothing about all the damage to his torso and legs—from continuing to hemorrhage, but it did decrease the languid flow.

All in all, it wasn’t looking good.  

Io shook her head to focus.  “Powerglide, I’m going to need some help here.” She said tersely.

The red mech nodded and knelt beside her.  “Ok…” he said, voice quavering uncharacteristically.

“Do you see how I’m holding this line,” She indicated her occupied hand.  “I need you do keep it closed so that I can sew it shut.  I need both hands to do it and my clamps aren’t large enough.”  

“Yeah, Ok.  I…I can do that.”  He reached out his hand, hesitated, and then with a determined shake of his head, pinched the line between his index finger and thumb.  Despite looking like he wanted to faint, the mech kept his cool.  “How’s this?”

Io nodded.  “Perfect.  Just keep holding it.”  Withdrawing a suture kit from her bracer, she folded the dangling portion of the line back on itself and began to close it up.

Crossarm gave no indication that he was aware of her or Powerglide, and as she worked, his optics stared straight up into the darkness, wide, dim, and unblinking.  He was conscious, however, and when she was about half way through closing the line, his head began to sway slowly from side to side.  His lips were moving as well…almost in conversation, though at such low volume as to be unintelligible.

Io strained to hear what he was saying, but a comment from Powerglide diverted her attention.

“Man, I’m normally not all that squeamish, but…” he shook his head.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone lose so much energon. Not with any hope of survival that is.”

The femme continued her ministrations, silently.  The first rule of medicine, she quoted from Cogwheel’s Guidebook of Battlefield Triage—or Extreme Optimism in the Midst of Crushing Hopelessness as most medics jokingly called it—is to focus on the task, ignoring doubt.  She’d forced herself to do it earlier, and his question forced her to do it again.

“I take it you’ve seen worse.”

“Indeed,” Io replied darkly. The first rule of medicine…

Powerglide looked as if he wanted to say more, perhaps inquire more about her experiences, but a sudden cry from Crossarm stalled any further dialogue.

“No!  It’s not my fault!!” He screamed, lunging forward unexpectedly.  Injured though he might have been, his fear gave the young mech tremendous strength.

Io tried to restrain him as best she could, but she had little leverage to keep him immobile. “Crossarm!” she scolded as gently as she could manage.  “Please, calm down.  I need to…”

“No!” he shouted.  “Please!”      

Seeing her distress, Powerglide clamped down on Crossarm’s shoulder-cap, a grip somewhere between delicate and crushing, but that only served to make things worse.  Back-plate trying to come off the ground, the damaged energon line nearly came out of Powerglide’s grip and glowing blue energon leaked around his fingers. Finally, he managed to restrain the slimmer ‘Bot by leaning on his chassis with his left arm.  For a mech of his size, it must have taken a considerable amount of effort to not use too much of his strength, lest he hurt Crossarm even more.

Powerglide’s faceplate showed the strain, but whether from having to hold the ‘Bot in such a delicately rough manner or being covered with his death fluids was indiscernible.

“Crossarm…” Io cooed.  Whatever was haunting him seemed to be the only thing keeping him online. It was a terrifying thought, but if she could use it to ensure he stayed online…

Gently, she placed her hand on his helm, just above his optics.  “Shhh, it’s ok.  Crossarm?”  

The tone of her voice seemed to shake the mech from his delirium, and after several times of repeating herself, his terrified shouts subsided. His head even stopped swaying, but, as he stared into space, t’vre unblinking and unfocused, Io had to stop herself from checking to see if he was dead.

Finally, following nearly a cycle of inactivity—precious time she should have been patching him but couldn’t move forward without risking another episode—he slowly turned his head so that he could meet her gaze.  His optics flickered suddenly in recognition.  “Io?”  He wondered, lips drawing into a wan but relieved smile.

Io returned the expression.  “That’s right.”  Gently caressing his helm, she continued.  “I need you to stay as still as you can.”  He nodded in acquiescence, but when she frowned, he raised a weak, yet questioning, brow-ridge.  “You were hurt, and if I can’t get this arm patched, you’re going to go offline.”

The mech’s optics widened and Io couldn’t help but curse. She could hear Cogwheel’s voice chiding her in her processor: The second rule of medicine is, if you break the first rule, lie to the patient.

“W-what?”  He made to lean forward, but with Powerglide’s bracer still pressed against his chest, he wasn’t able to move far.  He did, however, manage to catch sight of what remained of his arm, and his optics took on a haunted glow.  “No… No. No.  I didn’t…”
Unsurprisingly, the shock at seeing his own body in such a damaged state caused him to go slack as if he had lapsed into unconsciousness.

From a triage standpoint, Io was relieved that at least he wasn’t thrashing around, but it was a dangerous reaction that could easily result in a lack of will to fight. And, given his mutterings, it suggested that even if she managed to save his spark, his processor may be damaged in ways that were not easily repairable.  

Or it may remove the tenuous grasp, deleterious or no, that held him on to life.

As if to underscore her thoughts, the jet began repeating the phrase “not my fault” over and over again.

*Why does he keep saying that?* Powerglide wondered over her private com-link frequency after several, long, moments of listening to the injured jet.

*I don’t know.* Io shook her head, silently grateful for Powerglide’s discretion.  *P.T.S.D., perhaps?  Oh, and you can let go of his line; it should be fine on its own, now.*

Powerglide nodded and disengaged himself gingerly, but though he was obviously relieved, he still looked discomfited and somewhat confused.  *I’ve heard that somewhere before, P.T.S.D.  What is it?*

*Post-traumatic stress disorder,* the femme explained as she began clamping and tying off the smaller energon lines ending at the stump in preparation for a patch.  *It’s a psychological issue that we’ve been seeing more and more of at the clinic.* She sighed.  *When a ‘Bot experiences severe trauma, the stress can warp the individual’s basic programming, inducing glitches in the fear reflex which can manifest themselves later in life.* She met Powerglide’s glowing stare.  *I’m not an expert in psychology, but I’ve seen ‘Bots flip out, screaming and tearing themselves apart in response to an unexpected pat on the shoulder or a dropped lugnut.*  She paused.  *It’s sparkbreaking…*

The mech looked stunned.  *So, if he’s freakin’ out now…he may have been injured sometime long ago and his current injury is causing him to relive it?*

*Could be.* Io mused. *It is hard to believe he could have done anything to get his hands dirty, let alone energon-stained. But, I don’t know anything about his past. It isn’t like he’s an open book.* She tried humor to lighten the mood. *Except about his general licentiousness.*

It didn’t work.

Firstly, the situation was still too touch-and-go for her to have much time to focus on conversation, and secondly, her spark wasn’t in it.  She was worried for his well-being, and this feeling was clashing violently with the overall dislike that she’d developed for him over the stellar cycles.  

Plus, his continual refrain cast a pall over her entire workspace like a Decepticon jamming device.

“Not my fault.  Not my fault.  Not my fault…”

Powerglide obviously felt it too because his expression stayed a constant grimace of consideration for the injured ‘Bot.

Stifling a sigh, the femme double-checked her work on the stump.  Everything that she could sew had been repaired, and all that was left was for her to apply the patch…but it could wait.  There were other injuries that had to be dealt with first.  

Using her welder she mended his medial and femoral plating as best she could.  The welding scars weren’t pretty, but they would give the plates enough rigidity to be useful.  

As soon as she finished there, she returned to the stump.  It was an irregular amputation, and she had to cut down the last of her patches, bit by bit, until she had something that could cover the entire wound.  It was a simple matter after that to set the patch in place, and heat it just shy of its melting point with her welder--warm enough to solder Crossarm’s brachial protoform mesh.  The weld would prevent energon loss from the smaller lines that she couldn’t actually sew, as well as protect any exposed neural cables.  

It wouldn’t block the jet’s pain, but it would, at the very least, prevent further corrosion of the limb.

*How’s he doing?* Powerglide asked, softly.

Io paused and did a quick scan.  *He’s stabilizing.  Should be able to walk on his own, but he’s lost a lot of energon…* She met the acrobat’s concerned stare.  *Without a transfusion, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to get him to the surface.  His weapons will be down as well.* She shrugged.  *Can’t fire what you don’t have….*  

*Can he fly?*

*No…* She admitted after a time.

Powerglide’s shoulders sagged.  The way he now stared at Crossarm was almost pitying.  *Is there… anything I can do to help?*

*Keep him restrained…just in case.* Finishing his arm, she focused her attention fully on his state of mind. *I’m going to see if I can talk him out of this, or I don’t believe we can get him ambulatory...* Allowing a soft smile to play across her lips, she brushed his face-plate with back of her hand.  “Crossarm?” She said, aloud, mindful to keep her tone cheery and upbeat.  “I need you to look at me.  Focus on my voice.”  This time it took longer for him to respond. Beyond the shock of his injury and whatever demons it had conjured up, she now had to work through her own mistake, reminding him of his own mortality.

“Crossarm?” She said his name again, hoping that something simple would bring him around.

At first, he didn’t respond, though his wings trembled visibly at her touch.  She partly expected this, but the way that they shook was more in keeping with terror than it was gratification.  

Not good.

Maybe a change in approach?

“We need your help,” she said softly, trailing her fingertips toward his chin. “We need to get out of here and find out what happened.”

His t’vre enlarged slightly, suggesting that he was trying to focus on his immediate surroundings.  As she hoped, her presence seemed to give the beleaguered mech something to fixate on…something that wasn’t his injury.  

“That’s right; you’re doing great.” She tried to think of something else to say, something soothing and familiar, but their relationship had never been anything other than superior and subordinate.  Granted, that had been by design…

“As the only fliers assigned to the mission…” she began, but when his optics dimmed, she stopped and cursed under her breath.  Let’s just rub it in his face-plate that he’s grounded…  Sighing heavily, she made a mental note to work on her berth-side manners when she got back to Iacon. Granted, her teacher…

She banished those thoughts, happy or no, and focused on the patient.

“The longer we wait here,” Powerglide interjected, almost as if he could sense her discomfort. “The more we run the risk of being discovered.”  He shrugged his right wing at a nearby mass of crumpled support beams.  “I’d rather not have to fight my way out of this.”

“He’s right,” Io said, heavily.  “And with the scramblers in place, we have no means of contacting anyone here or back at the clinic...”  Biting her lip, she lowered her head.  Terrible thoughts began to assail her processor, many of them centering on Ratchet.  His confided fear had come to fruition, and there was no guarantee that she would make it back to Iacon alive.  

Her spark squeezed painfully.  In public, Ratchet was not the emotional sort…but she knew that he would be suffering greatly, worrying about her and the others…and blaming himself for the outcome.  

“Look, I know we’ve never been close…” she began.

And suddenly, the haze cleared from Crossarm’s optics, like clouds evaporating in the noon heat.  Seemingly aware of his surroundings for the first time in what had felt like ages, his gaze darted to the right, briefly alighting on Io’s face-plate, before turning elsewhere.

Figures he’d come around when I start talking about “us,” she couldn’t help but think. Granted, it didn’t matter.  She was smiling now, happy that he had come back to his senses, pompous arrogance and all, and part of her expected him to start complaining the way he always had when put upon…except that he didn’t.
 
He didn’t even return her smile.  

If anything, he looked…guilty.

Guilty?  Io cocked her head curiously. Where had that word come from?  But try as she might, it was the only adjective she could come up with to describe his first, fully-conscious glance.  She tried to verify this by studying his face-plate for additional clues, but he was not looking at her.  

As the astroseconds rolled by, it seemed that this was intentional, that he was going out of his way to avoid looking at her.  “Crossarm?”  She asked, genuinely concerned.  

Moving slowly, she allowed her claws to graze his right shoulder-cap, a soft, feather-light touch that she hoped would bring him around.

To her continued surprise the mech curled his lip and shrugged his shoulder, dislodging her hand.

The Io recalled her claws.  Her expertise was with energon, not psychology, so it was difficult to make sense of Crossarm’s behavior.  Here was a mech who for the better part of three stellar cycles had done everything within his power to woo her over—no doubt hoping that his persistence would pay off with a servicing session.  And now he had just consciously rejected her.  Right after it was obvious she had just saved his life.

*Is it PTSD?* Powerglide’s voice crept cautiously into her processor.

*I…don’t know.* She admitted, wearily.  *I can’t make sense of his behavior at all.* She looked up at the large mech, optics glowing with desperation.  *As far as I know, he’s always been an arrogant prig.  Ratchet assumed that his mannerisms were some sort of front for something, a ‘coping mechanism’ as he called it.  I didn’t believe him as I was seemingly Crossarm’s ‘target’…* She shook her head.  *But maybe he was on to something.*

Powerglide’s expression grew more worried.  *What do we do?*

*We have to get him moving.* Io replied after a moment of thought.  *The longer he remains immobile the worse off he’ll probably be.* Looking back at Crossarm, her processor surged as she weighed her options.  Communication was key here, she was certain of it.  

But…how to get him to open up?  

Then, an idea.

Gently, she reached forward and took Crossarm’s hand.  

Instantly, his head spun around and he fixed her with a gaze that was as much startled as it was questioning.  “What are you...?” He wondered, but Io cut him off with a reassuring smile.

“If we want to get out of here, alive, we’re going to have to work together.  And to do that, I’m going to need everyone at their best.”  Opening a compartment on her bracer, she withdrew a short length of seri-chord tipped at both ends by large, sturdy needles.  “What are your energon readings?”

“I don’t…” He shook his head.  “Why are you…?”

“You lost a lot of energon,” Io said, flatly.  “You’ll need a transfusion if you want access to your weapons.”  Not breaking his gaze, she plunged one of the needles into the main energon line of her left arm.  Instantly the cord pressurized, though the needle at the other end prevented any energon from being needlessly lost.  She turned his hand, trying to encourage him to move his arm so that she could access to his tair.

“What?” He demanded, pulling the limb from her grasp.  “No.  I’m not going to…”  

“You’re going to need energon,” Io insisted.  “It’s either going to be from me or him,” She jerked her thumb toward Powerglide.  “Take your pick.”

The jet just stared down at Io, brow-ridges lowered in confusion, mouth parted slightly as he tried to process everything.  

Then, looking suddenly despondent, he lowered his head and clenched his fist.  “Just…” His voice cut off with a flustered hiss of static.  “Just leave me here.”

“What?”

“I said ‘leave me here’,” he growled.  

“I’m not going to leave you here.” Io said, the words tumbling out of her in a rush even as she tried unsuccessfully to touch his shoulder a second time.  “Why would I leave you here? Why would either of us leave you here?”

“Because I deserve it.”

“Why would you think that?!” She all but shouted. It was as if all the stress of the entire mission, his and hers and Powerglide’s, was pouring audibly from her oral vent. “Look, I understand we had some words before everything went to slag, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to abandon you to the ‘Cons.”

Powerglide raised a brow-ridge, but whether he had heard their entire conversation earlier, as may have been possible, now was not the time to fill him in on their social problems.

Crossarm’s lips twisted into a frown, but rather than reply, he used his good arm to push himself into a sitting position.

At the sudden action, Io sat back in surprise and said in a soft but guarded manner, “You may not want to move just yet.”

The jet ignored her advice, but after two failed starts at getting his trods beneath him, he managed to push himself upright, if slightly swaying.  She rose with him and even offered to help the stubborn ‘Bot, but he refused her attention. “I appreciate your concern,” He said in a laborious whisper, optics distant.  “But…I don’t…”  He looked pained, and his head lowered.  He crossed his left arm over his chest and his fingertips lightly touched the stump that remained of his right.  “I just…”  He shook his head and closed his optics.  “Just…leave me here.”

Io stepped back in bewilderment. One moment he was shouting about how it wasn’t “his fault” in a completely inconsolable—nay, insane—manner, the next he had lapsed into despondency.  Now…he had obstinately set himself against his own rescue.

It made no sense.

In fact, it was exactly the kind of textbook P.T.S.D. behavior that presaged attempts at suicide.

To the Pit with that! Io thought to herself.  Thoughts tumbling about madly, all she could see was their entire mission—of which she was the chief—crashing down around her audio receptors in chaos and insanity. It had started so flawlessly that she found it impossible to believe, or at least something she refused to believe, that could have gone so wrong in a matter of a groon. They had shot the scouts, fooled the guards, summoned in their people, and then everything had turned to slag.

How could it have gone so wrong?

“It’s your fault, isn’t?” Powerglide said softly and Io spun on her trods to regard him.
The look in his optics was somewhere between surprise, sadness, and murderous hate but his finger was pointed directly at the spark in Crossarm’s chest.

Startled, Io looked at Crossarm but instead of denying it in righteous indignation, as he did every slight or insinuation against his “honor,” he merely stood there looking impassively at the larger mech…as if ready to face the firing squad of the acrobat’s metaphorical finger-cannon.

A terrible thought began to gnaw at her processor.  “Powerglide, what are you saying? Do you know what happened?”

“I don’t know anything,” he admitted, but the look—that look—never left his optics. “But I bet’cha he does.”

She turned to Crossarm. “Did you have something to do with this?” She asked, startled that she would have to ask such a thing. Startled even more so that he didn’t immediately deny it.

The mech merely stared back at her with a resigned, defeated expression.  He said nothing.

“Crossarm…” Io forced herself to say despite a sudden tightness in her spark.  “This is important! You have to talk to us!”

“And tell you what?”  He yelled, optics flaring with sudden rage.  “That I managed to botch the first mission I had ever been assigned to!?!”

“What now?” Powerglide asked, perplexed, his earlier grimace dissolving into shock.  Of all the revelations—and Io would be hard-pressed to accept that Powerglide believed what he was accusing their comrade of—this one really set him back.

Io was poleaxed.  “First mission?” she began, but her statement paled in comparison to the shadow cast by his other admission.  “Are you saying this, this mission, is your fault?  It can’t be.”  She shook her head. “I mean, I was there when we accessed the computer, when you fooled a Decepticon gladiator with your quick thinking.”  Io was on a roll and the miserable look on Crossarm’s face could do nothing to deter her from defending the innocence that he was not attempting to claim. “Hell, even before that, I saw the dead guard.  You shot him twice, once through the spark and, in your typical grandstanding manner, a second time through the pelvic assem…”  Her voice faded in a startled gasp as her processor unconsciously accessed all of her memories of that moment.

Crossarm had shot the drone twice.  The metal along the dorsal side of the drone’s pelvic plating had been damaged in a manner consistent with being shot from behind.  This wasn’t the issue.  What alarmed her was a small detail that she had overlooked earlier, namely the way that the drone’s mantle plating had been deformed by the blaster wound that ultimately killed him.  That wound, unlike the former, suggested a frontal assault.  

Assuming the drone had been working at the command console, Crossarm would have been required to fly around the tower and risk direct observation before killing the drone. No one, not even someone of his caliber of flying or sheer, aft-blind arrogance, would have attempted such a maneuver with so much at risk should it go wrong.  

Thus, it would have been impossible for the first blow to be anything but from behind.  And though the wound had nearly severed the drone in two, for a Cybertronian, this type of injury did not result in immediate death.

It was possible, though her processor nearly fled from the accusation, that the drone may have had time – no, must have had time – to send an alarm message before Crossarm had delivered the killing shot to the spark, a very obvious coup-de-grace meant to make it seem like he had completed his task without incident.

And that was when the anger and the disillusionment sunk in.

Crossarm had lied to her.  

She saw that something was bothering him, but she had assumed his change of behavior was due to the strangeness of suddenly not being office bound, or the stress of rejection, or
some new machination of his resulting from her refusal to accept his professed feelings.

Never would she have chalked it up to remorse over having lied to his teammates.

As the implications of this sank in, Io’s optics widened to their limits:  She had allowed Optimus Prime--the Optimus Prime--his lieutenants, half a dozen soldiers, and a cast of clinic personnel to groundbridge into a compromised installment.  

A wave of nausea gripped her internals.  

Had they been in the tower when it collapsed?  Was Optimus buried in the rubble below?

The femme slumped to the floor.  “Oh, Primus…”  

As if coming to the same realization, Powerglide cursed loudly and turned on Crossarm, hauling the smaller ‘Bot from his trods and slamming him into a nearby wall.  “You selfish, spawn of a glitch!” He roared.  “Do you have any idea…any idea what you’ve done!?!”  He raised his fist.  “I saw bodies on my way down here, Autobot bodies that had been crushed in the rubble…”  He brought his face-plate even with Crossarm’s and glared at the trembling sergeant with a look that could have burned down a building.  “’Bots are dead because of you!”

To his credit, Crossarm didn’t recoil from the inevitable blow.  It was as if he had resigned himself to whatever fate Powerglide was about to mete upon him.  

“Powerglide…” Io said, sternly.  The mech’s rage had snapped her out of her reverie.   “Put him down.”

“Frag that!”  

The femme forced herself to her trods and rounded on the acrobat.  “Am I or am I not the commanding officer for this mission?”  She fixed him with a stern, cobalt stare.  It was the first real time she had exercised her authority and as Powerglide was much bigger than she was, she added extra emphasis to make sure he got the point.  Her reaction seemed to come out of nowhere, but the moment she started she knew that it was right. She couldn’t ignore Crossarm’s claimed transgressions just as she couldn’t argue for her own innocence. But as they were dealing with an already tenuous situation, only the strong, sure enforcement of order could stop it from rapidly degenerating.

“Put him down…now.”

Her tone must have caught Powerglide by surprise, because he seemed to consider Io through wide, newly-appraising optics. Unfortunately, the effect didn’t translate to action because he made no move to immediately obey.  In fact, after a moment, his brow-ridges narrowed and he refocused on Crossarm, this time eyeing him in a calculating manner, trying to decide exactly where and how hard he was going to hit him.  

Fortunately, he didn’t follow through.  Optics dimming, the acrobat must have processed the same line of reasoning as Io, and finally, with a flustered sigh, his fist dropped to his side, and he set Crossarm down on his trods, hard but unharmed.

Releasing him, he gave the sergeant one final, murderous look before flaring his armor and walking away. “Damn, you.” He hissed.

Io watched him stalk off.  He didn’t go far; he wasn’t the sort of mech that would abandon his squad mates.  But that didn’t stop him from kicking the remains of a computer console in frustration.

Io vented a sigh of relief, but their predicament was far from over.

Lifting her head, she studied Crossarm, who was standing nearby.  His frame trembled, and his left arm had resumed its protective position across his chest.  His face-plate was strangely devoid of emotion, though the dull color of his optics and position of his wings suggested disbelief…as if the gravity of his transgression was starting to sink in.  

What do I do?  She thought, wearily.  What if Optimus Prime is dead? Can this mission be salvaged? How can I salvage this?
 
Is it possible for me to salvage any of this…?

Io allowed a heavy sigh to flutter across her lips as she reevaluated their position.

Given what Powerglide had told her earlier, they were likely trapped underground within the remains of the cache.  Given the charred bodies and the nature of the damage that she’d seen, she surmised that there had been an explosion, and it was this that caused the final collapse of the tower.  The explosion was likely a calculated move on Soundwave’s part, after he’d been tipped off by a distress signal issued by the drone that Crossarm failed to kill.  

Io shook her head.

She wanted to hate Crossarm.  

Well, actually, she wanted to punch him repeatedly in the face until she cracked her bolts…so much so, that when she saw Powerglide threatening to do the same, she had been tempted to allow it.  But she quickly realized that there was nothing to be gained by doing so.  Anger and frustrations aside, they were all facing the same dire circumstances.  Fighting each other would rob them of valuable time that would better be spent locating any surviving Autobots and figuring out a way to contact the clinic. And as much as it pained her to admit it, they needed every available ‘Bot they could get… which at this moment meant Crossarm.

For the sergeant, and—though she wished otherwise—herself, judgment would come later.
Right now… they just needed to survive.

And to survive, they had to work together.

Forcing her trods to move, she approached Crossarm and pulled lightly on his bracer to get his attention.

He looked at her, optics dim and sad.  “What…?”  

“Let me see your tair,” she said forcefully.

The brow-ridge that rose in questioning forced Io to stifle a sigh.  She pointed at the joint with a weary, but direct claw, and to her relief, he obeyed without protest.  

“I have to ask,” Io said, even as she searched the joint, feeling around for the pulse of his main energon line.  It was so weak that even her sensitive fingers had a hard time in locating it.  “You really don’t know anything about medicine, do you?”  She didn’t look up at him, though she could feel his fingers tense.

“None…other than what I’ve learned working at the Clinic.”

Io lowered her head and muttered something unintelligible.  Why in the Pit are you the HMO of our clinic?  She almost said it; she wanted to say it.  Instead, she forced the anger and incredulity to the back of her processor, held her glossa, and kept her tone professional.  “What are your energon readings?”

“Critical: 1 nar below vost’in.”

Io’s irritation fizzled, slightly; the young mech was lucky to be alive given such low values.   “I can give you about 3 nars.  That should be enough to get your repair systems operational, as well as power your weapons.”

He looked at her stunned.  In two simple sentences, she not only showed she was willing to risk herself to help him, but that, as commanding officer of the mission, she planned to involve him even considering his past offenses.

“You can’t do this….” He started, but quickly cut off as he saw the look in her optics.
Realizing she wouldn’t be deterred, he decided to change tactics. “I…don’t deserve this,” He said after a moment.  

“Perhaps…”

“What do you mean ‘perhaps’?”  Powerglide yelled, suddenly.  “He’s a traitor…by his own admission!”  As he said the word “traitor” he made sure to fix his burning gaze on the blue flier.  

Crossarm took a nervous step backwards, optics wide.   His wings, already lowered to their limits, began to tremble, slightly.  “I’m…I’m not a…” He tried, but his voice seemed to fade along with the rest of his usual confidence.  “I didn’t…”

Io observed his reaction with a look of mild surprise.  Sure the sergeant had been acting strange the entire day, but something about this interchange seemed to resonate in her spark, evoking a powerful wave of compassion, and a sudden desire to want to protect him…regardless of the outcome.

“I’ve seen my share of traitors, Powerglide.” She said, sternly, tilting her head back so that she could meet the Acrobat’s piercing stare.  “And I can tell you that his actions here, though grievous, were not premeditated.”  Her optics narrowed.  “He made a bad judgment call, same as me.”  

Powerglide recoiled in surprise.  “What?!”

“I saw that something was bothering him before I gave the go-ahead, yet I did nothing, chalking his behavior up to…” She paused.  She didn’t want to provide any additional ammunition to the tall flier.  “…to non-mission related issues.”

He stared back at her with a look of unfiltered shock.

Io shifted back and forth on her trods, suddenly uncomfortable.  Admitting her own culpability in the situation really drove home the point that there was no going back to the way things were before.  Sure, Crossarm would be disciplined for his actions, but Io—as the mission’s CO--would take the full brunt of the punishment.  And given that she was still on parole for her actions at the academy, this would mean prison time...or execution…especially if Optimus had gone offline.

Despite wanting to break down in tears, the femme managed to keep her expression neutral.  “Crossarm, do you want that transfusion or not?”

The sergeant shook his head.  “I…um…sure.”    

“Do you object?”  Io asked, glancing at Powerglide out the corner of her optic.  

“I…” The acrobat’s voice cut off and he turned his head, expression dark and forlorn.  It was unclear whether his hesitation was from being asked his opinion by a superior officer, temporary though she might be, and a surgeon as well, or whether it was due to his misgivings at seeing a suspected traitor given succor by another person of suddenly questionable intelligence. Then, steeling himself, he refocused on the two smaller jets, looking first at Crossarm and then at Io.  “Just…” His voice faded a second time.  “Just promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to make things right…”

Io smiled, wearily.  “You have my word.”