Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work.

Author's Notes: This is set in Papyrus Quill’s Trust Issues Special Ops Trine universe. Special thanks go out to her for not only letting me play in her sandbox, but also for helping me out with the bunny that spawned the idea! This is the first in what will likely be several chapters, and potentially several fics in this series.

“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.”

- William Shakespeare

x-x-x

Ratchet cleared his vents in frustration and tossed the volt-charger onto a nearby table.

“All right that’s it,” he sighed. “All of you pull back. I’m calling.”

Two of the interns who had been working feverishly on the patient looked up at Ratchet questioningly and then pulled back without a word, moving away to deal with other patients. A young student, barely an intern, stood her ground however and looked up at Ratchet defiantly, her small hands balled into fists at her sides. It would have been humorous - Widget coming barely up to Ratchet’s chest, staring him down like she was a Guardian Robot – had the situation not been so grim.

“Sir!” she protested vehemently. “You can’t just-”

“I can and I have,” Ratchet replied, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “He’s spark-dead. There’s nothing more we can do.”

“But couldn’t we-”

“No!” Ratchet snapped. “There is nothing more we can do!”

Seeing the hurt look in Widget’s optics he turned back to the still form on the table.

“There’s nothing more we can do,” he said softly. “We’ve done it all and we have other patients who need our attention. … Time of deactivation; 13:20 joors.”

Widget bowed her head at the pronouncement, but didn’t protest any more.

“Widget.” Ratchet lifted her chin and bent slightly to look her in the optics. “It’s hard. Primus knows it kills me every single time. But we did out best. We just have to accept that sometimes our best isn’t good enough.”

Widget simply nodded before turning away to help with the rest of the injuries, all of which were, thankfully, minor. Ratchet watched her go, lamenting the fact that one as young as she should be thrust into this situation. Her crosses were barely dry and she was already presiding over the mortally wounded.

“Do you want to tell him or shall I?” came a soft voice from just behind Ratchet, drawing him away from his thoughts.

He turned and looked at the young 2IC. There was a surprising amount of compassion in Prowl’s voice, considering his normally stoic and cold demeanour. He was offering an out; offering Ratchet a chance to avoid telling the dead mech’s commander that he had failed. Failed to do his job. Failed to live up to expectations. Failed to keep one very small, very young mech alive.

“No,” Ratchet replied, shaking his head. “No. I’m CMO. It’s my responsibility.”

“Of course,” Prowl replied simply, suddenly once again the cold-sparked officer. “You will find him in the hall. He has not moved since he brought Radial in.”

“Right,” Ratchet sighed. He always hated this part of the job. More so when the patient was so very young and the outcome was so very obvious.

“And Ratchet,” Prowl said as the medic reached the door. “He has not refuelled since he arrived. As that was nearly 28 joors ago, please see that he does so.”

Ratchet’s hands clenched and he bit back an angry retort. Getting into a fight with a senior officer and potentially getting sent to the brig wouldn’t help anyone. So he simply nodded, handed over his authority to First Response, and logged off duty. He knew he would need a drink after this and he wasn’t planning on returning to work after he informed Radial’s commander of his fate.

He stepped out in the hall and was surprised by how quiet it was. Save for one mech, the hall was completely deserted. As Ratchet approached, the black and white mech looked up hopefully, then, seeing the sorrow in Ratchet’s optics, seemed to collapse in on himself.

“Jazz, I-,” Ratchet began only to be cut off before he had the chance to speak.

“Radial didn’t make it, did he?” Jazz asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry, but no,” Ratchet replied, trying to remain as professional as possible. “We attempted to stabilize him, but unfortunately his processor and spark chamber had sustained too much damage. We did everything mechanically possible, but it wasn’t enough. … If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he felt any pain.”

Jazz just looked down at his hands, completely unresponsive, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“I didn’t train him enough,” Jazz whispered in a voice so soft that Ratchet had to strain to hear it. “He was too young for this. Too inexperienced.”

Ratchet sat down beside Jazz, coming close to touching him, but keeping a professional distance.

“Jazz, I’m sure you did everything you could. From what I gathered, there was no way you could have prepared him for … for what happened.”

“No offence, Doc, but you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jazz said with a bitter smile.

“No, I ... I suppose I don’t.”

“Can I see Radial? Collect his body?” Jazz asked as he stood and started to walk toward the medbay proper without waiting for Ratchet’s permission or confirmation.

“Of course. But I think you should wait a bit first. Get some fuel. I’ll make sure that Radial is made ready for you to claim him,” Ratchet replied as he quickly imposed himself between the med bay and the Special Ops captain.

“I’ll take him now.” Jazz slipped past the large CMO easily and strode into the bay.

Ratchet followed, tempted to argue the point, but quickly realized he would lose any discussion he had with this mech. Radial was where he had been left. None of the other medics had gotten around to cleaning him up, and his body still bore the signs of their lifesaving efforts and the damage incurred by the explosion that had caused his death. His chest was open, his spark chamber dark and empty. Jazz stood by the table and looked down as Radial, showing no emotion save for clenching and unclenching of his left fist.

“Jazz,” Ratchet began, coming to stand behind the mech. “We can clean him up; prepare him for whatever … interment you would like. But – uhm – I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but another option would be to allow us to-”

“No,” Jazz growled, never turning around. It was the first real sign of emotion that he had shown since he had received the news. “Get him prepared. I’m taking him out of here.”

Ratchet just nodded. He might have considered pressing the issue, but he got the distinct impression that if he did Jazz would hand him his head.

“All right,” he replied. “It’ll take a bit of time, but he can be ready by moons’ rise tomorrow.”

Jazz pursed his lips, his hands clenching again almost spasmodically. He reached out to stroke Radial’s face gently. For the briefest of moments, Ratchet thought he saw through the inscrutable visor to the pain below. But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

“Fine,” Jazz said, a cold edge to his tone. “If you can’t get him ready any sooner. I’ll wait.”

Turning on his heel, Jazz left the medbay proper and sat in a reception chair just outside.

“This is unbelievable,” Ratchet muttered as he shook his head. “First Response, come here please,” he ordered, turning to his second.

“Sir?” the medic replied as he stepped up to his commander, wiping fluids off his hands with a cloth.

“I need you to clean up Radial,” he ordered. “Get him ready for whatever processing his commander decides on.”

“Sure thing,” First Response replied, turning to the deactivated mech. “Most of his parts are still functional. Am I harvesting all of them or just the ones we-”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he was tackled by Jazz and slammed into a nearby wall.

“YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!” Jazz roared as he hit First Response in the chest, sending a harsh vibration into the medic’s spark casing.

First Response cried out in pain, his vocalizer emitting a scream of static as he clawed at the hand Jazz had wrapped around his throat.

“Jazz!” Ratchet yelled, grabbing the Special Ops captain by the arm and yanking him back.

Without pausing at all, Jazz dropped First Response and spun on Ratchet. Black hands reached up to grab the cables in Ratchet’s neck, but the lack of recharge and fuel slowed Jazz’s reflexes, and the CMO was able to twist out of the way. Red fingers dug into the joint connecting Jazz’s neck and shoulder, twisting the wires within painfully. With an incredible show of self control Jazz grabbed Ratchet’s wrist and dug his fingers into the sensitive metal. Swallowing a gasp of pain, Ratchet used his greater bulk to slam Jazz against the wall. With a deft movement, he grabbed a cable in Jazz’s neck and applied a slight pressure.

“I know more than enough ways to disable you Jazz,” Ratchet growled, his face bare inches from the captain’s. “Now stand down!”

Jazz’s visor flickered slightly and he looked up at Ratchet as if suddenly becoming aware of the situation. Slowly and obviously, he released Ratchet’s wrist and brought his hands up in surrender.

“I apologize. That was completely unprofessional,” he said, looking at both Ratchet and First Response.

Ratchet continued to hold the captain for a moment longer, assessing the situation quickly, before releasing him and helping him to stabilize on his feet.

“I think you need to leave,” Ratchet said solemnly. “First Response, when you’re done with the rest of the patients, prepare Radial for interment. I want him shown all respect.”

“Sir! Yes sir!” the junior medic replied promptly, never taking his eyes off of Jazz or coming within arm’s reach.

“Thank you,” Jazz replied stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll be back tomorrow at moons’ rise to collect Radial’s body.”

He then executed a perfect military turn and walked out of the medbay.

Ratchet watched him for a moment before clearing his vents loudly.

“Response, you’re in charge. I’m off shift,” he said as he walked out of the bay. Unless it’s urgent – and I do mean urgent – I am not to be disturbed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” First Response replied quickly.

After taking a moment to ensure that his second had everything in hand, he turned and quickly followed Jazz out into the hall.

“Jazz, hold up,” he called. “I need to speak with you.”

Jazz slowed but didn’t stop. He never acknowledged the medic’s approach, but Ratchet took his new pace as a go ahead.

“Jazz. You need to speak with someone,” he said firmly.

“I’m fine,” Jazz replied tightly, never stopping.

Ratchet reached out and grabbed Jazz’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

“Don’t give me that slag. You and I both know you’re not fine!”

Jazz looked down at Ratchet’s hand pointedly and the medic released his grip.

“Look,” Ratchet said. “You’ve been up for Primus knows how long, you’re exhausted, and you’re under-fuelled.”

“I said I’m fine,” Jazz replied tightly. He turned on his heel and stalked quickly away from the CMO.

“If that was the case I wouldn’t have gotten the jump on you back there!” Ratchet said loudly.

Jazz suddenly stopped and turned to face the medic slowly. His visor was pale with anger and for a moment, Ratchet thought that his gamble had just blown up in his face. He stood his ground, pulling himself up to his full height as Jazz walked back to him. He braced himself for an attack, but wasn’t about to give Jazz the satisfaction of knowing just how much the situation was unnerving him.

“And I suppose you think that you’re the one I should talk to?” Jazz asked coldly.

“I’m here. I’d consider anything you said Privilege. And unlike the staff psychologists, I’m not required to report any of this to Prime,” Ratchet replied, stiffly, still expecting the blow.

“What makes you think that you’d understand?”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed dangerously. “What makes me think I’d understand? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I spend all my time fixing the sparklings you Autobots are sending out into the field every day? Maybe the fact that I’ve seen more death since I joined up than I ever knew was possible? I am programmed to save lives and yet all I do is patch up mechs so that they can end up back in my med bay again and again and again! Believe it or not, Jazz, you do not have a monopoly on grief.”

Jazz pulled back sharply, then, he cocked his head to the side and looked up at Ratchet. The CMO fought back the urge to step out of reach – It was obvious in this moment, just why Jazz was the commander of Special Ops.

“Even if I wanted to talk to you, Ratchet, you don’t even come close to having the clearance,” Jazz said coldly.

“So?” Ratchet shot back, throwing his arms wide in exasperation. “Who said anything about sharing military secrets? I’m just talking about talking! You can’t hold it all in! You need to get away from work and deal with this!”

“And I supposed that your method of dealing with it is what you’d suggest? Maybe I should go out and get overcharged at every opportunity until my best friend has to come drag me home?”

Ratchet looked as if he had been slapped. For a moment he just stood there, his mouth agape and his optics wide. Then with a sharp shake of his head he turned on his heel and walked away.

“Fine,” he called back. “You want to wallow in self-pity then go right ahead. Dissolve in it for all I care.”

He turned a corner and was quickly out of site, leaving Jazz alone in the corridor with his anger.

Bunching his jaw angrily Jazz stalked off to his quarters to wait until moons’ rise.