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Later, Jazz wouldn’t be able to tell anyone exactly what had sent him through the security field and into Ricochet’s cell. And Ricochet wouldn’t be able to say what had him trying to claw Jazz’s optics out through his visor. There had probably been a dozen things, insults and curses layered over vorns of pain and anger.
But they both had the decency to look stunned when Optimus Prime grabbed them by the roll-bars and pulled them apart like they were no stronger than a pair of freshly hatched younglings. And then he held them arms-length apart, so that they couldn’t get at each other again while they calmed down.
“I.” Optimus’ tone was colder than the ice that had frozen Megatron at the pole. “Expected better from you, Jazz.”
A dozen responses queued up in his vocalizer and were dismissed quickly. Optimus was mad and being flip about it would only make the punishment worse. He forced himself to relax and hang limp in his leader’s grip, though he couldn’t meet that angry glare. “Sorry, Optimus.”
“And you.” Optimus looked to Ricochet, who curled in on himself like a frightened youngling. “I expected you to have the sense to call for help if one of my people attacked you.”
“He’s my brother,” Ricochet replied, like that explained everything.
And from the way Optimus sighed, maybe it did.