Beta: Gracesolo
Title: Always with protection
Author: pjlover666
Pairing: Prowl/Jazz in the later chapters.
Universe: Bayverse, AU
Rating: PG13, but it might go up.
Warnings: Violence.
Word count: ~ 6, 000
Summary: Jazz should always use protection when trying to hack the enemy. The consequences are not exactly pleasant.
Author Notes: Lots of interactions between Jazz and the AI. Let the mind games begin. And this is just the beginning.
Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me.
Chapter Three: Power for the Powerless.
His joints protested as Jazz gripped with all of his might the blade in his hands. No, he couldn't back down, he couldn't stop. They were all watching, staring at him, their gazes burning through his armor.
In a swift move, Jazz backed away before his opponent could strike again. He and Counterstrike started circling around each other, both the predator and the pray.
Let me help you.
Jazz grunted, and as if that was a sign, Counterstrike attacked again.
Dodge, dodge, kick, strike, jump away. It was a dance that Jazz knew well and his only goal was to better himself at it. With his peripheral vision he saw all of the new recruits for Ops. Blaster and Bee were quietly talking to each other but their gazes were on Jazz. Even Orion was out of his 'hide out' and was observing the training session.
Jazz hissed as one of his audio horns got nicked. His opponent was going straight for his weak spot, the slagger. The visored mech was good at close combat, but his personal favorite were the short twin blades – they were light, compact and barely made any noise at all.
Jazz.
The AI insisted after it removed the warning message from Jazz's HUD, due to the small leakage from his left audio horn. The program was ignored in favor of dodging another blow. Their movements were quiet – after all, that was the goal of this exercise, to take down your opponent as soundlessly as possible; the reason for everyone to whisper.
But Jazz could still hear them, talking poisons.
"What a waste." He heard someone mutter. He shouldn't have gotten distracted like that, but he did. His head wiped the other way, searching whoever said it. They should say it to his face, not cower like this.
Jazz, focus!
He paid for his rookie mistake. With a ferocious kick he was sent flying with such a force, that the wall he collided with cracked.
"…frag." Jazz muttered as he pealed himself from the ground, only to have a weigh pressed on his back, with a blade on his throat.
"Yield." Said Counterstrike.
A low grow came from Jazz's engine as his body tried to stand.
Surrender. There is below 0,0001% chance of victory.
"Shut up!" Jazz yelled at the AI though his opponent didn't know that. The blade was pressed harder.
"Yield, Jazz."
The visored mech could see his mentor, arms crossed watching his failure. Again. Damn it. With a snarl Jazz smashed his fists on the ground one last time and his body slumped in resignation. The blade was removed and he let his head fall to the ground with an audible clank, fits clenching.
When he lifted his head up, Jazz saw many of the optics staring down at him. He saw the looks full of disgust from many of the mecha in the room. He saw Orion's worried gaze and Blaster and Bee's pity for him. Nightbeat's disappointment and Mirage's triumph at witnessing his failure. But most of all, he saw the empty red optics of the Decepticon AI program lodged in him.
They were the only ones that didn't judge.
The rec room was a burst of activity as per usual during this time of the cycle. A while back, this was Jazz's favorite time of the orn. Now though, he loathed every astro second spent here. It was both fascinating and disturbing how fast things changed during war – how he, himself changed. To have your optics opened was like a hard slap in the face.
When I suggested for you to refuel, I didn't mean high-grade.
"Zip it, nanny-bot." Jazz said and used the cube to hide his lips. The program could be really annoying when it wanted to be. A smile was forced when he saw the approaching form of Bumblebee.
"Jazz! I'm so glad I was able to catch you before I left."
Jazz did feel a little bad for the yellow bot. If he could have helped it, he wouldn't have set one foot in this room, but his energy levels after that, humiliating might he add, sparring session were too low to be ignored. Not when there was a foreign AI in his head, constantly telling him to refuel. Annoying thing, really.
"Of course, buddy. This is yer first solo mission. Shouldn't ya be restin' fer it?"
The scout laughed nervously, "Nahh, to jittery to properly shut down."
Jazz clasped his hand on the minibot's arm, "You'll do great, Ah'm certain."
Bumblebee grinned, "I hope so, too." Though he sobered up a little, "But what happened today at training? You were there….but at the same time, you weren't."
Jazz's smile evaporated. It was kind of hard to concentrate during training when the entire room was scrutinizing him like that, anticipating a mistake on his part.
Like dealing with all problems, he gave a shrug, "Dunno, Ah was kind of tired."
Bumblebee, noticing that his friend wanted to change the subject, was quick to oblige. "So I hear that the Prime will visit the base soon."
"Oh yeah, that should be something worth seeing," Jazz grinned but there was no mirth in it, "At least he'll remind the army that he exists."
Careful what you speak of. You never know who is listening. The red optics scolded. The spy was treading a thin line here, filled with unnecessary risks.
"Jazz…" Now Bumblebee frowned. "You're more… bitter than usual." It was no secret that he had changed after that disaster of a mission awhile back, but it was becoming clear how that was affecting him now.
"What? Just speakin' mah mind here." Jazz said, accent thickening "There are so many soldiers in this army that go inta battle, to their deaths, an' have never even seen a glimpse of their Prime – only on the fraggin' news broadcasts."
The scout glared, "He can't be everywhere, you know that. He's the Prime!"
How naïve.
For the first time, Jazz couldn't agree more.
"Yeah, and we're nothin', right? Ah mean, compared to him…"
"Stop it." Bumblebee hissed, "Okay, I get it – you're still pissed about today but get yourself into gear Jazz. Get a fragging grip and watch what you're saying."
"A grip? Grip?" From the relaxed position Jazz leaned forward, close to the yellow bot, "Ah'm one of the few bots in this army that has a solid grip on reality. Don't ya dare talk to me about responsibilities."
"Then get your processor out of you aft and start using it."
Finally, boldness. Bumblebee should be like this more often. Jazz took a drink from his cube, the program in his mind very quiet, "Mech, I can't wage two wars. Ah can't fight against the stupid 'cons when I'm fighting battle's here in mah own faction."
"Well, you aren't making thing any easier, either." Bumblebee scowled, "Speak up. They only act this way because you let them."
Jazz's hold on the cube tightened. If he ever did that… he wasn't so much worried what they would do to him, but rather, what he would do if he simply caved in and really made them all shut the frag up once and for all.
He looked passed 'Bee, many of the soldiers whispering. He didn't need his sensitive hearing to know what they were talking about.
"What th'frag are ya lookin' at?" With a glare, he raised his voice, obviously not speaking to the scout, who turned and narrowed his optics. With a shake of his head, he turned to look back at the visored mech.
"Jazz." Bumblebee placed his hand on the cube in Jazz's grip, stopping him from drinking some more, "I have too much on my mind to worry for you, too. Especially now, when I have to leave for a mission."
"It's…fine, Bee." Jazz dimmed his visor, "Ah'm just not in a good place. Haven't been in a while."
Bumblebee squeezed his shoulder, "Happens to the best of us, buddy." He tried to smile, "I better go now." With a nod, Bumblebee stood.
"Yeah, careful out there."
After the scout was out of the room, Jazz gulped the remains of his high grade, then spoke in a low voice, making sure no one saw him.
"Ah need all of my changes back. Now."
No.
The empty cube he was holding cracked, "That's not up fer a debate. We're not a democracy."
Of course not.
"Then give me fraggin' access." He growled out.
No. It's too detrimental to your systems.
Jazz tried not to sputter. Oh, how he wished to strangle something, "Ya know what's detrimental? Getting mah aft handed to meh during sparring."
You were sloppy this orn.
"Gee, Ah wonder why."
You need to understand, that the same results can be achieved without the need to change your health settings.
"And how's that?" He snorted.
One of two ways. One, you train until the same results are achieved. Or two, you let me help.
Jazz liked neither of these options. The first one required too much time, he wasn't that patient. He could do it if he set his mind to it, but it strongly reminded him of Mirage. His systems growled at that.
The second idea… was tempting. After all, this wasn't some ordinary AI that kept everything organized in one's mind. It was specifically created for battle.
"Just... return my slaggin' protocols, AI."
Jazz winced when he saw some of the other mechs watching him curiously. They probably saw him talking. Hopefully they'll think it's the comm. lines. It wasn't unusual for him to talk with Blaster most of the time on them.
With a shake of his head, he stood and deposited the cracked cube into the recycling bin, leaving the hostile environment. He couldn't stop the relieved sigh that escaped him.
"Ah hate it, being judged like that by them all of the time. Hate it." The halls were empty. He couldn't wait to reach his quarters.
Why does it matter so much to you? Their opinion is worthless; it has no meaning.
The words were oddly comforting.
"But words still hurt." Jazz hated admitting that. He truly was weak if he let such petty things to affect him like this.
Only if you let them hurt. This is psychology, Jazz. It is war, but not with fists. And you are letting them crush you.
Jazz paused for a moment, "They?" He asked. Was the AI referring to the Decepticons… or the Autobots? Shaking his head in dismissal, he answered, "That's rich, coming from the AI that can't feel nothin'."
I prefer it this way – no emotions to hinder me. The words don't hurt, they do not matter.
"Then Prowler, my unwanted companion, that's a cold, cold world yer living in."
It is efficient.
"Still…" Jazz was meaning to ask him this since the training session, "You have direct access to my systems. Why didn't you simply take over control when Ah defied you?"
It's not as simple as it seems. I can easily take control away – keeping it. That's the difficult part.
"It is?" Jazz asked surprised.
Yes. It would be an illogical waste of energy to keep your mind locked at bay. Not to mention, the increase in risk of you going to a medic if I overstep my boundaries, and confessing your condition, is too high for me to ignore.
"Never knew ya valued my opinion that much." Jazz said, "And that's why words do matter, even if they bring pain."
But the difference is that you let the pain consume you. Pain is an asset; you can use it for your benefit – fuel – or a tool.
"That sounds lonely." Jazz felt like a child, losing a fight with his creator.
Impossible. I'm sharing your CPU.
Jazz couldn't help but smirk at that, "Ahh, but here's where yer wrong. Yer not 'sharing', yer intruding."
Still. There is another presence here. I am not lonely.
Jazz sighed. "Ya know, the rec room is filled with mechs during the off hours, and back then, when I used to hog all of the attention, no matter how many optics where on meh, Ah still felt alone in that room."
That doesn't make any sense.
"Not to ya it don't."
Still, you care far too much for their opinion of you. Very …childish.
It was the truth. But he couldn't help what he felt. He truly was being childish.
"…So, any ideas how not to be?"
Remove a large percentage of your emotions capacities.
Always so literal. The spy snorted, "And become like you? Frag no."
There is no other way.
Jazz looked down at his pedes, "…Ah won't be always like this. Ah know it. One orn Ah'll wake up from recharge and simply won't care, Ah'll be so numb. But do Ah really want that?"
Yes.
Frustrated, Jazz growled, "Of course. Because yer world is so much fun."
Don't be e hypocrite. I am linked to you. I can feel it. The darkness inside you. How it grows and the fact that you like it. That scares you - that you feel such dark emotions towards your own comrades.
Jazz felt his vents stop. For a moment, it was just him and the program starring at each other, and he felt like he was suffocating. But like all things hurtful in this world, he shrugged this one off as well.
"What was Shockwave thinking, installing the psych program inta ya?" Jazz entered the code for the door.
To increase my efficiency by 43%.
"Too literal, mech." Jazz went straight for the berth, "Too fragging literal."
Everybot's got a dark side, Jazz. It is completely natural.
Jazz turned on his side, "Shut up." He offlined his optics, not wanting to stare at the red ones, "Ah wanna recharge."
Thankfully, the AI obliged.
Ice.
It was all around, over and inside of him. Ice so cold it actually burned. The world was frozen. He couldn't breathe and fists clenched as pain consumed him. Oh, how the pain was relished, desired – deserved.
As Jazz opened his mouth to try and suck in more of the freezing air his optics drifted towards the dancing sparks around him. Their blue shimmer was the only color in this white world of nothingness.
The burning never stopped and he realized that it was coming from his spark, as it literally tried to burst out of his chest. Whispers caressed his audios, as each spark had something to say. He lifted a clawed hand, so cold it might as well belong to a dead mech, and stretched it towards the closest of the sparks, watching it dance around a digit.
The whispers grew louder, and it was each chant, not the cold, that caused him to shiver.
It was fun, Jazz.
Thank you, Jazz.
You're such a silly mech, Jazz.
Don't stop smiling, Jazz.
Your spark is pure, Jazz.
I know a good friend when see one, Jazz.
Don't give up, Jazz.
You're a good mech, Jazz.
We trust you, Jazz.
Live for us, Jazz.
He felt his systems choke, optics cycling as his hand closed around the shimmering light, dissipating it, making the other sparks vanish as well. Jazz felt something drip on his armor, something warm and thick. A few drops at first, then it slowly grow stronger; the splashing sound of liquid on metal grew louder in this deafening silence.
Suddenly, he cycled his optics on, only to watch the world around him melt. But the burning never stopped, as now, instead of burning ice there were flames of war.
Jazz stood frozen in the middle of a battle, as mechs killed each other left and right, death lingering in their shadows. The explosions surged and all the whiteness was replaced with bright red and orange colors, as the planet he was fighting for, literally bled to death beneath his feet. A chilling voice cooled the world around him.
Such a pity.
He canted his helm to the side, the numbness overtaking him, as Jazz took the scenes before him with morbid fascination. They were fighting for a planet that was dying before their very optics, as it was their own hand that caused its destruction.
Such a pity, to waste everything for this; for them.
Living shouldn't be this hard, this painful. He was barely four hundred vorns old and the war has sucked all of the life out of him. Death is supposed to be simple. Oh, how alluring that sounded.
Jazz heard something shatter and looked up at the sky that no longer held stars, only to see a huge spider web crack on it, little bits and pieces of it crumbling. The sound of breaking glass happened again, only this time he felt the ground under him waver, and the next thing he knew, Jazz was falling into the dark void, broken shards glinting all around him. He couldn't help but welcome the darkness.
.
.
.
Jazz gasped as he literally fell into consciousness. Hid vents wheezed, while looking around the room. It was still dark and thankfully there was no sight of Mirage. It was dark – Cybertron was far from any star so no light came from the small window and anything electronically in the small space was turned off. Only Jazz's dim visor was a small source of light.
Interesting.
The spy glared at the optics that flared on his HUD. "What?" He slurred, voice still recalibrating after the abrupt awakening.
Your memory purges.
"Yeah, wha' about them?" Jazz rubbed his face, until realization came, "Wait, you were watchin?" He hissed, "Frag, mech. Now that's just plain weird. Ya don't go and watch another mech's memory purges!"
Yours don't qualify as such.
"Prowler, use words. Ah don't want to decipher everything ya say." Why was he even surprised? The program had no concept of personal boundaries. The least it could do was not speak in riddles.
When someone is emotionally disturbed or unstable, they have memory purges of the file/event that causes them this. While yours, on the other hand, qualifies as 'dreams'.
Jazz sat on the berth, letting his legs fall to the side. The spy felt so tired, but he wasn't too keen to fall back into recharge again. "So? Ah've had them fer a while now."
They occur in mechs that have either extremely high mental capabilities or are under enormous emotional strain.
He probably fit both categories. The spy groaned, "The point to this, doctor P?"
It means that the information about your missions that you carry, is not secured correctly.
"You stupid?" Jazz asked annoyed, "Ah may be a rookie, but even ya had trouble hacking mah firewalls."
True. Replied the cold voice. But this isn't hidden behind firewalls. It is part of your sub consciousness.
"If this is yer idea for small talk, it sucks." Jazz said nonchalantly. He glared at Mirage's berth. Primus, when was the last time he made small talk with someone besides Bee and Blaster? And even that was getting scarcer due to the different shifts and missions. And he didn't even count the time spent with Orion. Mech's got a good spark, Jazz'll give him credit, but he had to literally pull the words out of the historian's mouth.
"Ah'm not… used to people hating me." He blurted, surprising himself. Since when did it feel so good to talk?
Again, you care far too much about their opinion. The program replied calmly.
"They are mah friends-"
Are they, Jazz? Really? I am a program free of all emotion and still see the way they treat you.
The spy sneered, "Stop it. You know nothin'. It was mah fault and they have the right to act this way."
I know the definition of 'friends'. Something bizarre and useless. It is completely unnecessary.
Jazz stood up, "Just shut up. You've never experienced it. How can ya possibly know?"
I see it through your optics. It hinders you. Causes you pain and suffering. It is nothing but a nuisance.
"Yer the nuisance, ya stupid slag of a program." Jazz clenched his fits, "Ah never wanted ya."
Why are you defending them?
"Because Ah can't simply disregard such a large portion of mah life! So many smiles and laughs and memories – good memories – ta simply let this be." Why was he trying so hard? More importantly, who was he trying to convince? "Ah can't simply walk pass these 'bots in the hallways like they don't matter – because they do."
Then you are a bigger fool then I thought. The voice sounded even colder. Those mechs would leave you behind without any hesitation. They do not care and neither should you.
"Ah may no longer be their friend but they still matter to meh."
Why? Give me one logical reason, of why?
"Ah don't… Ah don't know." Jazz felt his limbs slump as he locked optics in resignation with the program. "Ah just don't… want to be alone."
You are not alone.
The words boomed in his mind and Jazz couldn't help but recycle his optics. He growled – damn program was being, again, far too literal. They shared a body and nothing else. Heck, not even the word 'share' applied here.
Jazz sighed, "Yeah. Sure, whatever."
If you don't like it here, why not just quit?
"Now that is an insult." The spy rose one of his optic ridges behind his visor, "Ah want ta help fight this war, Ah want to become one of the best of Ops."
Because you like fighting.
Jazz gritted his denta. That wasn't a question. "Ah just want to help mecha. That means Ah need to be good at what Ah do."
So far, you are not convincing anyone.
That, Jazz didn't expect. Suddenly anger flared and he hissed, "Ah'm stronger than ya give me credit for – more than most give meh credit for. And in time, Ah'll get better."
Are you sure? What if another young and talented Ops recruit shows up. Will you turn into Mirage?
"Frag off." He sneered, "Ah'll never turn like that egotistical, self-absorbed fool. I am strong."
You don't seem very convinced. Jazz didn't notice the slight narrow of the red optics.
"Ah am strong. And if there's someone more powerful than me, then Ah'll simply gain more power."
And how will you achieve that? How, when you can't even acknowledge the simplest of things, that you are alone in this army.
"By any means necessary, ya dumb program." Darkness crept in Jazz's voice, "If someone dares to defy me."
The optics were, like usual, cold and calculating. No emotion showing whatsoever. They stayed like that, scrutinizing Jazz for a long time, until the voice started again.
Do you know the most powerful weapon someone like you could posses?
Whatever Jazz was expecting, this was not it. He lost the grasp of his thought and just stared at the optics in confusion.
Knowledge. The program said. Imagine all of the possibilities a mech like you could have, possessing powerful information. That is the greatest strength someone can achieve – something that outweighs the strongest of weapons.
"I am a spy." Jazz said, as the fog in his processor starting to clear, understanding.
Yes. Why do you think they, you, are so feared?
Jazz made a fist, the metal creaking. Damn them. Damn them all – the Decepticons, the Autobots, everyone. Their stupid race that knew nothing but violence and power and corruption.
You can feel it as well. This anger and fury. The lust for power that is carved since the very first stages of creation.
The spy made a growing sound, hating every word said in his head. Hating the truth ringing in them.
"Again," Jazz started, accent so deep he might as well be speaking pure Polihexian dialect, "What's yer fraggin' point?"
Anger is a powerful fuel and tool, Jazz.
The spy stayed silent. All of this talk was giving him a headache. Damn program, speaking nonsense. But… it was the truth. And the truth hurt. Was that why they felt anger? Because pain always led to anger and hatred, that led to guilt, which only led to more pain? Just like the AI said that one time. Primus, did he want this thing out of his head. Yet…
"Tool, ya say…" Jazz trailed off. Did he really want that? Oh, but the longing in his spark was so strong that he couldn't help but ask, "And how can one learn yield it?"
The optics of the program remained cold, passive and most of all empty, as they kept on looking at Jazz, seeing something only they could see.
Jazz grunted as another kick sent him flying. Damn it. Even though the hit was hard, he was able to land with some grace. He sneered at his opponent.
You are not listening to me.
But he was. He was listening but it wasn't working. Jazz looked at the faces of the crowd watching his spar with Counterstrike again. Fortunately, he wasn't making the same mistakes again. Only, he was making new ones.
Calm down. Silence your systems and simply watch them. Listen.
And he did. His vents exhaled the hot puff of air, trying to cool him as he slowly circled each other with the opponent. Again, he heard every whisper, every poisonous word spoken about him. Jazz felt the anger rise once more, he can almost taste it. But he kept cool – as if there was a fire raging, but only in his spark. The rest of his body felt incredibly freezing.
Dreaded memories surfaced again as death and destruction clouded his mind. He heard the murmured surprise of many of the mecha in the room when he stopped walking and just left Counterstrike circle him – his opponent didn't have the luxury to contemplate this like the rest.
Jazz focused on his senses and feel his hands tightened around the blade, a tingling rush of sensation passing through his as he focused his hearing on even the smallest of noises in this room. A surge of something was building inside him, reading to explode. What an intoxicating feeling.
Go.
Something so coldly spoken should inflict such of a strong reaction in Jazz, but it did. Counterstrike didn't see it coming – an attack so sudden that even Nightbeat, from a relaxed position, with his arms crossed, shifted and focused with even greater precision on the fight.
Jazz didn't notice it though. He only felt the exhilarating rush of power, fueled by pent up emotions as he delivered another strike. Counterstrike took a couple of steps back. Jazz missed Mirage's surprise and the growing frown on his face.
He didn't notice Blaster's surprise when he kicked his opponent hard, just like he had been, and sent him crushing in the opposite wall. He completely ignored the commotion in the crowed as he advanced on his pray.
What he did notice was the sudden carving for energon; for screams and pain. A thirst for power that he swore he would clench. And those red optics. Everything was about those red optics.
However, at that moment his audios were so finely tuned that it was impossible for him to miss the whispers among the crowd, which for the first time in a while, had nothing to do with him.
"No… he was discovered?!"
"What? Are you sure?"
"Impossible! Only with the help of a traitor - !"
"Where is he? What did the medics say?"
"Is Bumblebee even alive?"
Later, Jazz would convince himself that it was a glitch in his systems, but at that precise moment, the world suddenly started moving in slow motion. He stopped moving at all and just slumped, trying to wrap his mind around what he was hearing.
Bumblebee… Bumblebee was injured? Severely? They weren't even sure if he was alive? Absently, Jazz felt himself tremble. The scout was one of the very few mechs that Jazz still considers at some degree a friend – only on his only friends. He had seen him mere couple of orns ago and now… he could be dead. Was this a joke? Was this some sick joke that Primus liked sending his way? Because Jazz was not amused.
The trembling increased and whatever weapon Jazz was holding dropped to the ground as his fists clenched. No. No! His mind refused to accept Bumblebee's apparent death; refused to place him beside the many faces that will haunt his memories. Not again. Not again.
Jazz didn't feel the ground beneath his feet, but that was probably because of the hard punch, courtesy of Counterstrike, who apparently didn't notice the commotion in the small crowd of mechas.
Time started to flow again. A chilling voice caused something inside Jazz to shatter.
Attack.
As if a dam had been broken, he suddenly felt himself enveloped in rage so strong, it was the reason for his tremors. All thought and reason left him. He didn't see the other mechs in the room, nor his mentor, or Blaster, or Orion, or fragging Mirage for that matter. Even those red optics faded out of existence.
All he wanted to do at that moment was to find Primus, or Fate or even their stupid Prime and sink his claws into them, because they were the reason for his friend to be probably lying somewhere dead. Unfortunately, he would have to settle with Counterstrike instead.
He didn't feel himself moving, only absently heard the feral sound his vocalizer produced as he pounced his opponent, attacking him with no restriction, as the emotions that were so well hidden and guarded, surfaced and Jazz let it all out on the mech under him.
This sense of power was simply delicious. He already craved for more.
It was pure instinct or reflex or whatever, because Jazz didn't feel it, but he smiled in pure delight as he lifted both of his clawed hands, clasped together, for the finishing blow.
It came like slap in the face, or more precisely, another kick that send him flying and Jazz realized there were other living beings in the room. He didn't even have time to process what was happening as he felt someone place a firm grip on his throat, that almost made him choke, and started to drag him somewhere, Jazz barely able to keep balance, walking like this.
This time he did see the faces of the other mechs in the room. A strange form of satisfaction arose when he saw the glint in Mirage's optics – in everyone's optics. Uncertainty, but most of all – fear.
The red optics remained unaffected.
"Tell me…" A familiar voice growled, the only reason for him not to fight off his attacker, as he was shoved to the ground in a cell block, "What in the name of Cybertron possessed you in there?" Nightbeat snarled, and for a moment, the energy bar's hum was the only sound in his cell. "What the slag was that?"
"Ah heard that… somethin' has happened to Bumblebee." It was only half the truth. But he was a spy. He was not obliged to speak the truth.
Nightbeat just stared at him for a couple of agonizing second before he spoke and his voice was cold – something reserved for enemies, but with a certain edge. He was angry at Jazz.
"Oh, so that gave you permission to try and kill one of my agents?" The words shouldn't have caused him to flinch like that. They shouldn't bring out this much guilt, that he felt eating him from the inside out.
"…Wasn't tryin' ta kill him." Jazz muttered and looked at the floor.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, soldier!" The head of Ops said sternly, narrowing his optics, "I know that look. I've seen it my whole life, worse – I've wore it too many times for comfort. It's the look of a murderer. Maybe your intention wasn't to kill Counterstrike, but the lust to hurt something, to spill energon was plainly written on your face, Jazz. That visor is useless when it comes down to hiding that."
"Ah wasn't tryin' to kill him." Jazz insisted as he felt desperation fill his voice. He… didn't try to offline the other bot. He truly didn't… did he?
"We're Ops. We deal with the worst of the worst. We take care of slag so seriously fragged up, that we start to question our sanity." Nightbeat started, "But that's on missions out there, where the Decepticons hide. But here, we try to live as normally as we can. I make sure of that. The previous head of this division had a brutal hand – the agents where efficient but they could hardly call themselves mechas anymore. I was one of those monsters – strong, fearless, ruthless and most of all - obedient."
He is too soft.
And Jazz knew that was an accusation.
"But this is now and I am in charge. And if that ever happens again, I will have you court-martialed, reformatted and kicked out of this army so fast you won't even know what hit you." Nightbeat threatened, "But you are still young and untamed, easily influenced. I will let this one and only time slide, but there will be repercussions."
"I understand." Jazz had the decency to look guilty.
"You are still my pupil and I plan to teach you so many things Jazz. But that will not happen if you let your emotions, that dark anger inside, control you."
Oh, how he heard the exact opposite thing not so long ago.
The senior spy gave one last glance at the mech in front of him before he started to leave.
"Wait." Jazz had to know, "Bumblebee! Is Bumblebee alive?"
Nightbeat stared at him for a long moment, "Yes, barely. I'll call for a medic to tend to your injuries. They don't seem serious."
"Is he…going to stay alive?"
The older mech stared at his pupil. Oh, how tired was Jazz of all the staring from everyone. Where they seeing something he wasn't?
"Ah sincerely hope so." And Jazz suddenly found himself alone in that cell block. Well… not exactly alone.
Where you able to understand now, what power you can possess?
Jazz slowly backed away until his back hit the wall and he slowly slid down. His clawed hands were placed in his lap and he couldn't help but stare at the energon staining them, still so very fresh.
"I…nearly killed him."
You fought well.
"Didn't ya hear me? Ah said ah nearly killed him! Why would Ah want a power An can't control?!"
You don't need to be afraid, Jazz. That is how power is supposed to feel like.
Jazz shook his head, "Ah need ya to… stop talking. Ah just need to get my head cleared… Ah just need…" He offlined his optics, "Ah just need ta think."
You liked it. That power. That's why it scares you – the fact that you liked inflicting pain.
"Prowler, Ah'll say it once and only once." Jazz gripped his helm, a headache growing strong. "Stop messin' with meh. Stop talking. Just stop!"
Luckily, the AI complied. Why was Jazz even mad at it? It was only telling the truth. And so was Nightbeat. He gripped his helm harder.
He can survive this. He can survive this. Yet, why was the silence deafening?
TBC
