His ventilations were deep. In and out. In and out. In. Out.
Focus.
Control your emotions. Do not let them overwhelm you. Control.
Breathe. In. out. In. Out. In—
A knock on his apartment door ripped Jazz from his quiet, fog-like reverie. Snarling in irritation, he stood and opened the door.
Smokescreen stood there, optics blazing as usual. His servos were crossed and his Phase Shifter and sword stood out in the dark.
"What've ya come ta bother meh about now, Smokescreen?"
The Guard narrowed his optics. "Whiplash wants to see you."
"So why are you here?"
"You require an escort." His optics glowed dangerously as Jazz's visor flashed. "His words, not mine."
"Ah can handle mahself."
Smokescreen turned and grinned sinisterly. "Then why am I here?"
Actually, that's a good question. "Fine, then." He stepped out into the hall next to the towering mech. "Let's get this over with."
"Enter."
The door opened. Xerxia entered with two mechs—one extremely tall with blazing white optics, and a smaller white mech with a crystal visor.
"Sir." The tall mech spoke, a thick foreign accent clouding his speech. "I have brought Jazz."
Whiplash nodded, shuttering his optics. Xerxea urged them in, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. She, along with Smokescreen and Jazz, took their seats. After a moment of silence so thick it was as if the Sea of Rust's storms had solidified, the Chief spoke.
"Do you know why I called you here?" The tilt of his helm showed he was addressing Jazz.
Other than ta wake meh up for some useless scrap? "No, sir, Ah don't."
"It has been told that you volunteered to be our resident detective's assistant."
"With all due respect, sir, could this not have waited until Ah was fully online?" Jazz felt Smokescreen's fiery gaze on him, but impassive he remained.
"No, it could not." Whiplash uncovered his gaze and stood. His presence seemed to fill the room.
"He wishes to see you. Now."
Jazz stood outside the black door, urging himself to get it over with. Whenever he raised his clenched fist, it lowered, and he chastised himself. Why couldn't he knock on a door, of all things?
He's a malfunctioned, stuck-up, glitch-headed psychopath.
"I highly disagree."
He whipped around to see a mech with a piercing gaze that made Jazz feel as if he were examining him for faults and triumphs. The mech was mainly black, with gold accents. Doorwings—a Praxian's mark—rose from his back; the spiked panels currently raised.
"Ah…what do ya disagree with?"
The mech clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his helm as if in curiosity. "Clearly, your error in judgment."
"Mah error in—?"
"You were clearly chastising yourself for you inability to knock on the door currently in front of you, wondering why you could not do so. Your mind answered, 'He's a malfunctioned, stuck-up, glitch-headed psychopath." The mech's optics darkened slightly. "That is what I disagree with."
Jazz stared. Had he been watching?
"How did ya—what Ah thought? How did ya get tha'?"
The mech's doorwings rose and fell in one sharp motion as if he were venting in irritation. "Quite simple, really. The grim set of your shoulders, the height of your helm—dropped as if in disgust. It is obvious."
O…kay. "Might Ah ask who ya are?"
The mech had his back to him. "I am the owner of this room."
Scrap. "Do ya know who Ah am?"
"You are Jazz, Enforcer for four and a half vorns. You have regular, nearly-daily disputes with your associates Redstar and Smokescreen. Smokescreen was a member of Optimus Prime's team; he is widely known for his secretive methods and cunning. Redstar has a fiery temper that no one appreciates. You would not be an Enforcer if you were able to get a job of higher pay; thought you admit you enjoy the thrill of a high-speed chase." Prowl whipped around, doorwings raised despite the impassive look on his faceplate. "Am I correct?"
Jazz shrugged. "Ah guess."
The Praxian stared at him unblinkingly, faceplate revealing nothing of the thoughts and calculations going through his processor. Jazz stared back, glaring just as intensely. After a moment, the Autobot turned away, entering an open command; it was encrypted, so even as Jazz attempted to crack the complex puzzle, its code was unknown.
"What are you doing?" The Praxian's voice tore his from his thoughts.
"Ah'm standing, what does it look long?"
"You are in my computer's systems." His turned his helm ever so slightly, optics flashing. "Get out."
Jazz's visor blazed white. "How did ya know?"
"It told me." His voice echoed as he entered his apartment. Jazz lingered, not sure if he wanted to be alone in a room with a psychopath.
"Did I not tell you to stop calling me by that absurd designation?"
"How did ya—?"
"Enter." The command was given in a calm manner, though his urgency and irritation was felt. Jazz did as told, feeling small as the massive black doorway towered over him.
"Sure do got a large apartment," Jazz observed as he stared.
"Irrational." The mech's disembodied voice came from somewhere in the apartment.
"How?" If this partnership would only result in the contradiction of everything the Polyhexian said, as well as do nothing but irritate him, he wanted no part.
"It is implausible to conclude that I am knowingly attempting to injure your emotional status while I am simply informing you on the truth." His voice was unnervingly close, making Jazz whip around to nothing but complete darkness.
"Well, ya are tryin' ta do somethin'," Jazz drawled, opening his scanners. Try as he might, the detective's life signal could not be found.
Stupid piece of glitch-headed garbage, he thought vehemently.
"Will you cease chastising yourself? You are going to give me a processor ache."
Jazz felt a presence near him, but before he could turn, the lights flashed on. The detective was standing there, servos crossed and a severe look on his faceplate.
"How do ya always know what Ah'm thinkin'?"
"I have already told you." The Praxian stared at him intently, enough to cause the Polyhexian to shift from one pede to the other. The motion caused a clanking sound to come from his subspace. A thought stabbed Jazz's mind like a plasma-charged dagger.
"Where do ya want mah stuff?" Jazz said, placing a hand on his subspace as if the inquiry hadn't been evident.
The Praxian jerked as if attacked by a magnetic pulse. "Follow." He whipped past the Enforcer, heading into a hallway as silent as a phantom.
Jazz lingered, visor shifting from blue to white as doubt placed its hold on him. Problems and solutions raced through his mind, things such as doubted sanity and tactics. He didn't realize he was frozen in place until a voice startled him.
"Now!"
He hurried after the detective, still wondering if he really was crazy for doing this.
"Sir?"
The mech at the desk turned.
"The bait had been laid."
When?
The messenger shifted from one pede to the other. "Two orns from now, at the Central Docks near the backwash plains."
The other nodded, making a sound of approval. Leave.
The mech bowed and left.
A grin crossed his faceplate, revealing jagged dentia that could cut through metal.
It has begun.
Cliffhanger! What will happen next?
And for those wondering, think of Smokescreen's accent as Russian (thick, rolls his r's, etc.) I don't know where the idea came from...just...appeared.
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