Not much to say today, beside, phew, glad that's over. This chapter has reached an alltime high for number of words and took forever to type (especially since I am a slow typist). Also, I have decided that Blaster, and by association Soundwave, are members of the sparked furniture line. For more info on sparked furniture, I suggest reading "Recline the Berthformer" or some of Gatekat's more historical-esque TF fics as those are my sources for this particular frametype.
On another note, my sister and I are both rabid TF fans and we got into a discussion the other day about Transformers Armada. Did ya'll know that show is by far one of the most perverse TF shows to date? Why do I say this? Well let's see, Sideways' transformation sequence causes his main body to shove its way up the crotch of the head-body to connect (and don't get me started on the connotations of 'connections'); Megatron has a crotch cannon; Thrust is shaped like a ****; most of the Decepticons are accepted rapists (minicon forced uplinks); and Starscream is a pedophile, because there is no other way to explain the odd attraction between him and Alexis. It shocked me when we realized just all that was being portrayed in this supposed 'kids show'.
So, now that I have vented that bit of disturbing news, please, enjoy my story.
Disclaimer: can ya'll believe I forgot to put this in until now? I do not own the Transformers or any of their media, logos, etc. They belong to someone else whose name escapes me at the moment and I am, admittedly, to lazy to look it up.
Chapter 7:
The tavern was dark when he entered, really it was little more than a blackened hole beneath the half crumbled wall of the factory that had once stood behind the drinking establishment. It had been abandoned shortly before the bombing that had leveled most of Iacon and was therefore blessedly empty of sparkless frames. The Autobots were stretched so thin trying to protect their assets that clean-up had fallen low on the priority scale and a wrong turn into an untended area often revealed a grisly view of exploded, shrapnel-skewered frames still lost in the throws of a terrible death. The lack of this to oft seen horror was a grand relief to the monochrome mech as he slipped inside. The absence also made it impossible for an infiltrator to hide as one of the offline and therefore his meeting with his master would go unobserved.
As the matte black mech made his way to the back of the deserted bar a shadow disengaged itself from the wall and made itself known. The black mech stopped, still partially sheltered by the remaining piece of the bar, and pinged the shadow for an ident-code. Codes were swapped and safe-words confirmed before both parties relaxed minutely in the presence of a trusted partner.
"Tempo… your last report was most informative, what have you to add that cannot be trusted to the usual routes?"
"Thanks," replied the spy, bowing deferentially to his superior. "Broadcast tapped the link yesterorn, but thanks to our target's renewed interest in me I will be unable to attend. I was wondering how you wanted to handle the transfer."
The shadow's optics cycled in thought for a moment. "Send Gadget to the rendezvous point, his data storage should be sufficient for the job and his absence can be explained as medical leave for another mod."
There was a soft rotating noise from the black mech's chest and his optics dimmed as though he were listening to something. A grin and stifled chuckle later, the spy explained, "Gadget wants to know if that means he is being given permission to actually get a new mod."
The shadow smiled, a wistful one full of affection that the war did not permit to be shown. "Yes, that is permission, and don't worry about the White Queen, I'll explain it to *him."
"Thank you Dark Queen."
"Your welcome, now skedaddle. You have a target to watch and an excursion to plan. Say 'hi' to 'Cast for me." The shadow melted back into the gloom and disappeared. The spy left just as carefully, dodging from shelter to shelter until he reached the Autobot base. He reentered by crawling through the old tunnel system and was allowed back in by the cassettes who had been assigned guard duty to this area due to their small size. Rewind and Eject hugged him, grateful that he was back inside where it was safe. The spy allowed his matte black stealth paint to fade into his normal colors of cheery red and yellow.
"Hey mah trippin' bitty bots, I missed ya too, but the D.Q.s got us some new dancin' instructions."
0o0o0o0
Jazz was having the time of his functioning. His friendship with Blaster was going so well it seemed almost pre-ordained. The two of them had so much in common it was unbelievable and they often lost track of time when they met up, as attested to by Jazz's team having to remind the saboteur of his duty shifts no less than six times. On the seventh almost late arrival to his shift the Polyhexian started setting an internal alarm, to the great relief of his team.
It was also becoming commonplace for either the cassette-master or the 'medtech' to seek the other out when one was on-duty but the other not, to provide the working mech with some entertainment. Although Blaster was sticking with comm calls after an incident with Ratchet, DMS, MHA, MD, CMO, esq. That terrifying encounter had left both mechs with a sudden phobia of flying medical equipment. Jazz also could now lay to rest that question he had posed about those dented soldiers.
Still though, the fact that mecha didn't even give him a passing glance when he came to see the red and yellow commsmech was a boon worth almost any price. His free reign on that deck had allowed him to slip several discreet recording devices and a single search virus into the communications array that hopefully would help root out whoever Rapidburst was talking to. Jazz had considered attaching a virus to the outgoing datastreams to try and identify the 'Con on the receiving end. However, he was concerned that it might alert the double agents to the whole investigation.
Instead, the black and white just bided his time and waited for the spy to slip up. While he waited, the saboteur cum medtech took the opportunity to further his relationship with Blaster. It was reaching the point where most outsiders had begun to think they were interfacing and there was even rumor that a betting pool had been set up. When these rumors reached the pair, via Hound the everloyal mech that he was, they just laughed, pointed at one another in soundless incredulity, and laughed again.
Then the problem started. Hound had shown himself to be funny, reliable, and genteel, but Jazz was no closer to uncovering the mech's secret than the orn they first met. To top that off, it appeared the scout had connected Jazz to Mirage and was using the saboteur to stalk the noble. This of course was making the blue and white extremely paranoid, to the point where Mirage was almost ready to use the 'dirty' vents as an alternate route.
It all decided to culminate one orn when Mirage burst back into Jazz's secure quarters not five kliks after having left to deliver a status update to Blackshot. The noble curled himself into Jazz's chair and started asking Bumblebee about his orn. The minibot arched an optic ridge at the odd behavior and leveled a look at his teamleader as if to say 'you're in charge and technically this is your fault, fix it.' However, Jazz ignored it and engaged the evasive spy in some distraction conversation.
Then the chime signaled somemech at the door. The not hiding spy shot out of his appropriated chair and took a very defensive stance in the corner. The look in his optics pleaded with Jazz not to open the door, but the saboteur had had enough. It was time to resolve the issue once and for all. With that in mind the black and white strode over and opened the door, leaning on its frame with his characteristic grin in place. He was expecting Hound to be on the other side, but was not expecting the downcast, almost downtrodden, expression across the mech's faceplates. The scout looked like someone had kicked his turbohound puppy, no pun intended, and the Polyhexian found himself compelled to offer whatever comfort he could.
"Hey mah mech, what's wit' tha droopy face? Ya in trouble or summat?"
"No Jazz, I'm fine. May I come in?"
The saboteur waved the other in with a sweeping flourish, but took the chair so Hound would sit on the berth, away from Mirage's corner.
"So, ya gonna tell meh wha's gotcha mood all off-kilter?"
If anything that statement seemed to make the green mech wilt even more. "Well, I made a mistake. I thought I was doing my job, but I ended up messing up someone else's. It was unintended and I wanted to apologize to them. But they're so mad at me that they don't want me anywhere near them."
By the way Hound's mournful optics swept over the cloaked noble in the corner Jazz knew that, yet again, the scout had detected the supposedly untraceable spy. It was also very obvious to the black and white that the roughrider was sincere in his regret, but if Mirage did not wish to acknowledge the apology then Jazz would not force the issue. That did mean he would stop being a good friend though.
"Hound mah main machine, 'm sorreh yah c'n't 'pologize, but tha ain't ya fault. If'n ya tried n' were turned away then ya done all ya could. 'Sides, sometimes mechs gotta have time ta get their processors straight n' cool down afor' they c'n reconcile wit' someone who has offended 'em."
The scout glanced up, a glimmer of hope starting to kindle in his spark. "You think so?"
"Ah kno so." Jazz declared with a grin, watching as Hound regained some of his normal cheer and straightened from his slump. "But, Ah'm curious, jus' what didja do tha' was s'bad?"
The green roughrider had the grace to look sheepish. "You remember that incident a couple of decacycles ago with the mech that got caught spying in the hall, but turned out to be one of our own?" a short nod indicated the saboteur did. "Well, I was the one who caught him and according to what I could gather later, he got in a whole parcel of trouble thanks to me."
Jazz gave a low whistle. "How'd ya catch him?"
Now, Hound was not stupid and it suddenly dawned on him just why a close associate of the blue spy would be pursuing him. If Jazz had been a normal soldier then his response would have been something along the lines of 'Served the slagger right for spying on his own', but the black and white's known contact with the spy eliminated that possibility. Hound had, admittedly, been concerned that Jazz was out for vengeance on his friend's behalf, but then any comments should have taken a format to determine remorse or guilt. The fact that the 'medtech' was only interested in the roughrider's method of detection caused Hound to realize that he was being investigated as a potential threat to a valued SpecOps asset. This also caused Hound to re-assess the veracity of the rumors that suggested the spy was a rookie in training.
Regardless, the scout was not particularly secretive and was quite willing to answer truthfully. "I smelled him."
The Polyhexian's optic ridge arched as his face showed stunned disbelief. "Ya wha'?"
"I smelled him. I am hunter-clan, and as is tradition, I was implanted with extremely sensitive olfactory sensors to aid me in furthering the clan's functions. The sensitivity to scents that I would have once used to locate and track wild mechanimals has come in very handy in sourcing out 'Cons and where they've been. Normally I don't pay much heed to the scents inside our base, but his smell was very unusual. It reminded me of newly shined chrome and crystal dust. At first, I thought my friend had managed to acquire some noble-class wax, he was planning on a romantic dark-cycle with his trinemates, but then the smell moved behind me. Smells don't just move arbitrarily and there was nomech visible who could have shifted between me and the wall. So, on a hunch, I leaned back. The rest is, well, well-known thanks to the prolific rumors that Thundercall's trine gleefully spread." Throughout the entire narrative Hound's faceplates had shown open neutrality, but the last statement was met with a decidedly rueful grimace. Jazz was shocked by the simplicity and utterly convinced that the scout was telling the truth.
Hound was glad to have cleared the atmosphere, so to speak, with a mech he had happily come to call friend. They discussed a few more pleasant topics with Bumblebee finally feeling comfortable enough to join in, before the scout felt he needed to leave. He knew that the blue spy had been huddling in the corner the whole time and took pity upon how cramped and uncomfortable he must have been. So, Hound stood, bid Jazz and Bumblebee a good orn, and left.
The door slid shut and Jazz rounded on the corner, arms akimbo, with impatient expectance. Mirage rematerialized with a defiant glar, wrapping his noble superiority around himself in a haughty shield.
"What?" he sniffed, nasal ridge upturned in rebellious disdain. Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor and widened his stance to cock one hip out. "Ya kno what. He was pourin' 'is spark out n' practic'lleh beggin' ya ta fo'give 'im, n' wha' do ya do?! Ya give 'im da col' shouldah."
The Polyhexian's accent had become so thick in his passionate exclamation that Mirage was having genuine difficulty understanding him. The noble knew his teamleader was disappointed in him, but it was none of his business. He was about to deliver a scathing retort when he realized that it was not his teamleader who was disappointed, it was his friend. That caused Mirage to faulter and drop all his arrogant pretenses in shame. He glanced over to Bumblebee, who had remained silent the whole time, but his face bore a look similar to Jazz's. Unable to meet the optics of either of his friends, the spy tried to explain. "How can I forgive the one who had destroyed all the respect that I have worked so hard to earn?"
Sensing a larger, underlying problem, Jazz relaxed his stance and sank onto the berth. "What are ya talkin' 'bout 'Raj? Bee n' Ah still respect ya!"
The noble gave them a sad half-grin. "And for that I am most grateful. I do not know what I would do if you two were to laugh at me too."
Bumblebee leaned forward, a serious expression darkening his faceplates, as he entered the conversation at last. "Who's laughing at you?"
"Everyone. It has always been difficult for me to associate with other mecha because they can never see past my noble heritage. I tried at first, but everyone expected me to be snooty or consider myself above the 'common mechs'. Despite all my efforts to prove otherwise, they still treated me as an outcast. Eventually, it just became easier to distance myself from the others. I was also often accused of using my former status to obtain my current rank and position, and it has only been by virtue of vorns of perfection in the completion of my missions that I have been able to silence the most fervent of my antagonists. My undetectable and untraceable reputation has been ruined by that bumbling scout and all my former detractors are rearing their ugly helms again to defame me. So tell me, just why should I forgive the mech who has caused all that?"
Jazz and Bumblebee just looked at him in sorrow. They had heard that there was still discrimination amongst the Autobots, Pit, the cassettes were proof of that, but usually it stemmed from ignorance, not a purposeful intolerance. So, it was with a heavy spark that Jazz replied to the noble spy's vehement declaration. "'Raj, Ah'm not sayin' tha' what they done is right, n' we gotcha back if'n ya wan' some backup, but ya c'n't blame Hound fo' their prej'dice. Ya need ta think 'bout this from his perspective. He's a loyal 'Bot n' ta his thinkin' true Autobots would walk aroun' openleh, not ghostin' round under a cloak. Ya gotta admit tha' if ya found an unknown mech sneakin' 'round like ya was, ya would be s'spicious too. N' yak no, if'n ya gave him a chance ya might find ya got 'nother friend who'll defend ya 'gainst the naysayehs."
The blue spy graced him with a skeptical look, but unenthusiasticly relented, "I will give your suggestion a due amount of deliberation, but I make no promises."
The saboteur and minibot spy were not happy that their friend was continuing to be stubborn, but understood that a long history of hurt made it difficult for the noble to easily open up to others.
0o0o0o0
Fate had apparently decided that the Autobots' functionings had become too stagnant, and so, to spice things up, a Decepticon attack occurred. There was no ground incursion, but the Seekers and other flight-capable 'Cons were bombing the base like their sparks depended upon it. Autobot Command had tentatively decided that the fliers were probably attempting to soften them up for a more invasive attack yet to come. The gunners just laughed at the idea of anything short of a planetary break-up being able to 'soften' their base as they powered up the massive defensary armaments and proceeded to remind the 'Con fliers just why a direct assault was such a bad idea.
The true purpose of the bombing run was not discovered for nearly two joor, and even then its discovery was accidental.
A lucky strike managed to destroy one of the comm spires, the resulting powersurge overloaded the console it fed into, fused the datacords of the jacked in commsmech to the console ports, and shorted out a large majority of the mech's internal relays. Normally, this would not be considered spark-threatening and the affected mech would be carted to the medbay for the time-consuming, but simple, endeavor of having the blown circuits replaced. What made this event so dangerous, and resulted in a medical team being sent to the patient, were the fused datacords. The mech's metaphysical self had been fully immersed in his station and the surge had destroyed the relays that would have allowed him to return to his frame. Severing the cords would, at best, result in a fractured meta, and at worst, leave them with a spark trapped in a processor-dead frame.
When the call came through to the Medical Wing, Jazz immediately volunteered to assist the assigned medic. He had gotten a very bad feeling in his spark ever since the first bomb fell and the saboteur felt an overwhelming need to be sure his best friend was safe.
The triage team was still half the base away when the Polyhexian's audials picked up the first screams. The visored mech abandoned his group to race ahead and hopefully thwart whatever or whoever had infiltrated the base before they did any damage. He skidded to a stop at the final corner and unsubspaced a small mirror. The screams had ceased which was making him antsy, but he knew that rushing in could get him killed. If his caution meant no survivors, then at least he would still be functioning to avenge the fallen.
Jazz slid the mirror just past the wall's edge and saw that the hall was empty. Still wary of unseen intruders, the black and white crouched down to skulk carefully over to the Comms Deck entrance. The door had been hacked, meaning it was permanently open until the hacker lifted the override, so the saboteur used his mirror again to check the status of the room. He counted five Decepticon covert operatives and eleven empty frames, the total number of their entire Communications Division sans one. Despite knowing that all members of Comms were supposed to be on duty during a battle Jazz could see no sign of Blaster's frame anywhere.
Although still mourning for the departed sparks of mechs he had been friends with, it gave him hope that the cassette-master might still be functioning.
The Polyhexian knew that he needed to call for back-up to deal with the threat, for although he was quite capable of taking care of these five by himself, the medical staff would soon arrive and he did not have an excuse that would allay their suspicions. A 'normal' soldier would not be able to down five ruthless assassins in close combat without it being a setup, and Jazz had no desire to visit the brig while being investigated for being a spy. It would be the Mirage Fiasco all over again.
However, there was a major snag. In order to get back-up he would have to use the comm links, which were currently under Decepticon control, and would undoubtedly alert the invaders that the gig was up. Luck might still be with him though, there was an ancient Ops code that had been designed to appear as a light static under the normal comm chatter until it was filtered through a false vocalizer. The code would then register as a sequence of musical tones that would stand for letters and glyphs depending upon the number and pitch of each set of notes. The glyphs and letters could then be transposed into any number of cipher algorithms as preset by those who were using the musical transmission.
Since there was no one who would possess a counter-algorithm, Jazz could not do much more than send a basic uncoded message through the music cipher and hope for the best.
A few kliks later, just as the triage team rounded the corner, the saboteur cum medtech received an answer, -:-message received, response to situation en route-:-
Jazz motioned to the rejoining group to get low and stay quiet. He checked around the door again, curious as to why the 'Cons were not watching their backs. The enemy mechs appeared to be preoccupied with the ventilation shafts, but before he could may any conjectures on that oddity, his backup arrived.
The reinforcements though, were not what, or rather who, Jazz had been expecting. Three femmes, whose beauty disguised their untold deadly grace, now stared a him with amused expressions. They knew they were not what he expected and instead of taking offense they found humor in it. The leader of the tiny group was positively the tallest femme the saboteur had ever seen and bore testament to an unusual code-distribution in that *he was also a triplechanger. Gleaming black plating was criss-crossed with golden highlights and bright splashes of crimson. However, despite the regal-looking armor, the triplechanger showed a decidedly impish air. Especially when *he gave the dazed Polyhexian a roguish grin and wink as *he and the smaller femmes glided noiselessly into the Decepticon infested Comms Deck.
Chafing under the restrictions of his undercover guise, Jazz could only watch the short functioning mayhem as the battle savvy Autobot mecha tore through the unprepared Decepticon assassins like a plasma cutter through untempered armor. When the last graying chassis dropped from the claws of its femme executioner, the awed black and white motioned the med team to enter.
There were no survivors. Jazz dutifully helped in turning over each grey frame in hopes that even one spark might be saved, but it was futile. The visored mech's grief driven anger came to a head when he overturned the offlined form of Rapidburst. He figured that the 'Cons had somehow learned that their spy had been discovered and chose to remove the weak link under the façade of sabotaging the Autobot's communications.
Jazz's impotent rage was internalized savagely, for to give voice to the roiling storm in his processor would be to subject himself to scrutiny for the depth of his reaction, and possible psychological counseling. Alternatively, he focused on the quiet sounds of the living mecha in the room to calm himself. It was during this moment of listening that he caught the tiny sounds of something scuffling up in the vents. Grinning malevolently at the thought of possibly having another 'Con on which to express his displeasure, the saboteur leaped up to grab a convenient ceiling pipe with a magnetized servo, and yanked off the access grate.
The saboteur's rage melted into relieved surprise when he found himself visor to optics with Steeljaw. On the felinoid's back rested a red and yellow datacrystal player. Joy filled his lightened spark when the Polyhexian saw that his city-kin had indeed remained safe and he offered a servo to the crouching cassette to aid his descent.
After they reached ground level, Blaster resumed his mech-form and found himself enveloped in a tight embrace from his distraught friend. Returning the desperate hug, the cassette-master tried to console his counterpart. "Shhh, it is alright mech, I'm safe. I'm not goin' anywhere."
"Ah kno, but Ah heard tha screamin' n' then… n' then when Ah got'ere… all the offline frames… Ah knew ya were s'posed ta be here… Ah thought…" Jazz took a moment to do a quick reboot and settle his systems. "Ya neva' 'llowed ta do tha' ta meh 'gain, ya hear meh?"
Blaster gave his friend a soft smile. "You got it mah Main Machine. So, on a different tune, how'd you offline tha assassins? I know you have a bit of combat trainin', but most of these medics should have been slaughtered like cyberkittens."
"Tha femmes took care o' them. Was a sight ta behold!" replied the grateful saboteur.
The commsmech looked around in confusion. "What femmes?"
Jazz spun around to see a room of medics, but no femmes, "Huh, guess they must a had 'nother job ta do n' hadta leave." It did not really matter to the visored mech, Blaster was safe and that was the important thing. Well, the fact that their mission was going to suffer another setback thanks to Rapidburst's offlining was important too, but he would fret about it later.
0o0o0o0
Eventually, the seekers figured out that their infiltration team had been killed and the bombing was called off. Autobot Command still waited an extra joor to be sure there would be no further attacks, then returned the base to its normal standby status.
Jazz was allowed to go since his regular shift had ended several joors earlier and the Polyhexian made his way swiftly to his quarters to start writing up his report for Blackshot.
There was a strange datacrystal on his berth. As much as Jazz loved clutter, he could tell anyone exactly where to find any given item with perfect accuracy. The true purpose of his ever-shifting 'sorting' system was to befuddle enemy spies and prevent them from obtaining sensitive data. However, he never, ever left anything on his berth, ever. Wary, the visored grounder scanned the room with every setting his blue optic shield possessed. There were no booby-traps or explosives anywhere, so Jazz inched forward to nudge the crystal. Nothing. Satisfied that there were no external traps, he carefully hooked the datacrystal up to a disposable memory core to check for viruses and other nasty coding surprises. Again, nothing.
After he had exhausted every method to test for subterfuge and the crystal came up clean every time, he decided it might be safe to access the stored files. Still he was not going to be so foolish as to plug it into himself, instead he downloaded the contents directly to one of his reinforced ops-grade datapads.
The crystal only held two things, a comm number and a short message, which read:
"Spark's end does not the mission terminate. Look not to the verbal cues, seeker of justice, and you will find the evidence you crave. Should the light of understanding not grace your meta, call for aid and it will find you. Be not surprised by the form it will take."
Ok… cue the cryptic and mysterious benefactor. Because that's just what Jazz needed to make his already complicated functioning complete. The Polyhexian put the pad and crystal aside with a roll of his unseen optics and began composing his report. Halfway through, it dawned upon him that he would have to include a segment on his 'gift'. Someone out there apparently knew more about Jazz's mission than the musically designated mech himself did. Joy.
0o0o0o0
The lack of ground fighting had given Mirage plenty of time to do as he had promised and think realistically about the situation with Hound. Unfortunately, it was just making his thoughts go in circles. So, he walked the base in the hopes that physical activity might alleviate his troubled processors.
All the suffering he endured, but it was not brought on intentionally. Being treated as less than a Cybertronian, but the scout was just doing his job. Mirage was innocent yet unjustly regarded, but Hound was also not at fault for that.
The spy's helm was beginning to ache.
He turned down the corridor that would eventually lead to the upper levels and the observation towers. Interestingly, the current pain in his metaphysical diodes just so happened to turn the opposite corner and come in the direction of the invisible noble. Mirage was about to turn back the way he had come when he really got a look at the other.
The roughrider looked terrible. His shoulders were slumped and his optics dim. To the blue mech's optics he resembled one whose spark had just been shredded and had the broken remains dumped in his lap. It was this sight that finally drove Mirage to a decision. He decided he never wanted to see that look on Hound's faceplates again, especially not when there was something the noble could do about it.
Remaining cloaked, Mirage stalked silently down the hall til his path converged with the scout's. Drawing up all his courage, the spy uttered the one phrase he never thought he could yield to 'The Green Menace.'
"I forgive you."
Hound froze. He had been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts that he had not even registered when the noble's scent had reached his olfactory sensors. The green mech stared in disbelief at what his audials were registering. He was forgiven?! But the spy hated him! His shock caused him to ask incredulously for clarification. "Excuse me, what?"
Mirage had begun to walk away, but he turned at the exclamation. He decloaked so the other could clearly see his emotions on his faceplates. "I said, I forgive you. Now chin up, I liked you better when you were happy." he restated with a coy smile.
He likes me! Hound's mood swung wildly from depressed to ecstatic. Knowing that this would be his only opportunity to befriend the spy, the scout took the plunge. "Would you like to visit the commissary with me?"
The noble hesitated, vascillating between staying out of sight of his detractors or finally making a new friend like Jazz had so pointedly suggested. The look of pleading hope on Hound's faceplates made the choice for him. "That would be lovely. I would enjoy accompanying you."
