/Ratchet! RATCH!/
/—what— Jazz?/
Jazz could only see so much past his alt-mode bumper without opening his chestplates. Just the edges of the open core plating (which wasn't supposed to do that in root mode) and his hand, cupping something round. /It's coming out!/
/What is— oh! The mechlet?/
/Nah, doc, it's a bag of Funyuns. Transscanned a vending machine and you know how that first transformation is always a little tricky YES, THE MECHLET./ His internal components clenched. The round thing in his hand wobbled like an unbalanced gyroscope.
/I'll Funyuns you, you little... you're not at the Nest, are you?/
/No, I'm in my own quarters,/ Jazz shot back. Like he was going to power down with all those Decepticons tooling around. /Ratch, just get in here, I don't think I can override this!/
/I'm already en route. Gonna take me about twenty minutes to get to the Ark, though. Looks like all us medics were out here at the same time. Just stay calm, Jazz. Can you ping me a self diagnostic?/
Sure. Run a routine self-diag. No problem, just— oh Primus, he could see it now, a curve of shiny silver under his hand— Ratchet, just shoot Ratchet the info, don't think about it being a tiny mech with a tiny spark and—
/No error reports. Any pain?/ Ratchet, bless him, was all calm professionalism. For however long that lasted.
/No. No, it's just—/ Another internal clench, more faulty gyro wobbling. /— ugh, really uncomfortable./
/All right, just sit tight. Unless something really, obviously goes wrong, let's assume things are proceeding as they should./
Assume—? Right, he was the first. He'd tolerated the poking and prodding to a certain extent. He understood why they'd want to watch him in particular, but Jazz had never been entirely comfortable with scrutiny. The spotlight, sure, but not scrutiny. He had no control over this specific spotlight. Fortunately he had long ago perfected the art of Just Not Being Around, and he had drawn the line at letting Ratchet put one of his monitors inside his chassis. It transmitted too much information for Jazz to be comfortable with in his line of work. Security risk, was how he justified it.
So aside from the overloads, he could neatly avoid thinking about it at all. What was that human aphorism about a river in Egypt? He was swimming in it.
/Feels like my insides are pushin' and pullin' all at once,/ he said over the line. The round thing— was it a helm? It seemed far too big, and at the same time not nearly big enough.
/Just try to keep calm. Panicking would probably be bad for the both of you./
Both. There was another person coming out of him and— /I'm not panicking!/
/Come on, you're a better liar than that./
/Rrrrratchettt—/ Jazz tried to sit up, steadying himself with his free hand grabbing the edge of his berth. Still mostly hunched forward, he rode through another wave of clenching.
/Simmer down. Can you describe what's happening?/
/N-not really. Lower core plates opened on their own. I've got a hood and bumper in the way, but I can sorta see somethin' coming out. Got my hand on it, just feels round./
/Hmm. Well, just keep supporting him with your hand, don't try to push or pull anything. General medical consensus is that this is an autonomic process, so just let your components do what they're doing./
Jazz leaned back, arching his spinal strut. That seemed to help with the ache, a bit. The squirming bulge emerging from his middle budged a little further out, and he tried to explore the domed surface with his fingers, finding no defining telltale features.
His frame, on autopilot, squeezed all at once, and he doubled over again. There was a sudden sharp sting from further within, accompanied by a muffled snap! disturbingly like a cable breaking.
Alarmed, Jazz strained to see over his chestplates. A slender energon line (he'd certainly slit enough in his day to know what one looked like) slithered out from inside him and flopped over his hand. Energon, casting a pale pink glow on the proceedings, spattered on the floor.
/Ratch— I just snapped a line!/ Automatically he reached for the damage report to ping the medical frequency with, but there was nothing. /It... no damage. I can't tell what happened—/
/Easy, Jazz,/ Ratchet cut in. /Could it be the tank tap line? The mechlets have been drawing on the parents' energon the whole time./
/I... yeah, I think so./ Jazz watched the thin, segmented cord go dim. /There's not much energon. Just a few drops./ No need to panic. Probably supposed to happen. Probably.
/We figured that might happen when it came time. It should seal up on its own./
/Can you hurry up? Lights and sirens and all that?/
/There's nobody else on the road, I'm going top speed, and— pitssakes, Jazz, just stay calm and I'll get there as soon as I can./
/Okay. Okay./
One good strong wrench. Systems redlined for a long second, and—
With a metallic pop! the little interloper was free.
Jazz slowly sat up, completely oblivious to the churn of his insides and exoplates resettling into proper positions, and the horrible ache fading away. All he could do was stare at the thing in his hand.
It was... a sphere. Segmented almost like a beach ball, shiny plates fitting perfectly, smoothly together, ever so slightly scuffed in a few places from scraping past the many cables and lines of Jazz's inner core workings. The spent energon line dangled from a small portlike indentation along one seam. Had the entire gestation chamber just... popped out whole? Had Starscream's sarcastic jab about laying eggs been prophetic? Had he given birth to a tether-ball, what?
Suddenly it rocked to one side, tipping precariously out of his hand. With a panicked squeak Jazz caught it in both hands, sparing it a two-foot drop to the floor. The sphere continued to lurch this way and that; he could feel mass shifting within, perhaps some sort of gyroscopic inertial mechanisms.
"Hey now, hey," he muttered. "chill out, buddy, I gotcha..." He turned the sphere carefully in his hands, tentatively tapping at a random seam. What was he supposed to do now? At a loss, he held it up to one audio.
Something inside was... murmuring.
Jazz's vents hitched.
Carefully, slowly, he got to his feet, cradling the little sphere against his chestplates. He got up on the berth and sat, legs loosely crossed, and brought the sphere up close to his face. "Someone in there? C'mon, lil' guy, you gotta help me out here."
At the sound of his voice, the sphere stopped trembling. Then its plating shifted. Jazz grinned. "Yeah, that's it. C'mon out now."
The sphere's plates slid fitfully against each other for a few seconds, as if it were unsure what to do, but then, one of the seams separated. Jazz retracted his visor and peered into the narrow, darkened slit.
There were two little blue optics glowing right back at him.
"H-hey there." His vocalizer was doing something funny. "That's it. It's okay. Can ya open up all the way? C'mon out and say hi. It's just me. Y'know, the mech you been ridin' around in for more'n ten months now?" Jazz let out a chuckle. "Way past time you introduced yourself!"
The optics blinked and there was a burst of high-pitched nonsense noise from inside the sphere. Whatever was in there knocked around inside for another couple seconds, and the plating opened further in fits and starts. And there, nestled in his hands, wearing the plates of the gestation chamber like a turtle shell, was a tiny matte-silver mech.
Jazz could only stare.
The mechlet stared back.
He had barely any features to speak of—no kibble, unless you counted the still-attached chamber plating. No coloring, only a silver in so fine a matte that it was nearly velvet. Almost no nasal strut at all, and the mere suggestion of a helm. But there were two nearly-invisible nubs atop the head, in perfect echo of Jazz's own stubby sensor horns.
"Primus." Jazz carefully rebalanced the mechlet in one hand and used the other to hesitantly brush a finger over one absolutely tiny arm. The mechlet let out a 'meep!' and clutched at the finger with both hands, with a grip that was several shades stronger than he expected from such a little thing.
"Hey, m'mech. M'mechlet." Jazz let him keep the finger for now. "My mechlet... huh. Feels a little funny to say out loud. But it's true, innit? You're my mechlet." He grinned. "And I'm your Jazz."
The mechlet's optics shut as he mimicked the grin, high-pitched vocalizer replying in pure gibberish, all chirps and beeps and warbles. Still mostly curled up, he let go of Jazz's finger in favor of attempting to put his own hand in his mouth.
"All right, silly." Jazz chuckled and gently nudged the little fist out of its owner's mouth. "Let's boot up all the way now. What's your name, kiddo? Do you know it yet? S'okay if you don't right away, y'know, so..."
The mechlet only wriggled a bit more vigorously, stretching limbs out from the confines of his ball shape for the first time. He made a happy little croon. At least, Jazz thought it was happy-sounding. It certainly wasn't a designation. Or a word of any sort.
Jazz frowned. Most newly-activated Cybertronians were nonstop chatterboxes, full of questions and boundless curiosity. He'd been no exception, himself. Sure, this little mech here hadn't exactly been constructed in the usual manner, but to not be able to access basic vocabulary programming?
Suddenly the door to Jazz's quarters flew open, and the lights blared to full illumination. The mechlet squealed in alarm and pulled in all his limbs, and the chamber plates snapped back into sphere configuration, closed completely up again. Jazz protectively clutched the little ball against his chestplates without consciously realizing he'd even moved.
"Jazz, are you—"
"Ratch! Primus, can't you ping first?!"
Ratchet, clearly still in emergency mode, froze in the doorway, optics cycling in confusion. Then he scowled, planted his hands on his hips. "Hurry it up, doc, lights and sirens, doc," he parroted.
"You scared him!" Jazz retorted, indignant.
Ratchet finally seemed to notice the object tucked up against Jazz's bumper, mostly hidden in his hands. The medic stepped all the way in, letting the door shut behind him. "In my defense, if you'd kept me updated over comm..."
Jazz relaxed, slightly. He could feel the sphere trembling. "…yeah, sorry."
Ratchet approached the berth. "Can I see him?"
For a moment Jazz had trouble actually uncoiling from his defensive huddle. He managed to hold the sphere out a little, letting Ratchet get a good look.
"Is that... the gestation chamber itself?" Ratchet leaned in, momentarily taking the dangling energon line in two fingers. Jazz felt the tingle of light medical scans washing over him and the mechlet both.
"Yeah," Jazz said. "Do you think it's supposed to be that way? He had it open 'till you came in, looked me right in the optics. Then he rolled right back in."
"That's... huh, that's actually quite clever defensive design," Ratchet tentatively ran his sensitive medic's fingers over the surface of the chamber. "And there he is, all right. Remarkable."
"C'mon, lil' guy," Jazz coaxed. "Open back up, it's just Ratchet. He didn't mean to spook you."
"Just a second. I want to make sure your insides are in order." Ratchet prodded Jazz's arms out of the way, pulling a more powerful handheld scanner out of subspace.
Jazz absently let the medic poke about his middle, contemplating the sphere in his hands. "He won't talk, Ratch. He just kind of babbles. D'ya think something's wrong with his processor? Can we give him a language download or something? I can't find any frequencies, does he even have a comm unit?"
"One thing at a time, Jazz." Ratchet ran the scanner over the sphere, then looked up at him. "We're rather off the map now. The answer to most of the questions we've got right now is 'we don't know yet.' You're fine, by the way. Minus a certain spherical mass, but we know where that went."
"If I could just... get him to..." Jazz had lost track of which seam was the opening.
"How about you describe what happened, start to finish," Ratchet said. "Maybe the sound of your voice will draw him out again."
So Jazz did, starting from the near-mindless need to get an extra cube of energon (which, as it turned out, was two— to judge by the pair of empty cubes on the floor— and he found it both amusing and distressing that he only actually remembered the one) all the way to how the chamber had just popped right out. As he spoke, Jazz took a clean rag from his subspace and wiped the spots of shed energon clean from the sphere's surface and the dangling cord. It seemed to work; or at the very least the mechlet was growing bored with hiding. His protective plating slid back open as Jazz finished up.
"Well, how about that," Ratchet murmured, as the mechlet eyed him warily from inside his half-open shell.
"Yeah," Jazz said, letting the mechlet grab his finger again. "He's so small, Ratch." If he'd been human, the mechlet would have been the size of... what was that rough-skinned ball-shaped fruit Sparkplug was so fond of? Cantaloupe.
Ratchet was consulting his scanner again. "High levels of nanite activity. Especially in his processor housing. He's going to keep growing for awhile, I think."
Jazz poked carefully around behind the mechlet's shoulder, trying to feel where he was attached to the chamber plating. He succeeded only in making the tiny mech giggle and flail around. Jazz chuckled. "He doesn't have much extra room in there. Is the chamber gonna grow with him? Baby's first alt-mode is 'one of Metroplex's ball-bearings'?"
Ratchet snorted, catching one of the mechlet's hands in his fingers to examine the delicate digits. "Again, Jazz, we don't know. Yet. Primus, that armor is paper-thin. It's a good thing that chamber is so sturdy or we'd have to put padding on everything."
Jazz started to relax a bit. So the little guy wasn't going to stay that fragile and breakable forever. Hopefully. "And I'm assumin' the growing includes the processor? Can you even understand what we're sayin', lil' bit?"
Ratchet turned the scanner's screen toward him. "Look at that reading, Jazz. That tiny processor is lit up like one of those winter trees the humans drag into their houses once a year. He might not be able to properly use the data, but he's taking it all in, that's for certain. And his nanites are still hard at work in there."
"Huh..." Jazz regarded the strange mech that had come from his own metal. "So eventually he'll be able to talk."
"That's my going theory at the moment," Ratchet replied with a shrug. "I need you to bring him down to the Nest. The research teams could get a lot of useful data from him."
Jazz half-hunched over the mechlet again. "Nuh-uh, doc. Starscream and the Constructicons can experiment on their own— "
"Passive scans only! Unicron's exhaust, Jazz, we're not going to let anyone hurt a mechlet. No open-chassis examinations, we all agreed on that weeks ago, if you'd kept up with the reports." The mechlet meeped worriedly at Ratchet's raised tone, and the medic collected himself. "Perceptor's fancy scanner's out there. Ten minutes and we'll have what we need. He won't be out of your sight at any point. I'd also like to get a more detailed scan of you, as well."
Jazz frowned. His mechlet burbled and wiggled. This was really, really weird.
He of course lived by the practice of protecting the weak and innocent, and they didn't get much weaker and more innocent than a helpless hour-old mech, but... he had to wonder if some of those programming changes hadn't affected more than his nanite colonies. The very thought of letting a Decepticon within a mile's radius of this bizarre little surprise of his lit up a giant neon NOPE sign in his processor. And he'd only just met the mechlet.
"How about I get Skyfire to keep Starscream busy while you're there?" Ratchet offered. "And as for the Constructicons, Hook's on board with the rest of us. We trust him not to do anything untoward."
"For now," Jazz said quietly. "This probably means the ceasefire'll be over soon."
Ratchet made a rueful face and clapped Jazz on the shoulder. "Regardless, we still need to get a handle on what's what. You're the first, but the rest are close on your tailgate, my friend."
The mechlet had lost interest in Jazz's finger and was slowly curling back up, his little optics dimming. "Well, okay, but can it wait 'till morning? I only had a couple hours' recharge, and it looks like th' bitlet's tired too."
Ratchet considered it, then nodded, and gave the closed-up sphere a pat. "All right. But 0700, I want you at the Nest, you and the Funyuns both."
"We are not calling him that," Jazz growled at the medic's back as he turned to go.
"So think of something better, wiseaft," Ratchet said, and palmed the door open. Out in the corridor Jazz could see more than a few pairs of optics trying to peer in, before the door shut again, and Ratchet's muffled voice ordering the small crowd of curious eavesdroppers to disperse. The news was probably out, Jazz supposed.
"We're gonna be a bit popular for a little while, you'n me," he said to his offspring, who was muttering inside his shell. He put the sphere down on the berth between himself and the wall and started to lay back down.
The mechlet squeaked faintly and the sphere wobbled and rolled right into the wall, then spun in the opposite direction. Jazz caught him before he could pinball out of reach. "Hey, hey, easy, I'm right here. Not goin' nowhere, okay?" He slid the sphere closer and curled an arm around it, forming a little corral he couldn't roll out of, his hand cradling the warm plating that had the distinct feel of living metal.
It seemed to work. The mechlet immediately calmed and was still.
Jazz set his internal alarm, then an alert to wake if the mechlet moved, just to be sure.
It was still awhile before he could settle back into recharge. He was too busy watching the sphere.
Two hours shy of his scheduled wake-up, Jazz came online to the sight of tiny hands on his bumper. For one absurd moment he thought maybe one of the humans had gotten in, then he remembered.
"Where you goin', bit?" he said, and the hands fell back. The mechlet appeared at his shoulder, gamely crawling up onto his upper arm, beeping cheerfully when he made optic contact with Jazz.
Jazz couldn't help but grin back. The mechlet looked a bit like a turtle, carrying his retracted shell around. With one hand keeping the little one steady, he carefully rolled to his side facing the wall. "Really wish you'd start talkin'. Be nice to know who you are, and all."
Of course the mechlet didn't reply, instead concentrating on the very important task of surmounting Jazz's shoulder, a climb made difficult by short, uncoordinated limbs and the restrictive curve of the chamber shell. Jazz simply kept a steadying hand on him, retracting his visor when the mechlet managed to pull himself up all the way. From there, the little mech seemed content to imitate a speed bump, peeking out from underneath the dome of his chamber plates.
Jazz kind of wanted to warn the mechlet that he had no idea what he was doing. He'd known his own mentor for about a decacycle, but it might as well have been only two groons as he'd said. How an oily minor weapons dealer like Rotorbolt had managed to get approval to foster a newspark was lost to history, but Jazz's bet was on either bribery or blackmail. He'd been one of Emirate Xeon's go-to bots for less-than-legal dealings in Protihex, and looking to move up in the world. Rotorbolt must have thought having a devoted underling would help his prospects, and had asked Vector Sigma for a clever, resourceful spark. He'd gotten Jazz... for all the good it had done him. Rotorbolt had left the newspark that would eventually name himself Jazz at home to go on some private errand, only to turn up grey and cold at the dark end of one of Protihex's skid rows.
Several million years later, the mechlet grabbed Jazz's nose and babbled, pulling himself up to sprawl clumsily against his carrier's faceplates.
Jazz laughed. "You got it backwards, kiddo. It's facehugger, then chestburster." He took the mechlet up in both hands, sat up, and settled him in his lap.
Jazz had always accepted the chance that he simply might not make it back from any given mission or battle. But the thought of it now... it made his coolant pump skip. He remembered all too well those first few cycles after realizing his mentor, the mech who'd promised to take care of him, was gone. And he'd been a mech capable of reasoning, communicating, and defending himself to some extent. The mechlet—
Primus, this war needed to end.
At least if the worst happened, Jazz had faith in his fellow Autobots. Someone'd step up and take care of... tiny whoever.
"Really need to figure out what to call you. At least until you say otherwise." He let the mechlet grab at his waving fingers. Catching the smallest one, the mechlet promptly stuck it in his mouth. His meaningless vocalizations began to take on a distinctly fussy harmonic, his face scrunching into a miniature frown.
"Uh..." Jazz felt his fuel tank hitch. "What's wrong, lil' buddy?"
The mechlet's cries got a touch louder. Jazz's fuel tank seemed to be about to protest the overabundance of energon he'd dumped into it earlier.
An idea hit him, and he reached under the berth, this time unerringly finding his stash right away. He pulled out a full cube of energon and dangled it in the mechlet's view. "I betcha this is what you need, now that you can't mooch off my tank anymore!" he said brightly, opening the cube easily with one hand. "Let's just... er. This... might be a problem."
The cube was roughly two-thirds the size of the mechlet himself. Who apparently knew fuel when he saw it, and was reaching for the enticing pink glow, still whimpering piteously.
"Hang on a klik, now, let's just... figure somethin' out..." Jazz awkwardly maneuvered the mechlet until he was more or less sitting upright. He brought the cube up to the little mech's mouth and very carefully tilted the corner in.
"There we— whoops—"
Energon sprayed as the mechlet gulped, then sputtered; too much at once? The poor thing's vents gaped wide, blowing a fine luminescent mist as the little mech's system forcibly cleared his airways. In something that was totally not a panic, Jazz put the cube down and fumbled for his cleaning rag.
"Sorry, sorry!" He wiped energon droplets away, and wow, did that mechlet look unhappy. Jazz frantically inspected him, trying to make sure there wasn't any left in the vents. Fuel intake line malfunction? Had something been built wrong? The mechlet seemed to be venting fine now, but he'd now added 'rather upset' to his noise repertoire. Okay. Calm down. You'd have trouble too if a giant mech dumped half a giant cube in your mouth all at once.
"Okay, okay, we're gonna figure this out. Ain't never done this before, so..." Jazz ran his free hand down his face. "I'm just gonna go ahead and apologize for everything in advance, how 'bout."
Jazz dipped a finger into the cube. The mechlet seemed game to try again, eagerly grabbing for the energon-coated digit and opening his mouth wide.
For a second, Jazz thought it worked. They'd have to rig together some kind of special dropper-bottle, of course, but—
The mechlet coughed, sputtered. Energon droplets everywhere again. Jazz actually froze up, at a complete loss. He was subcommander of the Autobots, renowned for his ingenuity and quick thinking, and he had no idea what to do.
The mechlet wailed. The sound hit a high, shrill frequency, and it was as if a switch flipped somewhere inside Jazz. His fuel tank gave a sharp contraction, and Jazz clamped his mouth shut before he could make the situation worse by purging on the already distressed mechlet. But what came up was not half-processed energon, but... something solid?
He spat it out. It was an uneven ball of congealed energon— and the only thing that kept Jazz from immediately chucking it into the waste chute was the fact that it was still bright pink and glowing, like proper potable fuel. Energon usually only achieved this semisolid gel state if it were shed from a mech's body and left to stagnate, or if it was tainted by certain contaminants. This seemed... fine, if one could overlook the gross state of matter. Well, almost: there was a vein of silvery substance running through it, a bit like a cat's eye marble.
Jazz did a bit of reshuffling, crossing his legs and nestling the mechlet between his knees so he could have both hands free for a moment. The mechlet continued to keen disconsolately, closing up momentarily into his sphere to knock about, then unfurling again to continue crying. Jazz pinched a bit of the gelled energon off and inspected it closely. It had the density of a soft, heavy foam, and when he popped the fragment in his mouth, his glossa detected nothing harmful, other than the strange texture.
Aware that his offspring was growing increasingly more unsatisfied with the state of affairs, Jazz considered. If the mechlet's intake and ventilation systems were as undeveloped as the rest of him, it stood to reason that liquid energon could be too fluid, going where it ought not, if there were valves or lines that just hadn't 'grown' in yet. A more solid form of fuel, perhaps chunks could be more easily handled by the immature fuel intake?
"Huh." On a hunch, he proffered the gelled energon to the mechlet, holding it right up to the open, squalling mouth. Tiny optics flew open, and the mechlet grabbed desperately at the congealed fuel.
"Easy, easy now. I still don't know what I'm doin', y'know." Jazz let the mechlet sort of gum smaller chunks off, bit by bit. The mechlet's cries immediately quieted into little murmurs, slowly the entire ball of fuel disappeared, and not once did he sputter or choke. Now apparently sated, the mechlet lazily curled halfway up and began idly playing with his own feet, cooing as if the whole incident hadn't even happened.
/Ratchet... I'm comin' out to the Nest a bit early./