Chapter 3: The Laundromat
Chapter Warning: Explicit Sexual Content - Removed
The laundromat stood out on the dark street corner like a beacon in a storm. It was the only building still open at the late hour, and its fluorescent light glowed against the pavement. Sam hurried inside, before letting the door swing shut behind him. The interior looked like every other laundromat that Sam had used in his life: a row of coin-operated washing machines occupied one wall, and a row of dyers occupied the other. There were only two other people in the building—an attendant, who was sitting behind the counter against the far wall, and an elderly lady who was sorting her laundry at the long, wooden table that ran down the middle of the room
Sam made his way to an empty dryer about half-way down the row. His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum, leaving a trail of muddy water in his wake. His fingers were stiff and numb as he shrugged out of his wet things: first his jacket, which was streaked with mud, and then his hoodie, which was soaked through from the rain. He tossed them both into the empty dryer, before unzipping his backpack and stuffing the rest of his clothing inside the drum. He shut the dryer door, and began feeding quarters into the slot. A moment later, the machine turned on and began its dry-cycle.
Sam was left standing in a short-sleeved shirt and damp jeans. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The insides of his thighs were chafing from the long walk in the rain. It had taken him two hours to reach the train station by foot, and another four hours to reach Philadelphia. He had wandered around the city for what felt like an eternity before he finally found the laundromat.
He distantly noted that he was shivering again. Sam wrapped his arms around his torso in a vain attempt to get warm. He stood there for a long while, staring blearily at his clothing as it tumbled around inside the dryer. It wasn't until he realized that he was swaying on his feet that he bent over, grabbing his backpack and making his way to the chairs against the wall. He sat down heavily, before digging a half-eaten candy bar out of his bag. He had tried to conserve the foodstuff he purchased at the bus station, but it had been over nine hours. He carefully untwisted the wrapper, before taking a small bite. The chocolate tasted almost sickly sweet after a full-day on the run. He ate slowly, but it wasn't long before the candy bar was gone. He stared forlornly at the empty packaging, before pushing it back inside his bag. He would find a diner after his clothes were dry.
Sam leaned back against the hard, plastic chair. The air was warm and smelled faintly of laundry detergent. He crossed his arms, scooching lower in the seat, and let his eyes slip shut. He did not intend on falling asleep, but it wasn't long before he was drifting to the low rumble of the washing machines.
"Are you alright, sugar?"
Sam startled awake to find an elderly lady standing over him. She was holding a basket of folded laundry with both hands, and her expression was faintly concerned. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, stammering a mindless apology, which only served to deepen her frown.
"You look soaked through to the bone." She tsked, propping her basket on her hip, "How long were you out in the rain?"
Sam flushed in embarrassment as he pulled his backpack into his lap.
"Not long." He lied, clutching the canvas close to his chest, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to loiter—I'm just waiting for my things to dry."
He nodded towards the dryer with his things, which was still going through its cycle. She turned, following his gaze, before turning back around. There was something shrewd and assessing about her expression as she stared down at him.
"You ain't from around here, are you?" She asked, not unkindly.
Sam gripped the backpack closer to his chest.
"No, ma'am. Just passing through." He replied, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.
"Just passing through." The old lady echoed, her mouth pursing in consideration. "You got anywhere to stay tonight?"
Sam blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. The old lady was staring down at him, obviously waiting for an answer, and so he cleared his throat and replied, "I'm going to get something to eat, and then I'll probably head to the bus station."
The old woman was shaking her head, even before he finished speaking. "You can't spend the night at a bus station in north-central. Are you lookin' to get jumped?"
Sam flushed in embarrassment at her disbelieving tone. The truth was that he didn't have much choice in the matter—he only had a few hundred dollars in cash, which he needed for food and bus fare. He didn't have the luxury of renting a room for the night.
Something of his reaction must have been telling, for the old woman's expression creased with sympathy.
"There's no shame in not knowing." She said, giving him a wan smile, "Not everyone's familiar with the neighborhood." She half-turned, staring out the large, shop-front windows, before glancing down at him again. "Why don't you come with me? I can show you a place that'll take you for the night."
Sam stiffened at the seemingly innocuous suggestion. He was alone in an unfamiliar city on the run from unknown pursuers. He might not have the best survival instincts on the planet, but even he knew better than to follow a random stranger to an unknown location at their say-so.
The older woman chuckled, crow-lines wrinkling, before repositioning the laundry basket to rest more comfortably on her hip. "There's a church about a block and a half down the road. You can't miss it. Go around the back and ring the doorbell. Tell the Minister that Mama June sent you. He'll get you sorted for the night."
Sam stared up at her, unsure what to say, when she reached out to pat his shoulder.
"Ain't nothing, sugar." She said reassuringly. "Take care of yourself now—it's hard to go alone."
The old lady made her way towards the door, before shouldering it open and stepping outside. Sam watched as she crossed the street, and then a moment later, she was gone. Sam pushed to his feet, wincing as every muscle in his body protested the movement, before he shuffled over to stand in front of the windows. The street was dark and empty. It had stopped raining in the time since he had been inside, but the pavement was still wet.
Idly, he hoped that June made it home alright.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a loud buzzer. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder towards the dryer. It was dark and still. He made quick work of getting his clothing out of the machine, before yanking his sweater down over his head. He had to stifle his groan of appreciation at the hot fabric. His jacket was next, and he burned his fingers on the zipper in his haste to get it on. He stood there for a long moment, nose tucked into the neck of his hoodie, relishing the warmth, before he started stuffing his clothes into his backpack. The canvas was still damp, but it had mostly dried out over the last hour.
Sam pulled his hood low over his head, before shouldering his backpack. He briefly considered his options as he made his way towards the door. He was reluctant to take June up on her suggestion—churches made him uneasy—but the alternative was trying his luck at the bus station or wandering around the city until daybreak.
"Have a good night." The attendant called from where he sat behind the counter.
Sam glanced over at him, before jerking his head in farewell. "Thanks. You too."
The guy waved him off as he turned back towards the television. Sam hesitated a moment longer, before pushing open the door and stepping outside. It was a cool night for April, but he felt a hell of a lot better now that he was dry. He started down the sidewalk without any real destination in mind, but it was less than five minutes before he came across the church June had mentioned. It was a relatively small building with gothic-style windows and a waist-high wrought iron fence that surrounded the grounds. There was an old sign in the corner of the lawn nearest the sidewalk that read Saint John's Holy Ministry: All Are Welcome.
Sam stood there for a long moment, fingering the straps on his backpack. The church was dark except for a single light glowing in the stained glass window above the door. Slowly, and without conscious thought, Sam found himself wandering towards the back of the building. The parking lot was dark and quiet, but there was a light on above the basement door. He didn't know for how long he stood there, wrestling with himself, before he pressed the doorbell. He could hear the distant chime from somewhere inside the building. A few moments later, Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and then the door was being pulled open. Sam blinked at the sight of an older man, whose snow-white hair stood in stark contrast to his dark skin. He adjusted the belt on his housecoat as he peered down at Sam, as though in expectation.
"Can I help you, son?" He asked, and although his voice was rough with sleep, he sounded kind.
Without thinking, Sam found himself blurting out, "I'm sorry to bother you. June said I should come here."
The old man's eyebrows twitched up in surprise, but his expression was amused as he stepped aside to let Sam enter. "She did, did she? Well, then. Please come in."
The door opened onto a dark hallway. The older man led him inside, and in short order, Sam found himself sitting at an old, linoleum table in the basement kitchen. The overhead lights hummed as they were flicked on, one by one, and then his host glanced over his shoulder.
"My name is Reverend Wilson. What's your name?" He asked, pulling dishes down from the cupboards.
"Tom." He replied automatically, "Tom Parker."
The older man chuckled as he filled a kettle from the tap and put it on the stove. "Well, Tom Parker. What kind of tea would you prefer? I have peppermint or chamomile."
"Um… chamomile." He replied, before adding, "Please and thank-you."
The reverend pulled a small, green box out of the cupboard before adding a tea bag to the two mugs sitting on the counter. Then, he began rummaging through another cupboard as the kettle started steaming.
"It's been a while since I had a guest." He said, apologetically, as he turned around to present two cans for Sam's inspection, "Would you prefer baked beans or Progresso chicken noodle?"
Sam stared at the two cans for a long moment, self-conscious and uncertain, when his stomach growled loudly enough to hear. Sam's face went hot with embarrassment, but before he could say anything, the older man was digging a can opener out of the cutlery drawer.
"I'll heat up the chicken noodle, and you can help yourself to anything in the cupboards later if you're still hungry." The older man paused, before glancing at him meaningfully, "Anything, Tom. It's here to be eaten, understand?"
Sam's face was burning now, but he nodded slowly in acknowledgment. The Reverend turned back around, dumping the can of soup into a large plastic bowl, before popping it into the microwave. By that time, the kettle had started to whistle, so the Reverend took it off the stove, filling their cups to the brim.
"Do you take anything with your tea?" He asked, setting the kettle aside and picking up both mugs by their handles.
"No, thank-you." Sam murmured softly.
The Reverend nodded as he set the mugs down, one in front of Sam and the other at the empty spot across from him. Sam reached out, curling his hands around the warm ceramic. The Reverend quickly set the table—cutlery, dinner rolls, crackers, butter, salt and pepper, and a glass of water. The soup followed suit a moment later, and Sam's mouth flooded with saliva at the smell of noodles, diced vegetables, and chicken.
The Reverend sat down at the table, before nodding towards the bowl.
"Go on, son." He urged, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "Don't dawdle on my account."
Sam picked up his spoon and started eating. The soup burned his mouth, but he barely noticed—it was the first real food that he had eaten in twenty-four hours. The Reverend pushed the sleeve of crackers across the table. Sam accepted the offering without further prompting, before tearing open the package and crumbling a half-dozen crackers into his bowl.
The Reverend waited until Sam had put an appreciable dent in his soup before asking, kindly, "So, how long have you known June?"
Sam paused, spoon half-way to his mouth, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "I, uh, don't know her. Not really. We only met a few hours ago."
The Reverend took another drink of his tea, before fixing Sam with a contemplative look. "Oh?"
Sam nodded, taking another handful of crackers and dropping them into his bowl. "Yeah. We were at the laundromat together. She suggested I spend the night here, rather than walking back to the bus station."
The Reverend huffed a wry laugh. "Good gracious. No wonder she sent you. A boy like you has no business wandering around north-central after dark."
Sam gave the Reverend a wry smile. "So she told me."
The Reverend chuckled quietly as he finished his tea, and then he got up to put his mug in the sink. Sam spooned the last of the soup into his mouth, before taking his dishes to the sink as well.
"You still hungry, Tom?" The Reverend asked, pinning Sam with a serious look, "The food's nothing fancy, but it'll fill your belly."
Sam's smile was small but genuine in return. "I'm good, sir, thank-you."
The Reverend nodded, before leading Sam out of the kitchen. The basement was dark and relatively empty, except for a few dozen plastic chairs stacked against one wall. The Reverend crossed the room to open an otherwise nondescript door set beneath the staircase that presumably led to the rectory. He leaned inside, flicking on the overhead light to reveal a small but comfortable sleeping area. There were three iron-framed cots against the back wall, each with its own pile of tidy linens and a pillow. The room was otherwise empty except for an old bureau against one wall and an armchair against the other.
"It's not much, but it's warm and dry." The Reverend said, before stepping aside so Sam could inspect the little room, "There's a bathroom in the hallway. Do you need anything before I go upstairs?"
Sam's throat tightened with sudden emotion, and he shook his head in reply.
The Reverend's expression softened perceptibly. "Get some sleep, Tom. I'll make you breakfast in the morning, and then we'll head on over to the bus station together, alright?"
The older man left the room, and a moment later, Sam could hear the creak of wood overhead as he climbed the stairs. Sam waited until he heard a door open and close, and then he released the breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. The room was cool and musty with an old, faded carpet worn from decades of wear. Sam slowly sat down on the nearest cot—the metal frame groaned under his weight.
All at once, the full enormity of the day's events hit him like a freight train. Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. He knew that his life was over. There would be no returning to Boston after this—he would never see Bill or Lizzie or Maccadam's or his apartment ever again. He had no idea why the Prime's Special Operations were targeting him, but there would be no escaping them, not indefinitely. Not without help.
Sam sat on the cot for a long while, misery and fear burning a hole in his chest. Eventually, he scrubbed a hand across his face and started pulling off his things. His shoes were first, which he placed neatly at the end of the bed, and then his jacket was next. He left the room long enough to use the bathroom, and then he returned, shutting off the overhead light and laying down on the cot. He didn't bother with the linens—he just grabbed the pillow, stuffing it under his head, before pulling the faded floral-print quilt over himself. He shivered. The basement was drafty, and his jeans were still damp.
It was only then, in the privacy of a church basement somewhere in north Philadelphia, that Sam finally gave into his grief.
It was almost full-dark by the time Jazz made it to Providence. Lennox watched as the Pontiac Solstice pulled into the parking lot and flashed his high beams. Ironhide was already popping open the driver's side door before Will could even reach for the handle.
"Thanks." He said wryly, climbing out of the cabin.
The low, smooth rumble of Ironhide's engines followed Will across the parking lot. Jazz opened the door as he approached, and Will slipped into the driver's seat without preamble. The seat belt snaked across his torso of its own accord, and then they were accelerating towards the road.
"How was the traffic?" Will asked, idly.
The seat belt tightened fractionally in exasperation. "Montreal was a shit-show, as usual, but Vermont and New Hampshire were fine."
Jazz slowed to a stop as the light at the intersection turned red. Will glanced in the rearview mirror to see Sunstreaker and Ironhide in tight formation behind them. He could vaguely make out the sleeping form of Killian Anderson in Sunstreaker's front seat. The sight caused Will's mouth to twist in a grimace. The marine was able to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter the circumstances. Will rubbed the grit out of his eyes as he stared steadfastly at the road in front of them. He doubted he would be able to sleep until they had their wayward cassette safe in hand.
The traffic light turned green, and then Jazz was driving through the intersection. It was only after they had navigated through the outskirts of the city and back onto the highway that Will fixed the dashboard with an expectant look.
"Well?" He asked.
Jazz did not pretend to misunderstand him. "The cleaners finished at his apartment. They didn't find anything we weren't already expecting. Kid lived a pretty solitary life. Prowl finished the background check a few hours ago—same deal. No relevant medical history. No evidence of close friendships. He calls his mother every Sunday like clockwork, but otherwise he doesn't socialize."
Will propped an elbow against the doorframe, resting his head on his fist. "His computer?"
Jazz changed lanes to get around a Kia Forte doing forty-five. "Like I said—nothin' we weren't expecting. He spent a lot of time on the dark-net under the alias Cypher217."
Despite the fact that their situation seemed to be going from bad to worse with every new revelation about the kid, Will couldn't prevent the wry smile that turned up the corner of his mouth.
"And Prowl didn't tag him?" He asked, "He's never going to live it down. We've been on the look-out for two years."
He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug in return. "The kid was smart. He was careful about his IP address, never disclosed any personally-identifiable information. He rarely posted anything, and when he did, he piggybacked off public Wi-Fi. The stuff he did post never hit our radar—he didn't fall for any of our usual honeypots, either." Jazz chuckled quietly, "What can I say? I'd be impressed if he weren't being such a pain in my aft."
Will grimaced as he stared sightlessly through the windshield. The kid was intelligent, cautious, creative—it did not bode well for a cross-country manhunt.
"Any red-flags?" He asked eventually.
"He spent a lot of time on anti-occupation, pro-federalism forums." Jazz replied, "He wasn't radicalized per se, but his activity was enough to build a profile. I'm not surprised he ran, but I am surprised he opened the door for you in the first place. Kid's wary of strangers."
Will scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his previous humor abruptly gone. "He'll never come willingly. This has the potential to get very ugly, very fast."
"We'll do what we can to minimize fall-out." Jazz replied grimly, "But one way or another, the kid's gettin' to the island. Blaster and Ratchet will know what to do when he gets there. It'll be alright."
The reassurance did nothing to mollify the sinking dread in Will's stomach. It'll be alright . The kid had been inhaling anti-Autobot sentiment for over four years. It was obvious that he was terrified of them, and frightened people did stupid things—even ones as brilliant as Sam.
As if sensing his thoughts, Jazz added, "The intake room is ready for him. We'll get him safe, stabilized. He'll come around eventually—we won't make the same mistakes again."
Will didn't reply, and Jazz didn't press him. They drove the rest of the way to Hartford, Connecticut in silence.
It was well past midnight by the time Jazz ordered them to stand-down for the evening. The Greyhound station had been a bust, but the security footage they retrieved gave them the first clear picture of Sam Witwicky since the CCTV footage from the Boston subway. Jazz sent it to Prowl for dissemination, but Will privately doubted it would help matters. They couldn't share the picture through law enforcement channels, and even if they could, no officer was going to glance twice at his BOLO description. Sam didn't stand out—that was the problem.
Will was tetchy and wrung-out by the time they made it to the motel on the outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut. Their intel suggested that Sam was heading to Georgia, which made New York City, Philadelphia, or Baltimore the most likely cities for a lay-over. Will grimaced, bouncing his leg anxiously as Jazz pulled into the parking lot. That was assuming Sam was traveling by train or bus—he could be hitchhiking along the back roads or he could have hotwired a vehicle. Sam didn't have his license, but that wouldn't matter.
The driver's side door opened on its own accord. "Head inside."
Will gave the dashboard a baleful look. "We should keep going. We can take New York—the Port Authority and Grand Central Station would be the most likely hubs."
The seatbelt unlatched from the buckle and the seat slid all the way back in an obvious warning. "Lennox, get out or I'll toss you out."
Lennox flushed in anger and frustration, but he climbed out of the car all the same. The door snapped shut behind him at the same time Jazz's holoform walked out of the main office with two sets of keys. He tossed the first set to Killian, who caught it one-handed, before approaching an otherwise nondescript door and sliding the key into the lock. A moment later, he pushed open the door and snapped on the overhead light.
"Go have a shower." Jazz ordered firmly, "I'll send Kelley for some supper."
Will bristled at being ordered around like a wet-behind-the-ears recruit. He squared his shoulders as he stepped into the room. It looked like every other chain motel that he had rented over the years: two queen-sized beds against one wall, a wooden dresser against the other, and a small flatscreen television on a stand in the corner. For some reason, the mundaneness of the room irritated him beyond measure.
"What do you need?" Jazz asked, abruptly.
Will glanced sidelong at the holoform, which was standing with his arms folded over his chest and an expectant expression on his face.
"I need to get back on the road." Will bit back, heedless of the provocation.
The holoform's expression cooled, but rather than commenting on Will's insubordination, he cocked his head and asked, "When was the last time you slept, Lennox?"
Will's flush returned, spreading warmth across his face. He hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, but he had been restless the entire time they were in Boston. It had driven Epps up the fucking wall.
Evidentially, his silence spoke volumes, for Jazz's expression hardened fractionally in response. He crossed the room to stand in front of Will, so close that their chests were almost touching, and then he reached out, grasping Will by the back of his neck. The touch was firm and dry—it made Will go very still.
"And when's the last time you docked?" Jazz asked, voice soft.
Will looked away, his face heating with embarrassment.
"You know when." He managed, wetting his lips, "You were there."
Jazz stroked a thumb along the side of Will's neck. The touch was firm and gentle—grounding. After a moment, the holoform turned him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle push towards the bathroom.
"Go shower. The sooner you get some sleep, the sooner we can all get back on the road."
The absence of Jazz's hand against the back of his neck felt like a physical loss. Still, Will didn't argue or protest. He made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and shucking his clothing. It took a few moments for the water to heat up enough to climb into the shower, but when he did, he grunted in appreciation. The water pressure was strong enough to strip paint off a boat, and Will washed away the sweat and dust he accumulated from a long day on the road.
When he finished, he pulled aside the shower curtain to find a folded towel and sleep pants stacked neatly on the counter. He couldn't prevent the twitch of his lips as he stepped onto the bath mat and began drying off. By the time he ambled out of the bathroom a few moments later, the table was crowded with take-out containers.
"Feeling better?" Jazz asked dryly.
Will shrugged noncommittally as he padded over towards the table. A quick glance at the containers revealed that Kelley had gotten a spread—there was chicken lo mein, two different kinds of dumplings, pork wontons, and egg rolls. He was aware of Jazz's eyes on his back as he pulled out a chair and began eating.
"What do you need, Will?" He asked, voice intense.
"I need you to stop pestering me." Will grumbled, taking an angry bite of wonton.
Jazz said nothing further on the subject. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, seemingly content to watch him eat. Will was just finishing the chicken lo mein when he felt a warning touch inside his mind. He glanced over to watch as Ironhide's holoform materialized in the middle of the room. The expression on the weapon specialist's face was difficult to interpret, but there was no misunderstanding the rigid set of his shoulders.
"So, I see you managed to get him to eat something." Ironhide grumbled.
"I did." Jazz agreed, dipping his head.
"Don't talk about me like I can't hear you." Will snapped.
Ironhide and Jazz exchanged a knowing look with one another, which only served to irritate Will further. He tossed his fork into the half empty container, before pushing to his feet. The two holoforms watched as he grabbed the blankets on the nearest bed, pulling them down far enough to climb underneath.
"Wake me up if you hear anything." He said, rolling over to stare at the wall. "I mean it."
His words were met with a heavy silence that lasted only until Jazz slid into bed behind him. The holoform pressed close against his back, draping his arm over Will's waist.
"What do you need?" He murmured, nuzzling the back of Will's neck.
Will twitched his shoulders in a get off me way, but Jazz was undeterred. He grasped Will's hip, giving him a little squeeze, and then the mattress dipped again as Ironhide laid down on the other side of him. Will soon found himself pressed between the two holoforms, their hands familiar where they pressed against him, even in the dark.
"Close your eyes, sweetspark." Jazz murmured, "We're right here with you."
Slowly, reluctantly, Will obeyed. The weight of their bodies pressed against him served to soothe some of the anxious energy that was making his skin crawl, but no matter how he shifted or tried to get comfortable, he couldn't settle down. He knew what Sam was going through right now. He had spent decades on his own until they found him. The loneliness, the paranoia, the sense of being lost and incomplete and abnormal—
Ironhide stroked his hand over the side of Will's face, the pad of his thumb tracing the line of his mouth. "What'dya need, Will?"
Will shuddered under the familiar touch.
Behind him, Jazz shifted closer to press a kiss against the knob of his spine. "Say the word, Will. I know you can do it."
It was his tone that finally did it—coaxing, encouraging, firm. Will's breath hitched in his throat as he managed, almost too quietly to hear, "...Please."
Will felt, rather than saw, the smile curling Jazz's mouth.
"Good boy," Jazz murmured, causing Will to shudder in response, "Hands and knees, baby. Let us take care of you."
EXPLICIT SCENE REMOVED – If you want to read this scene, please head to AO3 and search the author: Arabis
Will was carefully and meticulously wiped down, before being tucked back into bed. Ironhide slid a hand under Will's shoulders as he brought a bottle of water to his lips. Will drank deeply until the water was taken away again, and then he flopped back against the mattress, breath still unsteady. Ironhide slid beneath the blankets a moment later, and Jazz followed suit shortly thereafter. They pressed against him as they did before, but this time the physical touch was soothing.
By the time Ironhide took his leave to begin patrol, Will was already fast asleep.
Jazz stayed by his side throughout the night, watchful for the restless fidgeting that always preceded the worst of a cassette's fits. The night was thankfully uneventful, however, and by the time early morning sunshine was streaming through the blinds, Jazz was satisfied that Lennox would be mission-ready by departure time.
Jazz hummed low in his throat, carding his fingers through Will's hair. The man shifted closer in his sleep, as cassettes are wont to do.
/Jazz./ Prowl's voice suddenly interrupted the quiet reverie.
In the parking lot, Jazz rocked on his wheels in good-natured humor. /Prowler, sweetspark. How's my favorite conjunx doin'? Tell me you've got some good news for us./
The answering press of discretion revised Jazz's threat-level several percentage points higher than his previous calculation.
/Red Alert has flagged movements of certain parties./ Prowl replied, all business, /There are unfriendlies mobilizing south./
Jazz's good mood was gone in an instant. "Fuck." He muttered, the human vulgarity rolling off his tongue as he tightened his arms around Lennox's sleeping form. He looked peaceful like this, chest rising and falling with each breath—it was the most relaxed that Jazz had seen him in weeks. He felt a momentary pang of regret as he shook Will awake. The cassette's eyes snapped open in an instant, before landing on Jazz in hazy confusion.
"Sorry, babe. We gotta go—the timeline just got stepped up in a big way."
M.E.C.H.
DO NOT COPY/CONFIDENTIAL
File number: HX0004
Name: Oliver "Bones" Matthew Collins
Born: 1943
Place of Birth: London, England
Laterality: Right
Languages: English, French
Height: 189 cm
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Abilities:
Enhanced lifespan
Above average intelligence (IQ 170)
Tactician
Notes:
Known associates of mechanoids "Blaster" (XX0013), "Prowl"
(XX0003), "Ripcord" (XX0069), "Red Alert" (XX0006).
Presumed Retired. Agent XXXX XXXX successfully XXXX
XXXXX XXXXXXX on XXXX. Continue to monitor.
Opportunity level: Low. Rarely leaves base.
Threat level: Low, non-combatant.
Priority level: Low
On-Sight Orders: Contain and extract if possible, otherwise
lethal force is authorized.
