Part 28
By the way that Mirage and Bumblebee fidgeted, Jazz already guessed why they were in his office.
He tossed his datapad down on his workstation and leaned forward, resting his helm in his hands. No one spoke for a moment as he groaned. Several other datapads lay haphazardly scattered over his workstation, and as his elbow nudged one, a handful spilled onto the floor.
Bumblebee stooped and gathered them up, putting them in a neat little pile without a word. That the top datapad's screen had a list of Soundwave's fiction told them where their boss' headache came from.
"You wouldn't come here for nothing," Jazz muttered. "But you ain't talking. So it's something I ain't wanting to hear."
"Yes, sir," Mirage said in a small voice, staring at the wall.
"So it's gotta be about this damn story slag," Jazz said.
"Sorry, sir," Bumblebee said in an even smaller voice.
"And it's probably about me."
"No, sir," Mirage said, straightening. "It's about...well, car culture."
"That's what it was tagged, at least," Bumblebee said. "As well as war culture, civvies, and cross-faction."
"What?" Jazz looked at the datapad that Mirage held out. He grimaced as if it was a scraplet, but with a vent, he took it and began scrolling. "...the hell?"
Spec Ops #542 - War Games, Warring Sparks
The steel gauntlet had been thrown, and personal pride was on the line. First Aid rolled to the white line, his engine rumbling in time with his nerves. Representing the Ark's medbots placed horrible pressure on the little bot. Why was he pitting his own skills against that of Sunstreaker, infamous front liner?
The golden bot rolled up beside him, revving his engine in clear challenge. Sunlight gleamed off his perfect finish, unmarred somehow even by the dust blown up by their tires. Sunstreaker didn't feel like he was racing to win-he would be racing against his own time, not counting on First Aid to provide much of a fight.
Medbots on one side, front liners on the other, all of them calling out encouragement and trash talk. Ratchet promised extra shifts if First Aid didn't win, and the front liners promised dented fenders if he did.
On the sidelines, seated precariously on a rocky outcropping with all the balance of an earth cat, Jazz languidly lifted his right hand. If Sunstreaker was golden, then Jazz was a gleaming silhouette of white and black, no less miraculous for how he could vanish in plain sight—
Jazz broke off and glanced at his mechs.
"He goes on like that for another page," Mirage said, knowing where Jazz had read to without even looking. "Sorry."
Jazz vented again. At least it wasn't out and out perversion this time. He skimmed the worshipful paragraphs about himself until he found the last line with his name.
—with a carefree laugh, Jazz let his hand fall.
First Aid and Sunstreaker both launched from the line, flying down the straightaway so that dust hid both of them for a moment. On the first inside turn, Sunstreaker slowed just a touch, careful not to scrape his tires on the rocky gravel. Surprisingly, despite the heavier load on his back, First Aid kept up, leaning dangerously into the turn so that they pulled even on the next curve.
Uphill on a thirty degree slant, First Aid lost ground as he chewed the dirt, struggling to force his way despite the pain in his tires. Bouncing rocks clanged against his undercarriage, and when he came up to the top, he spotted Sunstreaker already halfway down, letting gravity pull him faster.
Firstaid's doorwings almost drooped. Even as he forced himself to follow, how could he possibly catch up?
"Did you forget where your acceleration is?" Ratchet yelled into his comm. "You're faster than this!"
"But he's so much sportier than I am!" Firstaid wailed. "I can't—"
"Ain't no can't in this mech's army," Ratchet said. "I got a wounded mech here on the finish line. Now you turn your sirens on and get here before that golden-aft 'Con, and that's an order!"
Something inside of Firstaid clicked. The race faded. This was a battle, and he had wounded to transport. His sirens blazed a clarion call as he accelerated, roaring up after Sunstreaker as if he was a Decepticon enemy. Startled by the medbot, Sunstreaker leaned away, hitting the shoulder and losing speed, then caught himself and drew even again.
Fender to fender, they left clouds of dust drifting across the terrain, blinding their audience as they rounded the far tower and began their return. Sunstreaker's engine purred ecstatically with the surprise of a worthy challenge, and First Aid pushed himself to the utmost to satisfy his commander's demands.
The finish line was in sight. They both opened full throttle, heedless of how they might stop themselves later, and passed by Jazz so close together that it was impossible to tell who had been in the lead.
Both drifted around to slow themselves, coming to a halt amidst the dust, transforming as they took in deep, cooling vents. As the medbots and frontliners ran in, each faction cheering their own champion, Jazz jumped from his perch and displayed the final recorded image from the race.
First Aid, a bare .01 span ahead.
First Aid stared in wonder while the rest of the medbots cheered and slapped him on the back and promised questionable fuels that Jazz magnanimously pretended not to hear. Sunstreaker, ignoring the consoling words from his comrades, turned to First Aid and nodded once, giving the ambulance a small punch to the shoulder.
"Gotta admit," he said. "I'll feel better on the battlefield knowing you're there."
Jostled by his friends, hearing the satisfied praise of his commanding officer in his audios, First Aid felt like he could fly.
Jazz put the datapad down with a hard thunk.
"That son of a bitch."
Ignoring the wide optics of his mechs, Jazz stood and paced. He couldn't pace far before he had to stop. Using a glorified broom closet as his office, barely big enough for himself and his desk, had been a way of keeping the other officers out of his way. Ironhide couldn't squish himself inside far enough to loom threateningly about one of Jazz's mechs disregarding orders, and Prowl couldn't stand his doorwings brushing the walls whenever he turned.
But it made pacing damn near impossible.
Jazz heaved a deep sigh and looked at Bumblebee. "He churn out any more of these?"
Bumblebee nodded. "Spec Ops #543 - Race to the Finish, Race to Victory. Spec Ops #544 - Spinning Out the Battlefield, and Spec Ops #545 - Hill Climb Beyond the Clouds."
Mirage coughed. "You're in all of them, but only as a side-character. Maybe he's gotten the hint?"
"Oh no," Jazz snorted without any trace of humor. "Subtlety ain't got nothing on this mech. No, I ain't the star this time 'cause I'm the one he's writing to."
Bumblebee and Mirage both seemed to consider that, that these were sorts of love letters from a swooning mech, and then Bumblebee made a soft sound of understanding.
"Yeah, that does make sense," he said. "I wondered why he was still writing under the same pseudonym when he was getting all those flames."
Jazz tilted his helm. "'Flames'?"
"Um, really mean comments," Bumblebee said. "See the little ticky box on the side? If you click it, you can see all the things everyone said about the story. All of his stories have hundreds now, and the arguing is spreading out onto other stories that he didn't even write."
Jazz froze. His optics widened. He felt like the floor had opened up underneath him and he'd started to plummet down into darkness. His vents came shallow, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't make himself breathe deep. He kept such strong control over himself that neither of his mechs noticed.
"He still has fans," Mirage said. "And some of those fans are being called traitors while other mechs are taking their sides. It's getting nasty, but it's hard to tell who's who when everyone's under a fake name."
That meant hundreds of mechs on hundreds of stories, all of them yelling and squawking and threatening to blow each other up. And the only way to figure out who was who would be to dive into that mass of hate and gossip and try to piece together screennames and writing styles and topics, matching them to work hours and time off, friends online to friends on the Ark. It'd be a database slog through hell, and all of it was landing on Jazz's lap.
His vents dragged through his filters as if he was suddenly clogged with road dust. Leaning against his desk, Jazz opened a line to Prowl.
Prowler, he called out. Prowler?
The response was instant.
Jazz, what is wrong? Talk to me.
Over the connection, although Jazz could hear nothing, he all but felt Prowl moving out of his chair, opening his office and heading down the hall. Prowl wouldn't take long, but the seconds dragged as his internal clock tried to grind to a halt.
Dammit, I said talk to me. That's an order, a direct order.
...think my workload just went infinite, Jazz said, pressing his hand on his helm. I told you we shoulda shot all the writers.
That would be murder, Prowl reminded him, not relaxing just because Jazz could still crack a joke. Jazz had made his whole squad laugh just before collapsing after a mission. Plus, that last comment might not have been a joke.
Ain't gotta be fatal, Jazz said. Just wing 'em. Make 'em limp so we know who all the perverts are.
Prowl came around the corner. Waving Bumblebee and Mirage out, Prowl came inside and sealed the door again, closing himself and Jazz away from prying eyes.
Jazz looked miserable. Helm down, shoulders drooped, his doorwings all but trailing on the desk-Prowl came around and cupped Jazz's faceplate in his palm, lifting his helm slightly.
Jazz?
"Prowler...did you know that all those stories got comments after 'em?" Jazz leaned heavily against Prowl. "From the readers."
Prowl processed that, then stood slightly.
"I had been aware of this," he said. "Although I had not tried to examine them. There was too much to deal with at the time to focus on reader commentary when it seemed that the writer and the story was all that mattered."
"Y'know, I should have figured," Jazz said, stepping close and burying his face in Prowl's neck cables. "I mean, Ratchet even showed me some of Starscream's. It just...it just didn't click, y'know? Like, this pile of slag just keeps going deeper and deeper, and I keep shoveling it and..."
"What's the matter?" Prowl asked, holding him. "Why is this so bad?"
"Soundwave," Jazz muttered, engine rumbling contentedly as Prowl held him tighter at that. "He's stirring up a hornet's nest and I don't think I can dig through all it. It's just so much and..."
Jazz's voice faded as he rested against Prowl's hood. Rather than ask for more, Prowl leaned over and picked up Jazz's discarded datapad, scanning the story.
"Oh, his latest handful," Prowl said, scrolling down. "He still has a fixation on you."
"Can't blame him," Jazz said, rumbling more as Prowl's free hand expertly worked out a kink in his doorwing joint. "I been told I'm real shiny."
"And just as much of a handful," Prowl said. "In your own way."
As Jazz chuckled unrepentedly, Prowl clicked the comment ticky box and scrolled down. And down. And down. His brow furrowed as he realized the story had garnered well over a thousand comments, many of them insults and jibes hurled at both Soundwave and the story. Some of them were death threats and demands that Soundwave self-destruct. Others were praise, wishes for him to "hang in there against the haters" and...
Prowl stood straight, reading the comment in full. And the next.
Pacifist-Punch: I really enjoyed how you showed us ambulances in a positive light. It's so rare we receive any recognition. Usually mechs are so afraid of us. Well, they're afraid of Ratchet and the rest of us by proxy, I guess, and the last ride some of them take with us. I don't know that an ambulance would beat Sunny, but I guess a former Decepticon would know how awful it is for a medic out on the battlefield.
Hippie-Mech: Them other mechs may not appreciate what you're trying to do, but I for one am grooving to your beat. It can't be easy for a beatbox to get the down-low on the streetside, but maybe we can take a spin some day when this crazy war is over. Got some sweet nature preserves and hidden grottoes that just soothe the spark. Decepticon and Autobot riding together, wouldn't that just sing the universe back together?
Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: I don't know who's talking to you down there, but while your understanding of racing is getting better, I just don't know if I can wrap my cortex around wargames. Racing ain't the same as shooting, after all. Though I'd be lying if I didn't get some kinda satisfaction from bullseye'ing Ironhide's target range ten outta ten.
"Soundwave listened to me," Prowl murmured, tapping the datapad thoughtfully. "He is trying to understand car culture."
Grumbling that the massage had stopped, Jazz began kissing Prowl's neck cables instead, trying to regain his full attention.
"He's trying to show me war games ain't all bad," Jazz said. "Last time we talked, he swore up and down that my way of killing was...admirable."
Prowl heard the catch in Jazz's voice, the hesitation that belied how much the other mech hated his work. None of them were sparked for armaments or to shoot other bots, and yet they had become so adept that they might as well have been created as warbuilds. Civilian mechs and warbuilds were, as Prowl had put it, five point nine percent out of tune. That Soundwave could try to bridge that gap through his fiction had not even registered in Prowl's calculations.
"I did not anticipate Soundwave's attempt ," Prowl said. "I will require a full report of your dialogue with Soundwave. And I will require a full cross-reference of commenters on his stories-his admirers and his worst detractors. We cannot allow death threats to a prisoner in custody."
Jazz whimpered and held him tight.
"Jazz-"
"Prowler," Jazz murmured against his throat. "If it was just reading and figuring out the where's and why-fore's, I could do it upside-down and backwards. But all'a what you're saying—you're gonna need more than writing styles. You need shift times and time stamps and...and I ain't no data cruncher."
Prowl glanced down at him, absorbing that comment and the way Jazz's voice wavered. Jazz was many things-saboteur, spy, commanding officer-and now expert on a multitude of earth cultures, but Jazz also refused to sit still long enough for a briefing. If Prowl honestly imagined what would happen if he forced Jazz to sit down and create a database, let alone begin to "crunch the data" into something meaningful...
Jazz would probably slice his own cables to keep from going mad.
Prowl put the datapad down and held him with both hands.
"If you give me two or three of your mechs," Prowl said slowly, "and if I can have some of our other known readers-First Aid, perhaps—then I can sort this all out on my own. I could not force you to do this."
Jazz looked up with such a startled, open mouth that Prowl couldn't resist, pressing a kiss that smoldered no less for the sudden knife scraping at his hood.
"Sorry," Prowl hissed, leaning back inch by inch as the knife slid uncomfortably close to his armor joints. "Sorry, sorry—should have asked you."
The knife flicked shut and retracted back into Jazz's arm as the smaller mech frowned, somehow glaring despite the visor.
"Yeah," Jazz grumbled, flinching out of Prowl's arms and taking a step back. "You should have."
The fake smile came back, grinning as he half-shrugged. "Ain't no thing. You got Mirage and Bumblebee, and I'll go run down a couple more mechs for ya, get a head start on talking to Soundwave 'bout all this."
Prowl had to move sideways to allow Jazz to walk by, feeling like Jazz was slipping through Prowl's fingers, and he didn't know what to say. Jazz's trust was a fragile thing, and Prowl had gone and run roughshod over it.
Jazz—
Later, bossmech. Much later.
Prowl winced. The curt tone was unmistakable, even over the toneless comm signal. Odds of apologizing and repairing this rift peaked at 77% and fell further every klik.
He isolated his feelings-regret, embarrassment, his desire to see Jazz happy—and wrapped them up into a data packet. Adding a promise of anything, anything at all, Prowl sent the data packet to Jazz and heard a responding ping to acknowledge receipt. And silence.
Prowl waited a moment, then vented when he realized Jazz wasn't going to open that data packet until later.
Much later, apparently.