Part 34
Soundwave put his data pad down, folding his hands on top of it. He would have no shield between him and Jazz, would have his hands in clear view. The autobot was already irate, tapping his fingers on the table, the sharp black points small but visible against the gray surface. One stray move triggering Jazz's algorithms could have the smaller mech up and across the table in an instant, and then Soundwave might be living out the bad endings of some of his stories.
"...Jazz, dedicated," he started slowly.
Jazz scoffed, tilting his helm. "All'a the autobots are dedicated."
"Dedicated to goal," Soundwave clarified. "Focused on mission, on war. Other bots, distractable."
"So are decepticons," Jazz said. "Hell, I caught Slicer doing circuit-speeders while he was on duty."
Soundwave dipped his helm in acknowledgment. "True. Warbuild culture ideal of discipline not always followed. Tedium allows for many vulnerabilities in defense. Many dead decepticons."
Jazz grinned. "Very true. Always glad when you all got—ahem, when they got a little lazy on patrols, slacked off a bit on guard duty. Made my job a lot easier."
Soundwave closed his optics. He had reviewed all of the security files after every breach. The splatter of fuel and oil were impossible to forget. Jazz's grin brought back the memories of mechs splayed in their chairs or felled on either side of long corridors, their limbs askew and limp.
Was Jazz baiting him? Taunting him? For what purpose? Soundwave estimated Jazz's reaction to be teasing at less than 25%. He reset his optics. Jazz's grin was overly wide, obviously artificial—his light voice nothing like any other time he had discussed killing mechs. 75% chance that Jazz did not want to show his real feelings about all the mechs he had killed. And yet his voice was steady without any hesitation. 99% chance that Jazz had come to terms with being responsible for so many grayed out decepticons.
"Many mechs," Soundwave said with a nod. "Over two thousand assassinations, not including battlefield casualties."
The grin faded to nothing, and Jazz turned away.
"That many, huh?" Jazz vented. "I never kept count."
"Soundwave, kept accurate records for file," he said. The rueful, cynical smile that appeared on his faceplate was entirely unconscious. "All defenses consistently failed against Jazz. Little more to do than act as decepticon's best calculator. Gave some small feeling of control."
Jazz's look was unreadable.
"Two thousand," he echoed. "Ain't sound right; feels like I offlined a lot more."
"Kill count is minimal compared to other mechs," Soundwave admitted. "Frontliners, seekers, higher kill counts. But Jazz kill count disproportionate in effect—most were high ranking officers and command cadre. Each base incursion left faction scrambling to secure chain of command."
"Well, that was the point," Jazz said softly. "If I was risking my aft, I wanted the most bang for my buck."
Nodding, Soundwave followed the human idiom easily. Jazz felt his shoulder struts relax a little, comfortable in how he didn't have to explain earth culture as he sometimes had to even for bots who had been here for ages.
"Jazz, always successful," Soundwave said. "Even during rare instances when caught."
"If I got caught," Jazz said, his voice tightening, "I usually meant to. And killed any of y'all's torturers on the way out."
"I am aware as I had to account for the loss in assets to the war," Soundwave said. "Most notable of deactivated decepticon interrogators, Cord-cutter, Shrapnel and Fray."
"Tch." Jazz tapped the table a little faster. "Buddies of yours?"
Pausing, Soundwave frowned at the implication. Interrogator mechs were not well liked in their own faction, although there were few decepticons who would be so vulnerable as to admitting any kind of friendship with one another.
"These mechs, known only as other decepticons. Personnel files include their failures and weaknesses." He shrugged. "And approximate times and methods of death."
"Yeah, Prowler mentioned you had dirt on almost every decepticon." Jazz shook his head once, whistling lowly. "Don't know how you two keep all'a that in your processors. Planning and calculating all that..."
Soundwave sat straight with a puff of pride, helm raised.
"Mech files held in deep storage. Accessed only when needed. Not used for day to day plans or strategy. Strategy files only require mech percentages: munitions, armor rating, top speeds. Megatron, not Soundwave, in charge of daily assignments. Mech files are for..."
He coughed, clearing his vents.
"Unimportant. Jazz's previous assertion correct. Decepticons, distractable. Previous discussion will continue."
His hope that Jazz would allow that, however, dwindled as the bot turned to face him.
"Mech files are for...?" Jazz prompted.
"Mech files, completely turned over to Prowl," Soundwave said. "This inquiry, unnecessary."
"Bugging you is some small recompense for putting up with your slag," Jazz said. "Come on, dish."
The changes flitting across Soundwave's face enthralled Jazz. Without the mask and visor to hide behind, Soundwave's lowered his optics, his eye ridges furrowing in taut concern. His mouth drew into a pout, and Jazz choked on the laugh that almost slipped out of him. Soundwave, terror of the Decepticons, looked like a sullen sparkling.
Soundwave swallowed his argument. Jazz held all the power here—Soundwave was merely a prisoner. Under the autobot's authority, he had no idea what his proper role or function should be, so he could only follow commands and hope for the best.
"Mech files contain all discovered weaknesses, doubts and failures of every noted decepticon. Many secrets found by catching stray thoughts from their processors. Secrets..." Soundwave paused. "Secrets valuable currency among decepticons."
"You were blackmailing 'em," Jazz said slowly. "Your own faction."
Frustration began to color Soundwave's voice, giving his synthetic voice a bitter tinge.
"Decepticon faction difficult enough to run efficiently. Soldiers consumed by their own interests and ambitions. Mech files provided only leverage beyond threats of offlining. All the faith in Meg-Meg-Megatron's initial desires—the eradication of autobot mastery, the rejection of the functionalists...gone."
Jazz, however, was only giving one audio to Soundwave's complaint. The rest of his attention was caught by the light gleaming off the curve of Soundwave's faceplate
He blinked and shook his helm once, disgusted with himself. He was no newly sparked protoform to get overheated by a smooth, polished...shiny...
Bots could be painstakingly particular about their paint. Some mechs had absolutely no taste, coloring themselves in garish neons that hurt the optics. Others were perfectionists—Sunstreaker mixed his own paint and once caved in a mech's faceplate for swiping a handful of wax. Whereas everyone came with somewhat interchangeable parts, replacing wires and plating and gears, a bot's paint job was individual.
Soundwave's deep shade of blue naturally drew Jazz's look. His face, so long hidden behind a mask and visor, likewise demanded to be stared at, to be studied. His optics, a rare gold among decepticon red, didn't glow so much as they burned.
As Soundwave fidgeted, acutely aware of being studied, his fingers came to rest on the table, quietly tapping at the edge. Jazz glanced at them briefly. Not as delicate as his own, Soundwave likely couldn't manage the finesse and fine balance of a blade. Jazz knew from experience that Soundwave preferred his own brute strength, in the rare instances when he had to resort to fighting.
"Jazz..."
He blinked, looking back up at Soundwave.
"Yeah?"
"Jazz...infiltrated decepticon bases many times."
Jazz shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
"Infiltrated bases...where I did not realize." Soundwave paused. "Opportunity to kill Soundwave, presented itself many times?"
"...a few times," Jazz said. "Closest I ever came was just ten or twelve feet away, moving behind your workstation. Can't pretend I wasn't tempted."
Soundwave frowned. "Soundwave, left alive. Query—why?"
"Heh. Most mechs wouldn't question that."
"Soundwave, not most mechs."
Jazz sighed, stretching out as he settled more comfortably in his seat. "Guess not. Prowler never authorized killing ya, and I didn't second guess him. When it comes to espionage, better the devil you know."
Not that another mech would have been as capable as Soundwave. Jazz and Prowl both agreed that the former officer had been frighteningly capable. But Soundwave had patterns, eccentricities, habits that he fell into—these made survival easier, made winning battles possible, even. A new mech might have been less competent, but their new ideas and thoughts would have meant massive casualties until they acclimated, possibly over a millennia.
Soundwave considered what Jazz had said, tilting his head in thought. The light flashed across his cheek, fading along the cables at his throat.
"Soundwave, still devil?"
Jazz almost laughed, but the look on Soundwave's face stopped him. That wasn't the expression of a scheming mech. The wide optics were those of a lost mech not knowing his place anymore.
"...nah." Jazz met his look evenly. "You ain't a devil. Pain in my aft...but no devil."
Soundwave didn't smile. But his helm lifted slightly and his optics widened, no longer watching Jazz to calculate his chances for death. Instead he simply looked at Jazz, returning his gaze, visibly pleased. He relaxed more obviously, sitting straight, and his posture became a little more natural as he felt the tension drain.
Jazz couldn't help comparing him to Prowl, stiff at first, then softening as he was acknowledged. Jazz's look went back to Soundwave's hands and noticed how similar they were to Prowl's, unsuited to knife-work but sufficient, as Prowl had put it, for pleasing a partner—
Jazz stood, pushing back his chair, walking swiftly from the room before he had finished the thought.
"Jazz—"
"You stay put," Jazz snapped, shutting the door so that the last look he had of Soundwave was of his confused vulnerability.
In front of the door, Sideswipe and Sunstreak both released the safety on their rifles, coming to attention as he came out too quickly.
"Sir?" Sideswipe asked. "Everything all right?"
Sunstreak snorted. "Do we need to help bury the 'con's frame?"
Jazz's laugh died in his throat. That cut a little too close—Jazz could probably kill Soundwave and no one would question it. No junior officer would contradict him, and the upper echelons...
Of course Soundwave would try to assault him. Hadn't he written hundreds of stories about that exact scenario? And with Jazz's history of killing anyone who tried that, even in his own faction, that he would kill a decepticon was not surprising. At least he'd waited until they had every last drop of information out of Soundwave first.
"Ratchet..." Jazz said. "Where...?"
He growled at himself. Stupid question. He was more rattled than he'd realized.
Ratchet, you out there? He looked at the door to reassure himself that it was closed. Ratchet—
I'm here, I'm here, came the grumbling response. Just about to lay down to recharge for the first time in four cycles. What's so important—?
Ratchet... Jazz hesitated. He wasn't even sure what was wrong, let alone how to phrase it so that he didn't sound like he needed a good defrag. I...I was talking to Soundwave, and...
Yeah, and...? Unseen, Ratchet was still obviously circling his hand to tell Jazz to hurry it up.
Is there any way he coulda put something into my cortex? Made me...start thinking things?
Ratchet's optics narrowed. My office, now. I'm notifying Red Alert of your susp—
Suspicions noted, Red Alert said, overriding their conversation. All of your protocols are being put on standby, so you'll have to wait for me to open the doors for you.
Jazz vented a long exhale, running his hand over his helm. Dammit. Yeah, okay. Bossmechs, I thought he was clean? I thought—
We all did, Ratchet said. And I'd still bet on it. But this is Soundwave, and I'd rather trust your paranoia. We'll look, make sure your cortex is doing just fine, and then you owe me a round in the mess and absolutely no emergencies for one shift.
Jazz chuckled, watching as Sideswipe and Sunstreak stood at attention, listening to someone's orders, and then then came to flank him on either side.
"Sir," Sideswipe said curiously. "We're headed to the medical bay?"
"If that's what Red says," Jazz said, feeling very tired. "Remind him someone's gotta take Soundwave back to his cell, huh?"
"Someone's already on that," Sideswipe said.
And Jazz wouldn't know who, or how many. Until he was given a clean bill of health, he was effectively as much a prisoner as their decepticon. Without a word, he led the way to the elevator, picking up two more mechs for an armed escort, and he rode down in silence.
When they came out at the medical bay, Jazz stumbled over his own pedes in surprise. Ratchet had one of the berths readied, his tools laid out in front of him, but over his shoulder was Optimus Prime and Ironhide, who likewise had his rifle unslung but pointed at the floor.
"Prime, you shouldn't—" Jazz started, shaking his helm.
"Please don't bother arguing," Optimus said. "Ironhide already made all the arguments. If you really are compromised, I am not leaving you to face that alone, my friend."
"'Sides," Ironhide said, signalling Sideswipe and Sunstreak to stand guard outside, "we were already here telling Ratchet to get to his berth. We really gotta get Firstaid some more clearance so this poor mech can get some rest."
"Don't matter," Ratchet said, motioning Jazz to the berth. "I'd insist on being awake for command cadre decisions anyway. At least this way he can get some rest instead."
Feeling all eyes and targeting solutions on himself, Jazz sat on the berth and lay back, grimacing as strong magnetic locks came on and held him in place. A sharp poke later and the injection of whatever of Ratchet's chemicals rushed through his system, decelerating his processors until the mechs around him moved in slow motion.
His data flashed on the screen overhead. They had all done this so often that they knew some of the markers to look for, the snatches of virus that leeched onto a bot's code, but only Ratchet could move so swiftly throug the the lines of Jazz's soul, sifting through his base routines, his personality core, his transformation matrix...
And Jazz was talking. He knew that he was being asked questions, interrogated if gently, but he couldn't remember what he was saying. He answered as if dreaming—yes, he had read Soundwave's stories, no, he didn't like them, no, he didn't remember feeling Soundwave in his head, no, Soundwave hadn't tried to hack him during his kidnapping, no, no, no...
Toward the end of the interrogation, as the fluids were wearing off and Jazz hovered at the edge of understanding what he was saying, Ratchet finally asked what had he been doing when he first had his suspicions. In a blur of voices, Jazz heard himself answer.
"Jus' talking to Soundwave," he murmured. "Said he weren't no devil. And then he smiled at me."
"'Smiled'?" Ratchet asked. "That mech doesn't know how to smile."
"Wasn't huge or nothing," Jazz said, blinking slowly. "More how his optics went all soft, like molton gold...and his faceplate smoothed all over."
Optimus and Ratchet both reset their optics, not sure what ot make of that. Ironhide stared at him with widening optics.
"And when you saw that?" Ratchet asked. "The thought that ran through your cortex?"
"Soundwave's real shiny."
No one spoke. Ratchet shared a look with Optimus, neither of them sure how to respond. But the bodyguard did, smacking his hand against his forehelm.
"Never shoud'a let a virgin in alone with that schemer," Ironhide grumbled.
"Jazz isn't—" Ratchet started, then snapped his denta shut even as he glared at Ironhide. Confidentiality and Jazz's privacy meant he couldn't start defending his friend's honor even though everyone already knew.
"Not anymore," Ironhide stomped on through his unsaid argument. "But he's practically a younglin' where the spark's concerned. This is what happens when you get a mech's valve's popped in the middle of a warzone."
"Like you haven't had your own indiscretions," Ratchet snapped. "You and Chromia put dents in half the bases—"
"With each other," Ironhide said. "Not an officer of the enemy faction, I don't care if he's defecting or not. That's it—no more inexperienced mechs interrogating anything shiny. Prowl can take over if it's so damn important."
Optimus vented. "I agree, at least with Prowl taking the task of dealing with Soundwave. Ratchet, do you have any reason to even suspect Soundwave of doing this deliberately?"
Running his hand over his faceplate, Ratchet began uncoupling Jazz's cortex from the berth's screens.
"Unless Soundwave snuck a hidden algorithm in his stories, and Red Alert and Percy have been combing through every line without anything coming up..." Ratchet huffed. "Jazz has been at the center of Soundwave's intense Jazz worship. In hindsight, of course Jazz started to see him in a different light."
"At least he got spooked enough to run off," Ironhide said. "Locked inside with a cuffed Soundwave..."
Ratchet nodded once. "Red Alert would have turned on the monitor to a scene right out of one of those Spec Ops stories."
An unbidden smile cracked Ironhide's faceplate for a moment, and he grinned despite himself. "And then hopefully he would'a turned it off again."
Leave me out of your sordid scenarios, Red Alert growled through their comms. I am reengaging Jazz's security clearances and protocols, aside from the note that he is not to have alone-time with Soundwave—stop snickering, you perverted pile of rust. Do not call me again this shift unless it is an emergency.
Ironhide fought down the snickering, sighing once as he reslung his rifle. "Poor Jazz. He's gonna be a molten slag of embarrassment for this. Spooking 'cause he got a crush..."
From the berth came a very tired and weary groan.
"Actually..." Jazz closed his optics, refusing to face the world as he came out of the chemical haze. "Ironhide, if you could put a round through my helm, I'd be much obliged."
"Sorry, my friend," Optimus chuckled. "Into every life, a little mortification must fall."
"I'd settle for being out in acid rain," Jazz said, and he put his hands over his face. "Or if you could assign the twins some digging duty outside the ark, I'd like to just hop in the hole they make. Shove all the dirt in afterward."
Ironhide patted his shoulder. "It ain't your fault you gotta go through these emotions in the middle of a warzone. Ain't no one gonna hold it against ya. And I will be teasing you for the rest of the millennia with only the best of intentions."
Jazz groaned. "Optimus...curb your dog. Please."
"Of course," Optimus agreed. "I think he's due. Ironhide, I'll be returning to my berth to recharge. Since you slept through Percy's meeting, you can receive his extended report and summarize it into notes for the next cadre meeting."
Ironhide froze. "...Perceptor's analysis of the refinement of energon to cortex control?"
Optimus nodded with suspicious amounts of cheer. "With all the mathematics and geographical information. I believe Beachcomber was helping him with that."
"...oh primus..." Ironhide sighed and turned his pedes toward the door. "I knew I'd get it eventually, but I didn't think it'd be a full execution."
Ironhide's pain was only a mild balm to Jazz's stressed processors. He turned his helm slightly to see Optimus, glad he could hide behind his visor's endless heads-up display.
"I'm sorry, boss bot. I didn't even think it was possible."
"Close quarters and raw emotion have done much, much worse," Optimus said. "You immediately responded with your loyalty first. You should take some solace in that."
"Gonna be hard after giving Ironhide enough ammo for years," Jazz said.
"I'll put the brakes on his humor," Optimus promised. "He'll stop when he realizes I can make him my science liaison instead of Percy."
Jazz nodded once, watching him go. He wasn't satisfied with Optimus' generosity, not when Jazz had to think about how his first thoughts were not of his own wants or feelings. Jazz had immediately thought of the mission, the war. Soundwave couldn't have asked for better evidence of Jazz's warbuild nature, and the realization was galling. Jazz was venting in, steeling himself to rise and return to duty, when he felt the maglocks reengage, trapping him on the berth.
"Uh, what's up, doc?" Jazz asked. "Ain't end of shift, yet."
"It is for you," Ratchet said. "And me. If you're stuck here, then you aren't running around base causing havoc that I have to look into. Firstaid can come in and hold down the fort, so you are going to recharge, I am going to recharge, Prowl is going to deal with Soundwave, the twins can keep standing guard, and we will deal with the mess tomorrow when you're not so exhausted that you're seeing sparks in Soundwave's eyes."
Jazz found himself grateful for the second, stronger injection, swiftly following his frame's shut-down routines. The chemicals numbed his sudden chill on thinking of Prowl—how the second in command would have to be told, of what Prowl might think of him, and of Jazz's conflicted feelings on all things Prowl. Jazz didn't think that a good night's rest would make any of that better. But it did put off the problem for a few hours, so that the worst think he had to think of was Ratchet's quiet mutter as they both began drifting into recharge.
"Spec Ops number whatever, the sparks in Soundwave's eyes...aft, more like..."
TBC...