Part 52

Boss, just a heads up, I'm ditching first shift to practice with Prowl, 'kay?

Curled up with his helm pillowed on his shoulder, Jazz squeezed his optics shut a little tighter. His whole frame felt like lead dragging him down—and why did his shoulder struts ache so much? His doorwings felt like they were dangling by a thread. And his pedes were so stiff at the knee joints that for a moment he thought he'd rusted through.

He blindly reached out for the alarm beside his berth and instead knocked over one of his datapads and an empty energon cube. He looked around. His workstation? His office? The night before came back to him and he groaned, letting his helm fall back to hang off the chair arm.

Fell asleep in his chair again. He'd be miserable all morning and afternoon if he didn't get a long oil bath. At least he didn't have to spend hours on the reports since Prowl—

Oh. Damn. Now he remembered why he'd fallen asleep at the monitor again. Dammit, he hadn't recharged in his office in years.

And if Blue' asks, Smokescreen continued, let him know it's not 'cause of the damn Megatron chat group thing? I've been telling him not to worry about it, but he's got serious guilt going on.

Jazz started to sit straight, easing his wrenched joints back into place, untangling himself from his curled position until he could sit properly. Just as exhausted as when he'd fallen into recharge.

Wait...Jazz said. Wait a second, bot. Got a minor situation here.

He ran emergency protocol three—the After-Party scenario. He hadn't had to use it in ages—Ironhide had teased him for half a vorn for the first and only time he was late to a meeting due to a hangover. The After-Party command codes forced certain sectors in his cortex to overclock while rebooting others into a quick shutdown and defragmentation cycle. The result was a strange sense of floating while being hyperaware and wide-awake.

Okay, run that by me again. Tell me you at least got a cover for the shift or Red Alert'll have my helm on a spike.

Yeah, boss, Prowl sent Sideswipe to cover for me. We just swapped out is all—Prowl said at least I know how to pull any punches that get by.

Jazz frowned. That...sounded weird.

'Punch'? He call you up for extra sparring or something?

Uh, yeah. Just normal sparring. He said he was trying something out.

...you know what, bot? Just tell me where y'all gonna be at so I can find ya if I gotta.

Oh, uh, just the usual workout room, fifth level. Boss, are you oka—?

I'm good, I'm good, just never got out of the office last night. Word of advice, mech—if Ironhide ever corners you and says you're getting promoted, just cut your cables right then and there. Save yourself a world of misery.

Smokescreen chuckled. Gotcha. See you later, boss.

Jazz sat still, considering what Smokescreen had said. Then he dialed his workstation to the fifth level combat training chamber—

I'm sure you don't need the reminder, RedAlert grumbled. But managing this base is hard enough without ghosts floating through my surveillance. Go watch if you have nothing better to do, but stay off the lines.

Mouth quirking, Jazz swallowed his irritation. He was already on his pedes and heading out the door.

The training room was large enough for their tallest mechs to move freely, three stories high, and the topmost level held several angled glass panes to allow for an audience. Jazz rarely had the opportunity to simply stand and watch. Since he oversaw and often led the training for the officers, he never got to watch himself throw around Ratchet, Perceptor, Prowl, and even Optimus once.

Only once—Prime had learned the hard way not to hold back even his formidable strength with Jazz. All of them had ended up on their afts until they learned to spar properly, the way he taught them.

Except...Jazz wasn't sure what he was watching.

That was certainly Prowl, and that was Smokescreen in front of him. And they were definitely sparring. But why was Soundwave looming in the far corner, his optics half-shut as if he were drowsing in recharge? And Jazz wanted to know what extra combat programs had Prowl downloaded, because that wasn't how Prowl usually fought.

At least Prowl hadn't forgotten the rules. Jazz would have knocked him in cartwheels if he'd tried to face Smokescreen head-on or didn't keep moving. In fact, if Jazz squinted, he could see some of Prowl's usual move set—except this time Prowl was actually holding his own. He even managed to press forward aggressively and push Smokescreen back several steps.

He's a little faster, Jazz thought. A little more clipped, a little more controlled. Just…

Prowl was a little more. As if he had practiced for several hours...no. Weeks or months of practice. Jazz's gaze flitted to Soundwave and noted how the warbuild watched Prowl intently.

Ow. Jazz pressed his hand against his hood where his spark lay. He hadn't expected that to sting so bad. Soundwave had once looked at Jazz like the sporty porsche was a sweet treat to devour, and now Soundwave watched Prowl with that same hungry stare. Which didn't seem to bother Prowl in the slightest.

The part of Jazz's cortex that housed his good humor must have been completely submerged, because his mood hit rock bottom. Still nursing some deep aches in his own spark, he now had to deal with Prowl and Soundwave acting disgustingly comfortable in each other's presence. Neither seemed bothered by the other. Neither had to work through self-defense and combat routines or push down bad memories or slog through awkward misunderstandings or…

His hands gripped a little too hard on his folded arms. Prowl and Soundwave didn't stumble or trample each other by accident. They were all up in their own helms, happily calculating.

If your sudden improvement in melee combat wasn't so curious, Jazz thought, I'd just hop right back out'n away of this particular looking glass.

Realizing their sudden ease with each other was probably the answer, though, Jazz was already dissecting the problems with their little arrangement. So Prowl was using Soundwave's added memory and processing for a combat boost. Not the first time he'd seen it done, and he wondered if Soundwave was treating Prowl like a cassette in this case. But he also wondered if Prowl had discovered the major drawback to this maneuver. Did Soundwave already know and didn't mind putting Prowl in danger? Or had Prowl ordered him to do this regardless of the risk?

Either way, Jazz nodded to himself. Gonna have to put your faceplate on the mat so you don't try this again and crash yourself permanently.

He stayed there at the observation deck for the rest of their match. Prowl finished with Smokescreen, calling an end to the match as he began to overheat. Resting with his hands on his pedes, Prowl nodded Smokescreen off and rotated his helm in broad circular motions, easing the kinks in his neck cables.

Jazz's mouth twisted. RedAlert had said "ghosts." Plural. Jazz wasn't the only one surfing along the base surveillance.

You think I ain't noticing how you look everywhere but up here? You knew I was watching the second I showed up.

Jazz started down the stairs, intending to read both of them his own version of the riot act. Smokescreen probably could have given it himself, as often as he'd received it. Most of his bots had received it at least once, although he thought it had stuck the most with Mirage, who'd only needed to hear it once before bidding a fond farewell to stupidity.

Smokescreen, however, still suffered from gambling on and off the battlefield.

So when he saw him, Smokescreen came to a halt just at the door, optics wide at suddenly seeing Jazz.

Smokescreen's doorwings lowered and bent back out of reach.

A silent, smoldering Jazz.

Tell me, Jazz demanded, what's the only thing worse than fucking up on the battlefield?

...letting someone else fuck you over, Smokescreen said, wincing. But sir, he's the Second in—

I don't give a flying fuck if he's the second coming of Primus, Jazz said. You know what happens when you overclock in a fight. You know what happens if you overheat in a fight. And you know what happens when you help someone else find that out first hand.

Smokescreen shut his optics tight. Bluestreak had done that years ago, and Smokescreen had been the one to carry him to Ratchet, forgetting in his panic to call for assistance while he was running.

I guess it would've been bad if the Second keeled over in front of me, Smokescreen sighed.

And what were the going odds? Jazz demanded.

Just 35%! Smokescreen said, as if that made everything okay. After his match with you yesterday, it was a long shot! No one would take lower odds.

Mech, I swear, you sure found a way to weaponize that calculator cortex of yours.

On the other side of the training room, Prowl stood straight, popping a kinked connection in his shoulder strut. He raised an optic ridge at the small staring contest between Smokescreen and Jazz.

Is your bot in trouble because of me? Prowl asked.

I'll rip your aft another sluice in a second, Jazz snarled silently, his faceplate never twitching from his cold, cold expression. I ain't done with him yet.

Prowl tilted his helm in acknowledgment. Commanders could and often did question each other, but never out loud in front of the others. The regular mechs needed the confidence that their leaders were always in agreement, not the haggling and compromise and snark that flew back and forth under the table.

You, Jazz said, turning back to Smokescreen. You are gonna go to the washracks, cool down, re-energize, and then head back up to finish duty with Blue. And then you're gonna shadow him through the rest of his third shift, and make up whatever story you want to save face with him. Fourth shift, you can crash, win cubes from your friends at the mess, I don't care, 'cause come fifth shift, you're back on, got it?

Suddenly hit with a double shift, Smokescreen bore the punishment as stoically as he could and sent a ping up to Bluestreak that they should call up their buddies to wherever Blue was doing his third shift 'cause the game venue had changed. And then he very quietly, very rapidly moved down the hall and as far from Jazz as he could manage.

And as for you— Jazz started, turning his sights on Prowl.

Metal steps bounded down the hall from the other side, and Bumblebee waved to Jazz as he swung in.

"Hi there, just got away from Ironhide's meeting...Jazz, are you joining in on this?"

With a disbelieving glare, Jazz looked from Bumblebee back to Prowl.

You planning to commandeer all my bots? he demanded.

That was not my intent, Prowl said quickly. I'm sorry—I should have notified you earlier, but...you didn't answer my messages this morning, so thought you were simply giving silent assent.

Dammit. Jazz didn't bother bringing up his messages. After-Party protocol three had been created before he started checking his messages religiously—there was no automatic sorting of anything in that coding.

Rough night, Jazz said without further explanation. Are you trying to melt your cortex?

Prowl stood stiff, raising his helm in a manner that reminded Jazz of Soundwave. He glanced sideways at the other mech looming against the wall.

"And you—just hiding hoping I don't see ya?" Jazz demanded.

"Decision to remain still, deliberate," Soundwave said. "Very deliberate around Jazz. My advancing 'triggers stabby response number one'."

Jazz narrowed his optics, but Soundwave was used to Megatron's temper. Jazz was only making himself even cuter as he stuck his hip out. Realizing this wasn't working, Jazz crossed his arms, glaring at Prowl without turning to Bumblebee as he spoke to his mech.

"'Bee, what's the reason I don't let any o' y'all synch up with Smokescreen on the battlefield?" he asked. "Even with that Praxian cortex of his?"

Bumblebee, about to answer, recalculated with the last question. Between Prowl's bemusement and Jazz's anger, he hoped that he could keep his boss calm until Prowl distracted Jazz long enough for an escape.

"Mechs aren't built to synch up," Bumblebee started, sounding as if this was information he'd memorized. "Whenever anyone tried, their systems were too stressed out—servos failed, circuits burned out, protoforms turned so hot that their coolant tanks dumped and their energon ignited. In the worst case scenarios, spark cases ruptured and the mechs died."

"Uh-huh." Jazz studied Prowl for the slightest twitch. "An' how come all my mechs can rattle that off at the drop of a spent casing?"

Bumblebee's gaze flickered at Prowl just long enough to be obvious. "Because some mechs tried to get out of combat practice with it."

"And…?" Jazz said, turning his hand in the air to hurry him up.

Bumblebee's voice was as thin as his last hope of escape.

"And data crunching's no substitute for getting your hands dirty," Bumblebee said.

Prowl smiled ruefully. "Entirely true. Experiments attempting synchronization are at nearly a hundred percent fail rate. And there is no substitute for good practice."

Bumblebee knew better than to sigh in relief. Jazz was not mollified.

"But…" Jazz grumbled.

"But," Prowl acknowledged, "parameters have never existed such as this before. I think my unique circumstances with Soundwave will create more favorable conditions for a partial synch."

Jazz didn't answer, considering that. Of course Prowl meant his forced link up with Soundwave after the assassination attempt. In a sense, the two of them had already shared cortex space. The only difference was—

"Sir, that's still really dangerous," Bumblebee couldn't help but say. "I was on the last shift of the recovery team. I saw the link-up. To be honest, sir, there wasn't much synch damage because...well, there wasn't much left to damage."

Prowl regarded Bumblebee with a little surprise. "I...I had not known you were there."

"I was small enough to fit through the hole they dug," Bumblebee said. "And I've got field medic experience."

Jazz wanted to rake his fingers down his helm. Prowl was simply not listening. He had a shiny new glitchmouse to play with and he wouldn't stop poking at it until it finally turned and bit him in the face. And, for a whole host of reasons, Jazz could not allow that.

"...you know what," Jazz said slowly. "Let's go ahead and try this."

Both of them looked at him in surprise, Prowl that he had agreed so quickly, Bumblebee that he had agreed at all.

"You...are fine with this?" Prowl asked.

"Hell no," Jazz said. "But if you burn out here and now, at least there's me and 'Bee to get you to Ratchet before you vaporize yourself."

'Bee, put 'im through the wringer. Don't hold back—go through the motions of a kill move each time you can.

You don't want me to pull any punches? Bumblebee asked.

A 'Con won't, Jazz said. That's what he's hoping to defend against. If I'ma sign off on this, it can't just be good—it's gotta work for real.

...understood.

Prowl finished stretching the last kinks out of his shoulders. To his surprise, Bumblebee stepped onto the mat without any lingering fear or hesitation. Bumblebee was all business, and the smaller bot gave a few token stretches and rotations to loosen up.

Should I be worried? Prowl asked Jazz.

You're gonna do more damage to yourself than he will, Jazz said unsympathetically. But yeah, you're gonna know you were in a fight.

Prowl grimaced. I owe you an apology.

For pulling this stunt?

For ever questioning whether or not you'd be a good officer. Prowl took a long vent, cooling his systems as much as he could in the short moment he had. I'd worried, back when you resisted promotion. Where were you hiding all of that responsibility?

Hell if I know, Jazz said. Ironhide dug real damn deep to find it, and I still don't forgive him. Now pay attention. 'Bee ain't holding back 'till you fall over.

And if I don't 'fall over'?

What?

If I don't fall over? Will you do me the honor of a rematch?

Mech… Jazz shook his head in awe. Fine. If you're still standing at the end of this, I'll put you on the floor myself.

Prowl gave him a nod and a small smile. I look forward to it.

The match started. Jazz didn't watch Bumblebee's half of the fight—he leaned against a wall and faced Prowl, studying his moves. Rather, he watched Prowl for the first minute, confirming the conclusions he'd drawn while watching the fight with Smokescreen. But, without moving his helm or changing his stance in the slightest, his gaze behind his visor slid surreptitiously to Soundwave.

He'd half expected Soundwave to be staring back at him. To his relief, Soundwave was watching Prowl instead, following his movement around the room, and his helm twitched once, then twice. Jazz wondered how close Soundwave was to overheating. Sure enough, a cycle of coolant flooded Soundwave's systems so that small wisps of steam escaped from the wider gaps in his armor.

Not that there were many gaps in that armor. Warbuilds had plating so tight that it was ridiculous trying to slide a knife between them. Often Jazz was forced to half-climb his victims to reach their throat—Soundwave was easily half his height out of his reach. Jazz had almost forgotten how tall he was, having had him seated or on the floor for so long.

The edges of his cassette case would be the most logical places to grab, although the slight swing of his hips would also provide a good grip...the ridges of his square shoulders best to hold to bring Jazz within reach of the scant centimeters of soft throat cables…

Soundwave turned his helm to face him.

Jazz scowled. "Prowl turn your telepathy back on?"

"Negative. Jazz, staring."

His look had indeed drifted until he'd turned to match. Jazz's coolant flooded so hard that the back of his mouth turned frosty, aching until the metal slowly warmed again from his lingering embarrassment.

"Thought you were too busy staring at Prowl to check," he grumbled, and he sent a ping at Optimus to ask for a new mission as soon as possible.

"Prowl's fight, requires intense front load memory. Soundwave, superior. Can give remaining excess to Jazz."

Jazz huffed, about to reply—and out of the corner of his optic, he saw Prowl aim a punch too wide. Soundwave's shoulder twitched. Prowl's strike came back in, if not entirely on target. Bumblebee turned and let the hit slide easily off his helm before coming back with an uppercut to Prowl's jaw.

As Prowl stumbled, he shot a look at Soundwave, then re-centered himself and went back into the fight. And Jazz watched Soundwave turn stiff again, his entire focus back on Prowl.

"'Excess memory', huh?" Jazz wondered under his vent.

Soundwave didn't reply.

Jazz simply waited. Something else was happening here. If Prowl was using Soundwave as a giant second CPU, then that little stumble shouldn't have happened. If Soundwave was just Prowl's peripheral, Soundwave could have spared that bit of personal memory for conversation, just as he had enough processing to keep venting, to keep his energon flowing.

After a minute, Jazz grew impatient. Bumblebee was doing well, but not enough to make Prowl stumble again, not now that Soundwave was fully involved again. Jazz's optics narrowed.

He scuffed his pede along the floor.

Prowl turned at the sound and took Bumblebee's pede straight to his midsection.

But that wasn't important. Jazz stared intently at Soundwave and—Soundwave shifted his weight slightly to his right pede. Just as Prowl caught himself on his back pede before he could fall.

Jazz clenched his denta. Something—something—he couldn't tell what he was seeing. The calculators were playing at something and he just couldn't figure it out.

"All right, that's it," he said, waving his hands. "I'm calling it."

"Huh?" Bumblebee wondered. "Did I—"

"You did great, 'Bee," Jazz said. "I don't think I saw a single slip up in your form. Go kick back, you're off shift right now."

"Sir yessir," Bumblebee said, heading out almost at a run.

Jazz watched him go, then shut the door and asked RedAlert for a level one lock to prevent any accidental walk-ins. Then he went to the middle of the gym, a little away from Prowl and Soundwave, and began rotating his shoulders, limbering up.

"Jazz?" Prowl stood for a moment, but he had to bend and rest against his knee joints again. "Are you—?"

"Wasn't planning on a fight today," Jazz said. "Then again, you never get to warm up 'gainst the 'Cons, neither."

"...I thought you were going to wait for me to beat Bumblebee," Prowl said slowly.

Jazz grew still, drawing his awareness back into himself. He took a deep vent, let it go, and then began bending backward as far as he could go. He stretched out and caught the floor, let his arms take his weight, shifted slightly, and brought up one pede, then the other in a slow somersault. He let his hip joints stretch as far as they would go, then brought himself back upright.

"'Bee held back," Jazz said. "He couldn't help it. But ain't no one holding back on a battlefield, so I'll fill in. We'll see how long you manage to go against me."

"Probably not very long," Prowl said. "Do you plan on sending me to Ratchet?"

"No, and you're lucky," Jazz said, and he motioned at the windows above them.

Prowl frowned and looked up. And his engine skipped. Smokescreen and Bumblebee both stood high above, watching them intently. Or at least Bumblebee was, pressing his hands and faceplate on the glass. Smokescreen was on his intercom, facing sideways, rapidly talking to someone else as he made counting motions on his fingers.

"Is he—?" Prowl demanded indignantly.

"Did you know your last fight with me raised your odds?" Jazz said. "'Bot couldn't resist."

But that was something Jazz could at least control. The windows had built in screens, and he set them to dark so no one could look in.

"There," he said. "No distractions."

Prowl turned his attention back to Jazz. Over his shoulder, so did Soundwave. The same thought ran through all of them. Prowl and Soundwave were doing something brand new, potentially dangerous and very secret. And Jazz had no intention of letting them burn themselves out by accident.

Prowl took another deep vent and started to stand.

"Nah," Jazz said, waving him down. "When you're ready."

Pausing, Prowl gave a small nod and rested again.

Jazz used that time to flex any stiff joints, unkink any cords, and scan for any responses from Optimus. Nothing. That was a little unusual. He sent another ping to make sure Prime was all right and received a ping in return. And then a quick note that Jazz needed to take care of himself first before he had any new missions. Confused, Jazz started to respond, but then Prowl stood and nodded.

"Thank you. We can begin when you say."

Jazz did one more rev of his engines, suitably warming his systems, and came to stand in front of Prowl.

"When we do end the match?" Prowl asked. "Five points? Or when you pin me?"

"Pfft." Jazz smiled as if in bemusement that Prowl could be so obtuse. "When I pin you, it's 'cause I'm taking it easy on you. I ain't sure what you two are pulling, but I don't know how far you can take this. So maybe it ends with you on the mat. Maybe it ends with you overheating something awful. Either way, it ends when you knock this slag off."

Prowl considered that, then nodded that this was acceptable. "And if I win?"

"What, you turning into Smokescreen now? Laying odds?"

"I admit, it's a bad Praxian habit," Prowl said. "But there is a slim probability beyond a statistical margin for error. So...if I win?"

Jazz didn't dismiss the idea out of hand. He glanced at Soundwave, back at Prowl, and shut down any programs not in use. He closed all signals, turned off everything but his emergency protocols with RedAlert only, and set his own coolant cycle to run on automatic so he didn't have to devote any memory to even that minute task.

"In the very unlikely event that you win," Jazz said with a warning tone, "I will admit it. And that's it."

Prowl nodded. "Understood. Then...shall we begin?"

Jazz brought his hands before him, one up, one down, in a patient defensive pose. His pedes were placed so that he could block and react against anything Prowl could attack with. His helm tipped forward slightly.

Over a growing grin, Jazz turned his hand upward and beckoned at Prowl once, twice.

"All right, Prowler. Hit me with your best shot."