Two Sides of the Coin
Kinda morphed from a mention by Stargazer at Moonlight, so I blame you. :P
AN: Next week is Christmas so you readers get a chapter for Christmas Eve AND Christmas. How's that for holiday love?
THANK YOU TO ALL REVIEWERS! If this chapter is as favorable as the last, then I will continue in the next year.
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"Are you sure you want to do this?" Prime asked, looking between the two faces.
"There isn't another option," Sunstreaker said, settling onto the berth with his twin.
"But it's dangerous," Prime said, trying to restart the same argument.
"We're dangerous," Sideswipe added, wrapping his arms around his brother and pulling him close. "Besides, since Duplicity's attack, we're going to have to make sure you aren't targeted by your own officers. We can't let Duplicity's betrayal happen again."
"Precisely," Sunstreaker added, looking over to Prime where he stood beside the door, "We can't take the chance that you can be compromised."
"But this is dangerous,' Prime reiterated. He had barely escaped the explosion caused by his late Third In Command as he tried to sabotage the Autobot ranks. Prime's plating was still raw, the repair nanites taking time to seal over the weld marks from Ratchet's work. The blistered paint would be reapplied after his protoform had sufficient time to heal itself.
"And we've done this before,' Sideswipe said, getting himself comfortable. "Besides, we have the best medic in the galaxy watching over us."
"Doesn't mean the two of you won't get slagged," Ratchet added, crossing his arms over his chassis and staring at the two miscreants. He may not agree with what they were about to do, but he knew that they weren't going to be talked out of it. Once they set their processors to something, they'd see it through. And they had a point. The Autobots couldn't stand another direct attack against Prime. Duplicity had almost terminated him. They had to make sure such treachery never happened again.
"We promise, we won't slag ourselves,' Sunstreaker called over his shoulder toward the medic.
"You say that all the time," Ratchet groused.
"And it rarely happens,' Sideswipe amended.
"Wheeljack has a higher slagging rate than we do,' Sunstreaker added, hoping to rile Ratchet up into a good wrench throwing fit. It'd been awhile since the medic implemented his 'iron treatment regime.'
"I'm not joking,' Ratchet said, coming up behind Sunstreaker and leaning over the berth the two was sharing. He made sure both were looking at him as he added, "I don't want to hear how you two got stuck."
"Just keep a crowbar handy,' Sideswipe grinned. He tightened his hold around his brother's waist, earning a rumbling threat. Vice like fingers dug into Sideswipe's plating, reminding him that though they were artistically perfect, they were as lethal as the mech who commanded them.
Without another word, the twins split their chest plates, revealing their sparks.
"Ready?" Sideswipe asked, that boyish grin firmly in place.
"Oh Primus, what was I thinking?" Sunstreaker uttered then nodded.
As mirror images the twins pressed their sparks together. There was a flare of white, blinding Prime and Ratchet. A low hum filled the room as the sparks merged and with a soft compressing hiss, the light exploded, bright and thunderous. Both twins relaxed with dual sighs. Ratchet was silent though he was raging like a tormented sun.
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Jazz was seated at the only operational bar in Iacon. He was just relieved from a double shift, his newly appointed boss, Prowl, giving him the extended assignment. Jazz swirled his high grade, watching the miasma of color shift in the tall funnel-like glass. He had only obtained the position of Third In Command after his predecessor, Duplicity, had shown his true colors. How the mech managed to fool everyone was a mystery, but the devastation he left behind was still felt throughout the ranks.
The younger mechs were terrified that someone had gotten so close to their leader. The older soldiers were angry because they didn't see the signs, nor had any inclination as to the validity of Duplicity's allegiance. Being the head of Special Ops had its own trials and potentially disastrous consequences. There was always the air of mystery and suspense around the select group that infiltrated Cons and caused dissent amongst their ranks. It was another skill set all together to cause the same discord among your own comrades.
Jazz sighed, wondering how in the name of Primus he was going to live up to the title of Third when he wasn't comfortable with command. He was a soldier. A lowly, underestimated, often overlooked, never acknowledged, soldier. And now he was heading the very unit that recruited him all those vorn ago.
Over half of their forces terminated due to the errant, misguided directives of the corrupt Duplicity and his hidden agenda to lower Prime's ranks by internal sabotage. Jazz had to rebuild his forces from the ground up. A sobering thought when one factored in the idea that Jazz himself was under investigation.
Jazz expected suspicions and accusations. He could handle it. There was nothing he was hiding, other than the obvious things that came with his job. He had a feeling that the Second, Prowl, was under the allusion that Jazz was working for the Cons. That was the only reason Jazz could think of to explain all the double shifts, duty rosters, and endless amounts of paperwork that came with the promotion of being the Third and the Head of Special Ops. Jazz didn't understand why Prowl or Prime couldn't handle some of the workload. Most of it was tedious and meaningless. Jazz just didn't see the point in all the bureaucratic red tape.
"Hello,' a sultry voice said, pulling Jazz out of his musings. "Do you mind if I sit?"
'Wha?.." Jazz asked, snapped out of his reverie by a very attractive femme. She was all black, with streaks of red paint along her arms and legs. Her frame was lithe and oh so feminine. Her voice was velvet in Jazz's audios.
"Some mechs were pushy and I prefer they believe me unavailable," the femme said, taking the seat next to Jazz though he had yet to grant permission.
Jazz looked around the room and sure enough, the place had filled to near capacity within the short time of his musings. It was odd how time flew by when one was reminiscing about their life and future.
"So if you don't mind, I'm going to use you as my cover," the femme said, her sultry voice sending shivers down Jazz's spinal strut.
Jazz offered a nod and gave the room further scrutiny, taking in the occupants and any potential threats. There were quite a few leering mechs in the establishment, and all their optics were on the supple lines of the midnight femme. Two in particular were transfixed by the feminine curves as they sat in an unobtrusive corner, optics glowing a dull navy in the shadows.
"The name is Scorch," she said, waving to the barkeep for attention.
"Jazz," Jazz said, finding her name to be rather fitting. He could feel the heat rolling off her frame and it was enough to enflame even the smallest of embers of interest.
"Haven't seen you around here before," Scorch said, flashing the barkeep some credits to pay for her drink.
"First time," Jazz admitted, his optical band giving him privacy so he could scan the femmes frame more closely.
Her plating was as black as the heavens, with the deepest crimson accenting her long legs and slender arms. A thin pin-striping of the color created an appealing design along her chest plates. Her face was a soft pewter, set in tapered lines that left no doubt to her feminine standing. She was a stronger build than most femmes, her protoform peeking out in places that were enticing to the saboteur.
Saboteur. A title Jazz was never comfortable with. It was his job, not who he was. Every time he heard it, he felt like a traitor.
"So, what do we owe the pleasure of allowing you in our run down bar?" Scorch asked, her blue optics were dark, the highlights shimmering as waves on an ocean across her silvery complexion.
Jazz had never seen anything so lovely. Course he was already several shots down in the high grade, so his vision may have been a little distorted.
"Needed some time away," Jazz admitted. He drained the last of his drink, tapping the countertop to signal another round from the barkeep.
"We all need that," Scorch said, sipping her drink and openly surveying Jazz's slightly smaller frame. When the barkeep brought the next round, Scorch paid for it, her optics twinkling over the edge of her glass.
A mech came up behind Jazz, overshadowing the smaller mech by several degrees. He called for his drink, then turned his attention to the inky femme, his golden optics shining.
Scorch leaned forward, capturing Jazz's face in her palm and pulling his lip plates in a smoldering kiss that had his knees banging together. Her fingers ghosted along his neck, his audio, her kisses alternating between light and feathery, to rough and demanding. Jazz had no choice but to accept her dominance.
The lumbering mech who tried to overshadow the saboteur realized his silent dismissal by the femme and returned to his seat, where his fellow brutes sloshed drinks across the table in drunken song.
Scorch released Jazz's mouth, earning a whine of longing from his engine. She smiled, her optics twinkling in a way that had Jazz falling into their abyss. Her hand abandoned his cheek, but before he could verbalize any protest, her knee touched his, sending an electric tingle along his relays. Her EM field was teasing, pulsing in erratic waves, then tapering off to gentle touches along Jazz's sensors. His engine gave a rev, earning a coy look over her glass.
The next round, Scorch sipped her high grade, her glossa tracing a pattern along the rim as she stared at Jazz over the crystalline edge. His EM field gave a vibrant pulse, causing her to gasp against the rim before smiling, answering the magnetic wave with one of her own.
Two rounds later, her servo was caressing his. She downed the last of her shot, tossing the empty glass aside before grasping Jazz's helm and pulling him into a heated kiss. The warmed high grade was spiced with her unique flavor, his engine throttling on high as he drank her offering.
Jazz panted, his vision going foggy with want and confusing signals. Scorch kissed one audial then the other.
"Let's go somewhere private," Scorch whispered against his lips.
Jazz nodded, wavering on his pedes when he stood. Scorch linked her arms around his middle, waiting for him to get his bearings. His EM field fluxed wildly against her plating, causing her to shiver.
"There's a place around the corner,' Jazz said, his hand drifting to her waist and tweaking a wire.
Scorch nodded. Finding his step to be unwavering, Jazz headed out the door, arms entangled with Scorch. She stared adoringly into his face, her fingers teasing his sensors and sending his nerve circuits alive. Neither saw the mechs detach from the shadows and follow behind.
Pleasure houses offered a range of services to fit all tastes. One could rent a pleasure bot for an allotted time, providing ample credits. Or one could purchase a room designed for entertaining several variations of pleasure. For a few extra credits, the manager would conveniently forget your false designation or your details.
Scorch paid for an unoccupied room, allowing the manager a few extra credits for his discreet amnesia. He handed her a pass card, told her a room designation, and with a grin, she turned and took Jazz's servo in her own. Together they went to the next floor, Scorch leading the way, her fingers brushing against wires and sensors in Jazz's hip. His engine revved in musical arousal, allowing the femme to lead him to his overloading demise.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Scorch turned and captured his lip components. Her glossa teased along his plating, begging entry, which he granted, his servos clutching her waist and walking her backward to the awaiting berth.
He now knew how she earned her designation. He felt as if his body was melting with the sheer passion consuming him body and soul.
Jazz moaned, his hands going to the femme's waist and feeling her mold against him. He gasped against her lip components when he felt her hand on his interface panel.
"Tell me, what keeps you anchored to Iacon?" Scorch asked, her fingers nimble around the latches to the cover. Jazz refused to retract, forcing her to work for her goal. "Why not become neutral and leave Cybertron for a colony?"
"There is no guarantee the Cons won't find every neutral and slay them," Jazz said, moaning as she found a latch and undone it with uncanny precision.
"Don't you get tired of all the fighting?" Scorch asked, her EM field fluxing violently as an ion storm.
"Always," Jazz murmured, feeling his plating heat to an uncomfortable level.
"Why stay behind?" Scorch said, before kissing the saboteur with enough passion to cause his knees to go weak. "Why not venture to the stars and leave Cybertron to its fate?"
"Duty," Jazz answered between kisses. "I stay from duty."
His engine gave a rev when another latch was undone. The little vixen was quite apt at exploring male bodies, and getting their systems hot enough that release was needed. There was no way that he could come back to himself. The feather light touches, the gasps against his lips, her adamant fingers intent on exposing his spike. He couldn't come back if he wanted to.
"Duty to what?" Scorch asked, her lips hot and demanding as her digits slid beneath the corner of his interface panel and stroked a circuit. Jazz jumped in her arms.
"To my Prime,' Jazz answered, allowing the femme control.
"You work for the Prime?" Scorch asked, sounding shocked through her breathless pants.
Her fingers circled the last latch, the heat roiling from beneath the panel was hot enough to blister paint. With deft fingers, the last latch gave, allowing the panel to slide away. Jazz's spike extended at full attention, positioning itself between her thighs in eagerness. She gasped against the sudden stimulation.
Jazz nodded, his venting harsh, his fans whirling in his frame. He grabbed her wrists, causing her optics to go wide, her intakes to stall as she stared in abject fear into his lust filled visor.
"I did not come here to talk about Prime," Jazz said gruffly, taking the last step forward. The action caused Scorch's knees to hit the berth.
"So you wouldn't abuse your position to get what you want?" Scorch asked in what she hoped was a serious voice, though after she spoke, it sounded more of a teasing, taunting nature. The hammering of her spark and the irritating throb behind her interface panel was maddening.
"I don't need position or title to get what I want," Jazz said, lessening his grip on the thin wrists. With deliberate slowness he traced along the red streak up her arms, his servos ghosting over the ornamental scrolling along her chest plates. He could feel her spark frantic in its casing. The tip of his spike was resting against her closed interface panel, the thin metal the only barrier between the joining of their bodies.
"You would take what you want by force?" Scorch asked, her voice timid, almost frightened.
"Never," Jazz said, his servos sliding down her torso, a finger teasing a latch along her interface panel. "But I believe you did not bring me here to talk."
Scorch opened her mouth to speak but her words were cut off when Jazz's expert fingers teased her interface cover into retraction. She gasped, her hands grasping his arms as she accepted his kisses. And though his body was painful with arousal, Jazz was tender, easing her onto the berth, his mouth hot and demanding against her own. Her processor went blank, allowing the mech free reign of her body.
Once the hot valve sheathed his spike, Jazz was lost to his senses in a whirlwind of swirling nebulas and exploding stars. The celestial release lasted eons, the final boom of completion robbing both lovers of their consciousness.
When Jazz woke, it was to find Scorch below him, her face lax and serene in slumber. With sluggish intent his memory files surfaced, the proverbial little red flags demanding his instant attention. He combed through the files, some rather distorted due to drunken arousal, but his subconscious has flagged certain aspects of their conversation. It took only a couple of moments to scour through the memory files and with an expressionless face, Jazz looked down into Scorch's face. A thin line creased his brow in thought, his mind replaying the questions about Iacon, his job, and his reasons for staying in the Autobot stronghold. It seemed rather odd that such questions were asked, especially since it was clear the femme had been looking for a berth partner. The conversation wasn't the norm when seeking someone to warm your berth. It was as if she was interrogating him, but hiding the questions with innocent, sincere gasps of pleasure and writhing tension. His firewalls flashed in the background, warning him that they had been compromised, but after seeing his level of high grade consumption, it was no wonder.
With a frown, Jazz pulled out of the contented femme. As quietly as he could he wiped down his plating, his interface panel sliding shut without a sound. Wordlessly he left the slumbering femme, making sure to lock the door behind him in case something vile befell the femme while she slept.
Jazz's steps were heavy when he reached the main street. He walked toward the capitol, lost in thought, his pace slow. He knew he shouldn't have just left without a word, but a part of him was raging in his mind, telling him that something dreadful had happened during his post overload slumber. He just couldn't figure out what. The room had been left in order. The femme was still in deep charge. He was still reposing on her when he awoke. His body was sore in all his tender places, but that was to be expected when one had an exuberant berth partner. Scratches adorned his body that would require a good repaint before he presented himself to Prime for his report on his division later in the cycle. His memory files were blurry but that was from the high grade. Jazz entered the Autobot headquarters, missing the moving shadow that darted after him and disappeared in the larger, oppressing shadow of the fortified complex.
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"How did it go?" Ratchet asked, running a scan over the frame.
"Surprisingly very well," Scorch answered.
"Prime expects a full report when you are able," Ratchet said, motioning to the isolation bay.
Scorch followed and together they stepped into the cleansing chamber. A mist surrounded them, removing any contaminants. A heavy solvent shower followed before the fans kicked on and roared over the two frames, drying them thoroughly before allowing them to exit. When the cycle was complete they stepped into the isolation ward.
Without a word, Scorch went to the wide berth and lay down beside the inert golden frame. She rolled to face her berth partner, her chest plates splitting. A finger traced the lifeless face for a moment before caressing the opened chest plates that displayed an empty core. She pressed their open chest plates together and filled the room with blinding white light.
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"How's he doing?" Prime asked, watching as Ratchet attended Sunstreaker.
"Recovering," Ratchet answered, checking over the golden mech's vitals. "It takes his systems some time to recalibrate after separation and reintegration."
"I always feel bad for that," Sideswipe said where he was sitting on the berth beside his twin. Two cubes of medical grade were on the stand beside the berth, the third cube held in Sideswipe's servo. "Doesn't seem fair that he has to leave his frame and share mine."
"You are built with dual chambers," Ratchet said, giving Sideswipe an expectant look. He waited until Sideswipe took another drink before adding, "It's the only way that you two will register as one spark signature and not announce your unique physiology to everyone around you."
That little biological imperfection had caused others a lot of dissent, realizing that a set of spark split twins dwelt in their midst. The twins were considered unnatural and a defiance of the natural order. No one wanted to work with them nor spend too long their in company, a fear of their abnormality rubbing off on their comrades. It was that mentality that kept them separate from most. As soon as a mech or femme sensed their half spark signatures on their proximity sensors, then their identities was instantly recognized.
"I know," Sideswipe muttered through a sigh. "Lucky slagger. He doesn't have to put up with mechs spiking him."
"He suffers in his own way," Ratchet pointed out at the still dormant mech.
"He gets to leave his frame intact," Sideswipe groused, giving his twin a scathing look before returning his attention to his own frame. Sideswipe's protoform was bare, awaiting his recovery to integrate the heavier armor he employed for the front lines. "It's not fair I have to be the one that has to be reformatted with the femme lines and allow the mechs to spike me."
"Your frame is easier to reformat," Ratchet pointed out. His optics went to the half drank cube in expectation. Sideswipe sighed and took another drink before Ratchet continued, "Sunstreaker has so many augmentations, its slagging near impossible to get him retrofitted. Not to mention, only your frame has a valve."
"Yeah, I wonder about that," Sideswipe said, glaring at his twin again.
"What is your evaluation of Jazz?" Prime asked, now that he knew the welfare of his two best agents.
"After he overloaded, Sunny was able to hack into his cortex," Sideswipe reported. As always, Sideswipe had no problem in seducing someone and reporting on their intimate moments to the only mech he respected. Aside from Ratchet. Though Sideswipe would rather terminate than let the medic know how high he was held in the twins' optics. "Jazz presents as he appears, Prime. He's trustworthy, sincere in his allegiance to the Autobots and he shares your morals."
"No sign of defection or sympathy toward the Decepticons?" Prime asked.
"Sunny only sensed hatred and pain," Sideswipe said, his face looking downtrodden. "I'm not sure what he witnessed, but whatever it was, it caused Jazz a lot of pain and suffering. He blames the Cons. I don't see him allying with them."
Prime nodded, deep in thought.
"He is an excellent choice for Head of Special Ops." Sideswipe added. "Jazz will be invaluable."
"Not as valuable as my two 'Secret' Ops," Prime said.
Sideswipe gave a solemn nod. He may act all crazy and drive the command staff to frenzied anger, but he was loyal to Prime. There was no questioning his adamant stance with the Autobots. Sunstreaker was just as vehement, though he hid his loyalty behind a scowl and a violent temper.
But Prime knew. And he respected the two that went to such lengths to ensure his safety. He never questioned their loyalty to him and held their opinions in high regard, even above the suggestions of his chosen officers at times.
Not that the officers were ever aware.
"Recovery time," Ratchet said, motioning for Sideswipe to down his cube. When it was gone, Ratchet took the cube and snapped his fingers to get the frontliner's compliance. "You know the drill."
"Yeah, and I'm familiar with the wrench and the screwdriver as well," Sideswipe quipped, then looked to Prime and asked, "Anything else, Sir?"
"No, that will be sufficient," Prime said, giving a nod to his best undercover agent. "I still expect a full report when both of you are able."
"I will cause some chaos and get sent to you for a reprimand," Sideswipe promised, already knowing the subterfuge used to have their private conversations without the officers knowing.
"Just don't destroy anything," Prime warned, giving Sideswipe a look full of meaning.
Sideswipe settled onto the berth as Ratchet began to shut down his systems for the reformatting. "I make no promises."
"If I have to put your slagging aft back together again, I'll put your helm up your aft," Ratchet threatened, brandishing a wrench for emphasis.
"Oh, I love it when you talk reformatting," Sideswipe grinned, not perturbed in the least with having his body contorted into doing something so drastic.
Ratchet huffed and hit the final shut down sequence, knocking Sideswipe cold. He grumbled as he worked. He didn't notice Prime take his leave, nor the laughter as soon as the door slid shut.
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So, did you see THAT one coming?
See that button at the bottom? Hit that and let me know what you think. And remember, TWO chapters next week… get ready, set aside some reading time, and warm up your keyboards for an extensive discussion on each chapter. ;)
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Much love, PJ
Hey! I just realized I share Prowl and Jazz's signature! Whoot!
