I'm not reposting all the warnings. If you didn't read them in Pt. 1, then on your head be it.
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Pt. 21
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All good things must come to an end. Not a natural one, as Red Alert had no patience when the stakes were so high. He fast-forwarded to the end of the footage. After Cosmos skedaddled down to Moonbase Two for a refuel, he kicked everyone in the direction of an actual briefing room instead of trying to squish everyone into the makeshift medbay. Ratchet put his stamp on a clean bill of health for Jazz, and Red Alert signed off on the all-clear status for the Autobot Third. Ironhide handed over the weaponry he'd confiscated before the medical exam began. Jazz politely pretended that he'd actually been disarmed.
The Security Director knew better, but he confined himself to a sardonic look at the smaller Autobot when he handed over Elita One's notes on Decepticon Command's odd reaction - read: nonexistent - to the incident they'd just watched. The specialist's impression of events from her end was cautiously optimistic due to the fact that Blast Off's behavior hadn't come off as threatening. Strange, yes. Certainly that. Not outside of the limited info-packet that'd been transmitted to her to judge these things by, however. Which, by the way, and Red Alert looked like he was quite in line with this strongly worded demand, she would like more information on. This courting practice stuff needed a detailed explanation and step-by-step guideline as of yesterday. Perhaps earlier.
She'd questioned Cosmos, but she reported a distinct 'Hands off my personal life' brush-off from that direction. The Minibot had been polite but evasive. He seemed willing to discuss the facts of what Blast Off had done and what he'd done in return, but his report was couched in studiously neutral tones. Professional tone only, ironed of all personal connotations. The way it read gave off a practiced feel. Cosmos either had the best professional poker-face in existence, or he'd written reports like this before.
Show of hands for the number of Jazzes who believed the former? None? Yeah. Cosmos had experience, and it was showing.
Jazz tolerated Ratchet unhooking him from equipment while he tore through the spacefarer's reports. Information was ripped out and tagged with the single-minded focus of a scientist dissecting a new specimen while under a deadline. The fact-based report still made for interesting reading, and the neutral narration of events made them even more interesting. Intense curiosity about what exactly Cosmos wasn't telling would eat the Head of Special Operations alive any second now.
From the way Prowl's doors never relaxed down when he pushed off the wall to leave the room, the tactician had to be just as curious. Well, 'curious' probably wasn't the right word. What Prowl felt for intelligence sources during unclear, unstable situations like this bordered on unholy vampiric hunger. The Autobot Second was far too dignified to slaver over information and latch onto sources until they were drained dry, but he utterly hated being without a plan. He had a tactician's typical need for control.
Hence the reason Cosmos was due to launch again and head planetside to Vos as soon as he caught some recharge time. Jazz saw who'd signed off on those orders. He was looking at them right now. By the timestamp, Prowl hadn't even waited to look through the full info-packet from Elita One before firing his orders back.
Jazz himself was looking forward to meeting the Reconnaissance Officer with all the enthusiasm of a starved cyberhound offered an energon goodie. There might be less gnawing, but he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't roll around on the Minibot like an ecstatic pet. Contract term limitations. The Minibot had asked Moonbase Two what contract term limitations Autobot Command had set. Primus alive and kicking, Cosmos knew what a contract was! He must have some idea what negotiating a contract entailed! He had to have at least the rough idea of what a contract structure was supposed to be set up like!
All things the Autobots currently didn't have a clue about. Jazz's information processor labeled Cosmos his new favorite information source. Regardless of whether or not the mech tried to call it personal business with a hands-off sign slapped on it, Jazz was going to get him. They didn't have the luxury of keeping this personal right now. If Jazz had to tell-all about his evening, then the Minibot could dish out details as well!
For now, however, the spacefarer was safely tucked away up on Luna 2, sleeping the sleep of the…huh. Courted, apparently. Jazz scrolled through everything Elita One had sent, plus the other Autobot officers' notes, and that seemed to be everyone's conclusion. Blast Off wanted to woo Cosmos.
"He didn't stick around? Shame on you, Blast Off, taking off on a mech like that." The shorter officer left the not-medbay at Red Alert's side, watching the last of the footage on his HUD as they walked through the halls toward a secured briefing room.
Blast Off had peeled off from Luna 2's orbit and headed back through Cybertron's near-space debris field as soon as Cosmos slipped away from him. The fuel usage estimate on his icon label indicated that the Combaticon had probably made a rough re-entry into the closest Decepticon air space available planet-side. He must have been carrying extra fuel onboard or pushing to the dregs to keep up with the Minibot that long. Either way, he hadn't imposed on Autobot hospitality for a refuel.
That could have been awkward. Elita One wouldn't have been rude or hostile, but how did the revised, temporary-possibly-not ceasefire-theoretically-treaty regulations address former enemy forces asking for energon? Or requesting emergency aid? Nuts and bolts, Blast Off hadn't needed rescue, but if he'd played his little game with Cosmos any longer, Moonbase Two might have had to tow his underfueled aft in.
"What's the current draft got to say about provisioning?" Jazz called down the hall to Prowl.
The Executive Officer caught his meaning without explanation, because the mech was just that good. Or they'd just finished watching the same footage together, but Jazz preferred to think Prowl read minds. "Current ceasefire terms address passage through neutral and claimed territories, not provision of depleted members of the opposing faction. Paragraph 14 clause A of the peace treaty addresses how the borders will be defined; clauses B through F.103 address disputes of said borders. Clause H assures safe passage through held territories given the behavioral provisions of clauses H.2 through J." There was a pause in the factual reporting as Prowl evidently pored through today's revisions to the current treaty draft. "Provisioning has not been addressed. I shall amend the list."
The list was something maintained by the whole cadre, because if they didn't keep a list of issues to be addressed in the peace treaty, it would be one of those unsorted problems that broke the peace. It got amended frequently as everyone thought of potential problems. There were so many - too many - potential problems. There was a sinking feeling of relief mingled with dread whenever someone thought of a new item to add to the list. It combined 'Thank Primus, we caught that one!' plus 'How many more have slipped past us?'
Optimus' engines rumbled from up ahead, vaguely uncomfortable. While Prowl, Mirage, and Smokescreen spent long cycles closeted with Shockwave and Soundwave debating legal terminology and subclauses, it had been left up to the Prime to raise the greatest issues with Megatron directly. It wasn't until yesterday that anybody thought to wonder how exactly he'd been bringing the list to the negotiating table.
"Better move it up and add something about emergency aid to the ceasefire's terms, too. We might have Decepticons pullin' more antics in Autobot territory soon," Jazz said lightly, craning his neck to look past Ironhide at Optimus' back. Antics like Megatron chasing that very same back around the negotiating table, only possibly more public. "Call it a courtship clause. Aw, c'mon, all that effort and not a single comm. squawk?" The last was said at his HUD. He'd gotten to the end of Cosmos' report on the pursuit. According to Cosmos, Blast Off hadn't even attempted contact. "What the frag? No proposal, just a show? What're you supposed to do, assume he wants you? Rusted shuttle's gotta step up and say something, or I'm gonna start thinking he's doing a mindfrag on us. I thought the 'Cons were all about being upfront and honest on this stuff," he grumbled.
Everyone stopped. There was dead silence, and then the small creaks of half a dozen heads turning. The small black-and-white mech found himself the focus of a hallway of incredulous stares.
He stared back, head cocked curiously to the side, not getting it for a moment. With self-modification program protocols active and mucking through threat assessment and information processors alike, his sense of 'normal' was temporarily off. His cortex hadn't yet fully made the half-step of internal change necessary to return 'Jazz; Autobot; Head of Special Operations; Third-in-Command' root personality profile to the forefront of his mind. He was still the Jazzmeister on assignment, adapted to the persona of 'Jazz; Autobot; Vosian; intended of Starscream; potential government authority figure.'
It took a moment for current circumstances to hit. When it struck him what he'd just said, in the context of the faction he was talking about, a weak laugh pushed out of him. Uh, yeah. He'd compiled a list of things he'd already absorbed in order to brief everyone on what he'd seen tonight, but the briefing hadn't happened yet. The others had no idea what he was on about. "Right. Mechs, have I got some info to dump on you."
"Sounds like it," Ratchet said dryly from behind him. "Might it have to do with that - ahem." Curious about the brief hesitation, the saboteur looked over his shoulder in time to get a small smile as the medic found the appropriate term. "That rather graphic video Soundwave transmitted to us?"
Time to reach for a protective cloak of casual self-confidence. "Oh, is that already doing the rounds?" Well, he'd tried. Jazz was certainly not embarrassed to exist right now. Nope, not at all. He forced a grin and hoped it didn't look as sickly as it felt. "It might."
Augh. He'd thought he'd at least have the night to prepare himself! Frag, frag, frag.
No. No, it was okay. He was okay. He was Jazz, and Jazz was cool, so he was okay.
"If it explains how you came to be wrist-deep in Thundercracker's vital systems, then I'm all audios," Ratchet snarked. "Primus, Jazz! I hope the rest of the night was less intense, or I'll be replacing everybody's vent fans by morning!"
Ironhide turned as the Prime entered the room's lock code ahead of him. Blue optics narrowed, and the Weapons Specialist gave the medic an unamused look as he let everyone pass through the door first.
Ratchet sailed on by, snorting, "Don't give me that. You're a lying slagheap if you say watching that didn't rev your engine."
"Hot as melted slag," Blaster put in, grinning widely as he flopped into a chair. "Jazz, mech. Level with me. Where'd you learn to make Seekers scream?"
"That's for me to know and you to speculate on." He tried to meet their optics, he really did, but it just wasn't happening. Something kept yanking his visor to the nearest wall as if it were magnetic.
He was not embarrassed, he was not - okay, yes, he was. Frag his life if he didn't have some reputation to salvage come morning. Jazz's behavior skirted the boundaries of indecency during normal times, and he'd been pushing it to charm the Decepticons with 'unintentional' touches and flirting. Tonight, however, dove headlong into interfacing in public, in a way he feared most of the Autobots wouldn't understand their own reactions to. It wouldn't be so bad among SpecOps, where every operative knew just what lengths they'd go to for a mission, but that left the rest of the faction. If Soundwave had outright broadcast a transmission, the rank and file were going to find out. That would either help get everything out in the open, or bury the real issues in inconsequential scandal.
Horrified gasps would abound, he was sure. Grapple should starting building the fainting couches now.
…Primus, he was really starting to understand Acid Storm's expression while explaining Decepticon interfacing practices. This was the first time the saboteur had ever thought about his friends and fellow faction members as kind of prudish. It was excusable ignorance considering how the factions had separated, creating wildly different societies, but scrap metal and rust was it ever going to cause his processors to overclock.
Jazz slunk around the table to his spot and slouched into the chair, not caring that he probably looked like a sulking new-spark. He crossed his arms and sullenly looked down at the tabletop, mind speeding ahead. "How much did Sounders broadcast, or didja get the uncensored Pay-Per-View edition of tonight's Jazz Show?"
A 'tuh!' of disbelief went around the table as everyone settled, and the maligned Autobot couldn't help but crack a grin. Nobody believed for a second that Soundwave of all mechs would send them anything that hadn't been heavily edited first.
I've got an offer for the full night sitting in my queue," Blaster volunteered.
"That was quick," Jazz muttered, but he wasn't too surprised. "Swindle?"
"Yup."
Definitely not surprised. Swindle would find a way to capitalize off the heat death of the universe. "Ugh. Take the offer. We need that footage." What Soundwave chose to edit out might be more telling than what he'd left in. The comparison could be interesting.
The Communications Officer twirled a hand by his temple - 'loco in the coco' - and grimaced. "Swindle's price is way funky, though. Table other issues," he said, flipping his hands as if pushing Jazz's activities aside for the moment. "I wanna pass it by you guys first, 'cause he ain't talking cold hard cash or credit. He's calling in a favor."
The rest of the command staff gave him their immediate attention. Although the trading of favors between Decepticons and Autobots wasn't a condoned thing, several of the Ark mission Autobots owed Decepticons blank checks from their time on Earth. Red Alert kept close watch on those favors, tracking who owed what to whom. Most of them were very minor, from similarly minor incidents, such as Astrotrain owing Red Alert the tiniest bit for letting his shipment of model trains through the human postage system unhindered, or Sunstreaker giving a nod to Mixmaster for passing on the correct formula to replicate his exact shade of gold in a human brand of paint. Most of them were stupid little favors, smidgeons of gratitude, but a few major things had cropped up here and there. According to Red Alert's ledgers, but for a couple rare exceptions, those big ones had been called in to avoid being shot during battle.
Minor or not, the remaining favors belonged to the canniest of mechs on both sides. Soundwave had more than his fair share, but his Cassettes currently owed more favors than they'd gathered. Starscream held at least one or two that'd slipped detection, but the Air Commander played his cards close to his chest. Estimating the markers that mech had squirreled away for getting his nosecone out of the fire was a constant guessing game. Jazz wasn't about to tell Red Alert how many the SpecOps' pool held, although he was curious as to how accurate the Security Director's records on his division were. Ratchet had more than four, less than a dozen, but owed heavily in small favors to Decepticons who'd 'accidentally' missed shooting him while tending patients on the battlefield. First Aid had at least a double handful owed to him, and he owed no one.
None of the Decepticons were dumb enough to shoot at the medic with a gestalt backing him. Only a threat to a patient could bring First Aid's titanium core boiling up through his sweetspark exterior, and the other Protectobots ran pacifism over like roadkill when someone went after their teammate. Jazz dove for cover when that combiner team hit their limit. The Protectobots were reluctant soldiers at best, but they were still soldiers. Defensor typically stuck to defense because of his components' backgrounds in rescue operations, but when he seized warfare by the horns, he gripped hard and used it to bludgeon the chaos back into order. He'd once backhanded Megatron so hard Devastator broke apart because Hook and Scrapper went running to the tyrant's unconscious side.
Lesson learned: Don't. Shoot. At First Aid.
Swindle didn't need that lesson. Swindle didn't shoot at anyone unless there was a percentage in it for him somehow. He was an avid trader of favors, and his access to goods the Autobots wanted had resulted in skilled bargaining at the debt game. He'd cashed most of his bartered favors as soon as they were written in order to slip his nonweaponry business-dealings with the humans past Autobot interdiction. He had a few left, however, and it seemed he was calling one in.
"He knows I ain't gonna give him scrap-all for what he's got left on me, but he knows we want that footage, too. His offer's givin' us what we want for what looks like a pittance, but there's gotta be an angle." Blaster scowled, rubbing his nasal crest. "I just can't see it. I wanna pass it by you guys." He put his hand flat on the table and leaned forward. "Check it: he wants an introduction to the human Embassy." That got widened optics around the table. "Not any ol' secretaries. Ambassadors Witwicky themselves. And get this." He leaned further forward, as if paranoid that Soundwave had the sealed briefing room bugged even after he and Red Alert had finished with it. "He wants it full-formal, done by Mirage. He didn't specify, but I'm thinking what he means is full-formal as in Iaconian Towers formal."
"Mech's got business sense," Ironhide said. He propped one knee up against the table and folded his arms, frowning as he thought. "Could be trying to make himself look like he's somebody important here on Cybertron." Because like fun the humans didn't know he'd been sleaze on four wheels while on Earth. "Presentin' himself as a noblemech could be a try at makin' a good impression and puttin' himself forward as the Decepticon official contact for off-world dealin's. He wants slag imported or exported from Earth, current draft says he's gotta go through official channels. Right?" He threw Prowl a glance.
Prowl obviously had the peace treaty draft open in front of it on the table's inbuilt screen display. Jazz could read the open windows upside-down as his fellow officer touched and dragged them around, searching for the relevant passages and checking six other things at the same time. "Correct. Our contacts on Earth have reported that the orbital stations have had to repel unidentified alien craft more frequently. Their outermost outposts have caught similar craft attempting to infiltrate the solar system." The tactician pulled up a series of reports to skim over. "While I can believe that our involvement may have opened the planet to interstellar traders or piracy, I find it highly improbable that there would be this much activity within such a short amount of time."
"Invasion?" Ironhide's knee dropped off the table, and they all sat straighter.
Earth was in a transitive time as humankind ventured out into the wider galaxy. Inexperience left the race vulnerable, and the Autobots were rather protective of their ally planet. Humankind's bizarrely infectious nature accounted for some of that protectiveness, but the Ark crew felt intensely responsible for what had been done to Earth in the name of their war. The Autobots, much less the Decepticons, should have never ended up on Earth.
Humans were incredibly tough in some ways, but it was hard to see it for their frail little bodies.
"Possible, but unlikely." Prowl touched a minimized window and zoomed in on a short note. "No aggression shown, and those craft that made it into atmosphere were targeting specific areas in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia."
A heavy truck engine rattled the table as the Prime angled to see the report. Prowl obligingly flicked it to the console screen at their leader's place, set into the head of the table. "They knew where they were going. Precision drops," Optimus said after looking over the information himself.
"Or pick-ups," Prowl agreed. "In Swindle's most active areas of business."
"Some shipments got through," Ironhide asserted, frown hard and tight. As much as the humans had shored up their vulnerable world's protections, they still weren't up to galactic standards. They couldn't have intercepted every attempt to land on their planet. "It's still gotta be cuttin' into that scumball's profit margin."
True enough. Swindle had been out of circulation for over four million years in the Detention Centre. He'd built a business network from scratch on Earth, but half a century was a long time in human terms. That was plenty of time to establish a deep network on Earth, and practically nothing for re-establishing his network off-planet among longer-lived races. Whatever contacts he had left on Cybertron, he had to be promising them exotics from the human world. It was his only selling point until he got his network set back up here.
"The Ambassadors are aware of Swindle's reputation and criminal record, both on and off Earth." Red Alert had pulled up a series of files on his own touchscreen. "A fancy introduction will accomplish nothing if we make them aware of our speculations. He is not the official Decepticon contact for anything, and our alliance with Earth explicitly states that dealings with the Decepticons must pass through us first for security. If he is seeking to bypass that, the Ambassadors will shut him down without qualm."
"Hmm. Could be that, but he doesn't strike me as the type to beat his head against a wall." Jazz ratta-tapped his fingers on the table as he mulled the puzzle over.
Swindle had to know about the provisos put in place to protect the Autobot Alliance's ally-worlds. The Autobots were representing more than themselves in these peace negotiations, but so far only the cease-fire only had one concession acknowledging that fact. The Autobots hadn't pushed the issue very hard. In the past, the Decepticons had shown themselves willing to work with and use other species, but the faction as a whole had a superiority complex. It was as if Megatron's efforts to level Cybertron's social rankings had made Senator and miner equal but somehow also resulted in elevating Cybertronians above all other forms of life in the universe. The Decepticons in general had contempt bordered on xenophobia for off-worlders.
The Autobots had let the delicate topic lie once they'd won the single concession, because that concession was ground-breaking by itself. The Decepticons had allowed the classification of humankind as 'sentient aliens, Autobot allies.' Unspoken in the fine print Prime and Megatron were slowly sorting out in their closed meetings, that meant Megatron sort of, maybe, sideways acknowledged humankind as an equal species. A little. As long as no one openly talked about it.
The classification didn't stop the Decepticon ranks from curiously poking at the Earth Embassy in Vos, but it kept them from stomping on the squishy organics inside. The Embassy had responded to the constant gawking by putting a giant vidscreen along one whole wall of the building. Within six months, off-duty Decepticons were standing in skittish herds around it, mesmerized by educational and entertainment programs from Earth. Now, twelve years on from the beginning of the cease-fire, a cautious mingling of Decepticons and Autobots gathered at the Embassy on the unofficial movie nights.
Blaster claimed that 70% of his Decepticon and Earth Embassy middleman work had to do with requests for reruns or demands for this deca-cycle's show schedule. Another 20% was purchasing through him as the major Earth TV networks' authorized distribution vendor for Cybertron.
Earth's pop culture sucked mechs in wholesale. The vidscreen had been a brilliant diplomatic move, in Jazz's opinion. The Ambassadors Witwicky were no fools, and Swindle had to be aware of their cleverness.
"Might just be as simple as getting a foot in the door as far as any future dealings," Jazz mused. "Nothing says that Earth can't request who we contact in the Decepticons. I mean, as long as an official contact isn't specifically designated in the treaty, he's got as good a chance as anybody. Introduction done by an Autobot makes him look good, and doing it this early on might be him trying to look like he supports Earth getting in on the negotiations." It'd be a typical greasy move on the conmech's part, but it could be legitimate business sense as well. Swindle could schmooze with the best of them.
He looked up at the others. "I say go for it. We need that footage."
Optimus Prime looked to Prowl and Red Alert, who gave reluctant nods of agreement. "Very well. Blaster?"
"I'll take care of it."
"Leading us back to what we're really here to discuss," Ratchet said dryly. He tilted his head, directing an amused, almost impressed look across the table at Jazz. "The footage we've already got. We got four kliks of you pulling some moves on Thundercracker's spark that I haven't seen outside of some high-voltage pornography from before the war," he declared as if that were the standard measurement for such things.
Of course, then he immediately had to fend off Wheeljack's interest. His friend appeared to agree with his standards and was flashing his vocal indicators suggestively. "No, you can't watch it! No. I don't have it. I don't have the archive space to keep that sort of filth on file!"
"Implying that you once did keep it," the Autobots' Chief Engineer pointed out cheerfully. "You might want to dig out what you remember about it, because from what we saw tonight," he gave the Porsche across the table a broad wink, "it counts as instructional vids. Think you could teach classes?"
Blaster hooted and pushed himself back in his chair. "Sign me up! Smelt me if anything I saw back in the day had more than some plate-pawing before the data details started flashing 'cross the screen. I mean, frag yeah I gotta few ideas, but anybody here actually done the deed without swapping cables?"
Suddenly, nobody could meet anyone else's optics. Jazz glanced around the table. Embarrassment became so much easier to bear when it spread about, but this was a little weird. Optimus' engine coughed, Ironhide had his optics trained on the ceiling, and Prowl rearranged his touchscreen's windows obsessively. Ratchet and Wheeljack appeared to be having an argument over internal commlink. Red Alert was following Prowl's fine example and busily arranged his open files in different patterns. Even Blaster looked like he regretted what'd just come out of his mouth.
Then again, the Autobot Communications Officer had a history of not watching his words when it came to sharing too much information. Professional though he could be, he nosedived into details on personal stuff. This wasn't the first time he'd said something too risqué for polite company. It'd earned him a bit of a loose reputation that…Jazz really had to revaluate in the light of what he'd learned tonight. Huh. The same went for Ratchet's words.
The glimmer of unease that'd started nagging him shouldered out into the open and demanded he listen to it. He'd let embarrassment get a foothold when the teasing had started in the hall, but that wasn't right. He needed to stop and think about that reflex, and how the logic under the reaction worked. Or rather, how the Autobots assumed it worked.
His unease related back to how every Autobot here thought about the footage his spies brought back from missions. Every surveillance mission came back with cycle upon cycle of obscene acts caught everywhere in every Decepticon base. The Autobots recoiled from watching such footage, and dismissed it as disgusting interpersonal byplay holding no greater meaning in the larger setting of the war. Well, showed what they'd known about how the Decepticons did things. The public debauchery among the Decepticons that had appeared to serve no purpose suddenly did.
Jazz's unease over the teasing crystallized: the standards they'd been judging an entire faction by were based on flawed arguments. And those standards carried over into their own society.
The only one in this room, in this building, that knew something was wrong with the standards was Jazz himself. It gave him a strange sense of disassociation. Listening to the slurs and the teasing when he couldn't relate to them put him on the outside, studying the rest of the cadre from the perspective of a judgmental observer. He squeamishly wondered what a Decepticon would think of having his preferred method of interfacing referred to as a bad joke at best, 'filth' at worst.
No wonder the Autobots had stuck with hardline interfacing alone, if anything different got shamed out of practice as an obscenity.
Jazz couldn't say that Autobot mores were precisely wrong, but after what he'd seen tonight? He could definitely state that they weren't right.
The Autobots had to clean house before thinking about Decepticon guests. A lot of internal issues needed to be revaluated before the external ones could even be touched. Taking apart their standards to puzzle out the flawed logic had to be done, and it had to start somewhere. Unfortunately, all the places to start were all places he wanted to avoid for his own peace of mind right now.
When every place to begin sent his temperature skyrocketing with embarrassment, why bother with the niceties?
Had anyone at the table gone straight through to overload without cable interfacing? Yes indeed, someone had, and it'd be public knowledge fairly soon even if he didn't confess to it. There'd been too many witnesses to bother with delaying the inevitable. He could all but feel duty weeping inside his head as that randy subprocessor gleefully gained the upper hand.
Time to talk porn.
"Yes." He threw it out on the table with a boldness he certainly didn't feel at the moment. "But you saw the extent of it, and that was one-sided. So sign me up for classes, too. I need to know where to touch, how hard, and what's safe. I pulled that spark-stuff out of my exhaust pipe, mechs, 'cause I got nothing. All the stuff I used to get were pornloads."
Jazz shrugged his doors, working to seem less flustered than he really was. Talking about this was acutely embarrassing. Because, really, self-servicing happened, but who in the universe wanted to talk about it? It belonged behind closed doors, and that's where it should stay - except that was a fallacy. Embarrassment killed discussion, so the discussion never happened, and that perpetuated the circular argument that made openly speaking about pleasure anathema. That was wrong.
Knowing that didn't make it any less humiliating to speak out in front of the other officers. He'd just admitted to syncing his systems with fantasy mech downloads meant to imitate a real interface. Now he couldn't even meet their optics.
Wait, what? No. He stopped that line of thought and went after it with a staple-gun, trying to pin down what exactly it was that was trying to make him feel ashamed. There was no shame in admitting to self-servicing. There was no shame in talking about it, or about his experience level with tactile interfacing. Acid Storm would probably be wondering what his hang-up was.
A quick self-assessment made him conclude it came down to peer pressure. A processor loop had lodged tight: he thought this topic didn't belong in public, so he felt that everyone would disapprove of it being brought up, so it wasn't brought up, and the silence became self-perpetuating as everyone accepted that the topic was Not To Be Spoken Of. Someone had to take a step out of that circle of assumption, and here Jazz was.
Truth be told, this wasn't the oddest report he'd given to the officers at this table. The looks they were giving him, however, certainly ranked as some of the most shocked he'd collected in return. That sort of challenged him, in a backward way. He could play this game. The air of casualness settled more easily on his shoulders, and Jazz stretched to hook his doors over the back of his chair. Ante up, Autobots.
He met that incredulous, table-wide stare and raised the bet. A round of details on the house. Details for everyone! "The cheap-charge stuff got me off, but it's kinda leaving me woefully underequipped going up against the 'Cons on this battlefield. I think they give each other lessons on tactile 'facing." He frowned, remembering Acid Storm demanding a report on interfacing preferences from a subordinate. "No, wait, I know they do." He either needed to sign up for lessons somehow, or go through previously-discarded mission footage with an optic for fragging.
Staring morphed into gaping. Slack-jaw disease infected even Prowl, which would have been hilarious if Jazz's intakes weren't skreeling shut out of embarrassment.
Ratchet sputtered, fastening on a detail. "You've never - You could have killed him!" Indignation crossed his face. "Why on Cybertron did you agree to touch his spark if you didn't know what you were doing?!"
He flashed a cheeky grin at the medic. "I figured mechs have been making this stuff up for ages without exploding. I just went with what felt good, y'know?"
"Jazz."
The somber tone repressed his embarrassment-fueled giddiness a little, and he turned to give the Prime a more serious look. "You telling me you're confident you know how to turn the Slagmaker's fans? Because I did what I had to, but this is something the Decepticons do on a regular basis to negotiate. They're gonna do whatever it takes to get the advantage on these slagging contracts. I barely know where a few of your sweet spots are, much less what I should be aiming for on Starscream. Gimme a cable, sure, I can hold my own. But he gets his hands on me," he admitted, but this admission was grim, "and he's got me melting in a klik or two. Tell me I'm wrong that ol' Megs ain't doing the same to you."
"We're not fighting," Optimus said, troubled enough to ignore the sudden speculative glances of the officers cataloguing what they knew got his engine running. "Interfacing is not a weapon that we must hold over the Decepticons. True, I am not experienced in this practice, but I am confident of my ability to," his optics slid to the side, "learn what to do. It has sufficed so far." He shifted under the narrow optics of the entire table. Suspicious Autobots were suspicious. 'Sufficed,' eh?
Ironhide nudged Jazz in the side and pointed with his stylus at the newest item on his personal agenda: 'Question Bumblebee on closed meeting events.'
The saboteur nodded and updated his own agenda to match. What were the two faction leaders getting up to behind closed doors, anyway? Bumblebee's presence as a secretary was meant to tamp down the naughtier negotiating techniques Megatron might try pulling out, but after witnessing the highly public events of the night, Jazz wasn't sure Bumblebee was enough. He wasn't sure an entire armed squadron would be enough. It might turn into an orgy, with the way things were going.
Optimus caught his two officers exchanging scheming looks and seemed mortified. "I do not need lessons!"
Interesting that the Prime had assumed that's what they were planning. Veeeeeeery interesting. 'Yes he does,' Ironhide tapped out with his stylus. 'Alternative option: chaperone?'
Jazz nodded agreement and turned his visor on the rest of the table. "Look, I'm not saying we couldn't go a few rounds of intimate Twister and catch up to the party," he wiggled his fingers in illustration at the mechs across the table, and Ratchet sat up straight in a real hurry, "but that's gonna take time we don't have. Trust me, we are way outclassed in experience. We gotta level-up fast, or we're gonna be wondering what we agreed to after the static clears. This isn't fighting," he said to his Prime, "it's not a weapon, but it is a tool. It's a tool I need, and pronto. 'Cause, mechs?" He reset his vocalizer. "Gotta admit, I've never gone tactile all the way 'cept for that thing with Thundercracker tonight. I got no idea what to expect under normal circumstances."
Hello, embarrassment. Welcome to the meeting. Come in and visit everyone.
"…me neither," Ironhide admitted gruffly, optics locked on his agenda. "Stuff like that's just foreplay, in my book."
"I want a look at your book," Ratchet muttered sourly. "Might borrow some pages here and there." His voice rose a little, and he crossed his arms across his windshield defensively. "Before anyone starts, I'm not a pervert. The vids I had were both good studio-quality and some really lousy homemade slag, and it was for a class. All the medical students were given terrabytes of various popular entertainment vids to analyze." He sank a bit in his chair, avoiding their intrigued, slightly appalled gazes. "Reporting on the physical probability of stuff. And things." He slid lower in the chair. If he got any more defensive, they'd need to rename him Fort Ratchet. "It wasn't all pornography."
"But a lot of it was?" Wheeljack prodded, fascinated.
If Ratchet were any less a self-confident mech who'd seen everything and done it twice during his time as Chief Medical Officer, the drum of his fingers on his upper arm would have been a full-blown squirm. "It was what everyone wanted to analyze," he said stiffly. The room continued to look at him. Finally, he met their stares and blustered, "For Primus' sake - it was a long time ago, and I was very young!"
…maybe Jazz should have been a medic. All they'd shown during the Enforcer training courses was boring videos of old award ceremonies.
Attention tactfully turned from the glowingly mortified medic in their midst when Prowl made an aimless gesture with one hand. "I know of tactile interfacing, but it is not something that was practiced in Praxus. You, ah," the tactician cleared his throat unnecessarily, attempting to treat the subject delicately despite the fact that it splayed out lewdly on the table. "You are aware of my preferences in such things."
That brought up a surge of memory. It swept around the room as the assembled officers looked at him, optics softening, and the Autobot Second-in-Command suddenly found a datapad in dire need of an update. He busied himself tapping his stylus, expression impassive.
Everyone pretended not to see Optimus reach out a hand and lay it gently on his Executive Officer's forearm, or Prowl stop writing momentarily in order to cover the Prime's hand with his own. Ratchet's face didn't unscrew from its scowl and his arms remained tightly crossed, but his elbow somehow knocked against the tactician's closest altmode door anyway. Physical and emotional connections could be dismantled to an exploitable, mathematical equation in the numerical world seen through Prowl's logic center. His battle computer ran almost constantly in these wartorn times, and the priorities set by processing information through it made personal attachment…difficult. He used his cold personality as ruthlessly as Jazz used his social nature, but Prowl was no emotionless robot.
At the end of the day, he was as Cybertronian as any mech in the room, with the same basic needs that could only be pushed aside for so long. Every mech in the briefing room had linked up with him before, and the interfacing had reminded them that basic needs were surprisingly easy to fulfill. Namely, that interfacing with Prowl involved simply holding him and being held in return. There was no reaching for pleasure or striving toward a climatic peak. It was plain, comfortable, platonic intimacy that let him relax.
Comparing interfacing with Prowl to even just flirting with Starscream broke Jazz's mind a little. He might have sneaked a quick grope of the Executive Officer's aft a few times, but come on. That'd been wishful thinking and some clowning around. How less like tactile interfacing could a mech get than a nice, wholesome hug?
'Sign him up for every class. Ever.' He slid that over for Ironhide to read, then dragged the datapad back and underlined the last word a few times. He didn't doubt that Prowl could hold his own on a battlefield, but the mech operated at maximum efficiency when he had a plan. Until there was real experience to back up theory, Jazz's threat assessment grouped the Autobot Second into the category of potential liabilities.
Unlike, of course, Wheeljack. Experiments based on wild theories were his strong point. "I've dabbled," the engineer admitted easily, winking his indicators at the medic warily edging away from him. Prowl grunted from Ratchet's other side, abruptly squished in his seat by the ambulance now leaning on him. "Not much, but, er, humans are remarkably touchy creatures. Studying their nervous systems and attempts to repair handicapped humans with nerve damage allowed Perceptor and I to introduce several new advancements in Cybertronian medical technology. It shouldn't surprise anyone that concepts relating to increased sensitivity and concentration upon physical stimulus inspired us to field-test our own - "
Ratchet croaked faintly, and optics went wide around the table. No one was ever going to look at the equipment in the medbay the same.
Wheeljack just shrugged. "Overall, it was pleasant, but we moved on fairly quickly. I can't say I'd object to trying it again, but…" His optics went pensive. "Is the spark thing normal for the Decepticons?" he asked hesitantly, indicators dimming as everyone looked at him. "I'm sorry, but opening my chest isn't something I want to do." An anxious fidget, and one hand covered his chest unconsciously while he earnestly stared across the table at Jazz. "From the way he was bound, Thundercracker didn't seem to have a choice about what you - "
"Far as I can tell, it's not something they do regularly," Jazz interrupted quickly. "An' what Thundercracker wanted is kinda complicated." He hesitated, wondering if there were enough qualifiers in the universe to pile on that one word. Complicated. Yeah. "Uh…I'm gonna need a klik to upload everything for you guys. Gimme a sec."
One hand waved, shooing them onward as he pulled over a download pad. He opened up the appropriate program on it and jacked in. The briefing packet was ready to go, but getting everything prioritized correctly by which officer he aimed every data-packet at required some individual tweaking. For instance, Ratchet really needed a heads-up on the extent this information was going to recompile their underlying program protocols. Depending on how quickly Prowl tried to analyze and assimilate the changes, there could be Very Bad Reactions happening soon. Not just for Prowl. Red Alert could turn his assumptions on a dime in order to handle traitors popping out of the floor and a base collapsing on his helm, but that didn't mean he'd come out of the settling dust a well-adjusted mech. Or a quiet one, for that matter.
While Jazz worked, attention shifted to the far end of the table, where their Communication Officer shrugged at them. "I, uh, only ever had pornloads." Blaster seemed almost apologetic, either for introducing the topic or for not having wider experience in the media they needed. Usually, he could be relied upon to have dabbled in every genre of every communication medium ever invented. Although battles might have been a lot more fun if pornography had been considered essential to the war effort before this. "I don't even know where to go beyond some heavy petting. So…uh. Red?"
Red Alert's curt answer held all the embarrassment his face didn't show. "No."
"Has anyone tried asking Kup what he knows?" Prowl asked suddenly. A round of mumbles went around, but it seemed that nobody had. "Blaster?"
"On it." The boombox mech smiled wanly. "Just need to, um, figure out how to word it. Kinda one of my weirder info requests. 'Hey, Kup, tell me a story 'bout the time you finger-fragged a buncha - '" He broke off, wilting under Ironhide's glare and several shocked stares from the others. "Oh, uh, sorry. Just…yeah. Bad timing?"
"This is no joking matter," Optimus Prime said sternly. "As…awkward as the subject may be, I wish it to be handled with as much dignity and common sense as any other relating to the peace process."
Blaster winced. "Yes, Prime. Sorry 'bout that, guys."
Even caught up in his own work, Blaster's flustered apology had Jazz frowning. It seemed that nobody had a better idea of what to do than Jazz. Wonderful. It made sense, however. The Autobot officer cadre came mostly from the Tri-Peninsular Torus States where the Senate - and after it, the Autobot faction - had centered its powerbase. That whole hemisphere had been where the Senate had the most power, or at least control. As Acid Storm had railed about, the Enforcers hadn't just been out to universalize the Senate's laws over Cybertron; the Enforcer Code had been set down to create a society ruled by those laws. Standardizing a whole planet's social practices based out of those laws required ignoring any previous cultures and overriding any conflicts by coming down in favor of the 'standard' every time.
If the outside judges viewed the culture already in place as intrinsically harmful, they'd have been out to subvert the foreign culture. Jazz could see why the warbuilds had been up in arms over that. Knowing what he knew now about his own faulty assumptions, he would have gone into Vos ready to view its native society as bad. Most of the Enforcers, like the Senate's bureaucracy, came from the Tri-Peninsular Torus States, where the standards had been in place long before the Cybertronian Alliance went into affect planetwide. The Enforcers stationed in Vos had probably had no idea how to handle the culture clash other than labeling the Vosian side as 'wrong.'
That brought up another train of thought, and he spoke without looking up. "Anybody done a background search on city origins? Those who came from closer to the equator and survivors from the Neutral city-states gotta have some experience in this. Mechs from the Planetary Guard probably had a few run-ins with this scrap." He needed to touch base with his operatives, too. Before, reporting that a quick session with a Decepticon had gotten key information or greased the gears to free someone in a tight spot had been SpecOps code for an operative not wanting to talk about his methods. Jazz had let himself gloss over the details for too long, especially now that he knew it wasn't cable interfacing that'd had his mechs so uncomfortable during reports.
"Defectors." Oh, that one word had eons of paranoia worked into it. The Security Director stabbed his stylus at a datapad as if the idea personally offended him. "I will pull files on every confirmed defector from the Decepticons. Rumored ones as well." He frowned thoughtfully. "I can start an inquiry, but calling for volunteers might be just as effective." He paused, and a strange look of realization spread slowly across his face.
Ironhide nudged him with an elbow. "What?"
"A lot of extremely odd questions from my mechs working integration make so much more sense, now," Red Alert said, voice distant. Security held responsibility for keeping tabs on defectors as well as indoctrinating them into the Autobot Code and ranks. Jazz could just bet there'd been some odd questions asked on both sides.
A huff of air from the head of the table accompanied Optimus Prime sitting forward and folding his hands together on the table's surface. "Jazz, I must ask: is there a reason you've directed the conversation to…this?" He unlaced his fingers to make a vaguely uncomfortable gesture. "I don't question that it is relevant to ongoing events, but our personal experience in, ah, interfacing techniques hardly seems to take precedence to your debriefing."
The download pad bleeped completion as he shut down his hardline to it. "Roll with it a klik longer, Prime," the saboteur assured him, "because this briefing's gonna get your shock absorbers working. Mechs, I'm proposing we get some tactile classes on the schedule right away. Ratchet, you remember those vids well enough to teach some basics for feel-good times?"
"Oh, Primus, I hate you." Jazz's grin flashed brightly as the medic put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Embarrassment! Embarrassment for all! "Yes, fine. Better to learn from a medical professional than you just making this Pit-scrap fragging nonsense up while holding someone's spark." Amused rumbles from a high-performance engine earned Wheeljack a hard smack in the shoulder. "Consider yourself deputized as my teaching assistant, afthead!"
"Right." The Autobots' resident troublemaking officer turned his urchin's grin on the rest of the table, but his visor had the steely glint of the Jazzmeister's ruthless purpose. "You're all signed up. Frag, the whole roster's signed up. We should set up some equipment and distribute recordings to every Autobot outpost we can reach in a hurry. Ratchet, your office is now Interfacing HQ, because class attendance is mandatory." That hard visor turned to nail the Prime where he sat, and Optimus sat back, startled. "Mandatory. As in, you're goin'." The look expanded to the other six officers. "All of you."
Ratchet spluttered. "What - don't I get a say in this?!"
"You can say all you want," Jazz said, gentling his tone a bit from the merciless cheer of the Autobot Third-in-Command giving orders. "You don't have to lay a hand on anyone, but we need this. Gimme a hint, Ratchet. Some general pointers. Things to avoid. Stuff like that. Anything taught by the Decepticons on this's gonna be skewed to their advantage, and I dunno 'bout you, but I'd rather learn a few dance moves in the amateur rink before I'm swept off my feet by the grand champion." He drew in a deep vent. "I've got some things I've gotta follow up on, but I might - might - be able to bring in a couple, ah, Decepticon 'volunteers' for demonstrations." He had a couple of options in mind. He had no idea if either would cooperate, but right now, the Autobots needed him to try and drag in those leads.
Hot air puffed out his vents, and the small Autobot put his download pad flat on the table. His hands were steady, but his intakes were skreeling all the way shut. As hard as he was trying to cover it, embarrassment was catching up with his bravado. He could only imagine what the topic was doing to the others.
Scratch that. He didn't have to use his imagination. If Prowl stiffened any further in his seat, he'd snap a strut. Only shock had kept the Autobot Prime and his Executive Officer silent so far, because Jazz was pushing it by abusing his authority like this.
On purpose, even if they didn't see the purpose yet. "Ironhide, lemme tell you what I want to try," Jazz said, turning to the mech beside him as if this were an everyday conversation. "I wanna fight you. I wanna fight dirty, pin you down, get pinned down, get so charged up and dented that we're hot an' bothered and two cables away from 'facing each other right out in the open where everybody can see us."
It came out chatty, casual, and Ironhide's face was priceless. Red Alert made a funny sound of wheezing intakes from the Weapons Specialist's other side. Wheeljack's indicators lit so brilliant that Ratchet's dropped jaw cast a shadow across Prowl's stunned face. Blaster blatted static, and Optimus blinked rapidly as Jazz stood up, one hand reaching out to toy with the old red soldier's tire.
"Do you wanna interface with me?" he asked, calm and still casual.
For reasons they didn't understand yet, that was the part that blew the assembled officer cadre flat. Optics went blank as astonishment temporarily wiped everything else away. He understood that feeling all too well: knock-out shock and an odd, growing sense of offense.
Hopefully, there was a similar growth of confusion for such a strong reaction.
Ironhide's mouth opened, but no sound came out. There might have been a tiny squeak of jaw gears.
"Jazz!" Of course the Prime would recover first. "What are you - "
Jazz blatantly ignored his commander. "Yes or no," he asked, visor capturing Ironhide's stunned gaze, and oh, it hurt his spark to see how close to fear that look came. Ironhide, oldest and boldest of the officer cadre, had been confused to the point of being afraid by open speech and a frank question.
Asking consent should never cause that. Talking about what they wanted shouldn't be something they were scared of.
The fear sucked down into the beginnings of anger, because that's how Ironhide handled such things, and Jazz grabbed the older mech's tire so hard the rubber bulged around his fingers. "That, right there," he snapped at the room at large, but his visor bored into his friend and fellow officer's defensive anger. "What are you feeling right now about what I just did? What'd I do? I talked. About interfacing. In the open. That's it. Hold onto that, and think." Solemn and tense, he turned to lift the download pad from the table, slipping it into briefing slot so they could access what he'd discovered tonight. "Think about it, Autobots."
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End Pt. 21
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