Jazz is almost literally buried in datapads when the teenager enters his office, helm against the desk and only a soft mechanical whine echoing in the room, since his music collection has been requisitioned and all radio signals are jammed.
Spike feels a tinge of guilt at the saboteur's plight, even if he knows he's exaggerating in his defeated position, but, after all, if he hadn't asked what he did when the other was on the comm, the rest of the Autobots wouldn't have known and, consequently, there wouldn't have been any crashed processors for Ratchet to monitor.
Nevertheless, there's no other 'Bot the teenager can think about to get an answer out of, which is why he's come to the Third in Command's office, his father deciding to stay with Wheeljack and Perceptor to clear the incident from his head.
"Jazz?"
"Wha."
The human has to wince at the miserable tone of voice, and, for a second, he doubts it's an act. Forcing the saboteur to deal with all his paperwork without even an Energon break is bad, knowing how the mech is, but taking his music away is almost torture.
"I, huh, wanted to ask you something. But, if it's a bad moment…" A black servo waves negatively before gesturing for the teenager to approach.
When he gets to the feet of the chair, Jazz looks down with his visor a curious pale blue.
The boy smiles at that, letting himself be pulled on a cleared part of the table as the Head of Spec Ops pushes the pads into a messy pile.
"Shoot, Spike. Anything to distract me from this." The mech answers with a human-like grimace as he gestures vaguely towards the datapads, something the Autobots sometimes do as a show of exaggeration.
"I still don't know what tactile overloading is. Or how it could be used on Starscream's wings."
Silence.
And then, a high-performance engine rumbles in amusement as the saboteur grins widely.
"Ah, that's right. Well, m'dear Spike, a tactile overload happens during tactile interfacing. An overload is a release of a powerful wave of energy that usually accumulates during the interface, and it's something that makes you feel really, really nice." Jazz's smirk widens almost shark-like, but falls silent.
Confused and a bit unnerved by the sight, the teenager ponders the words, trying to remember when he has heard the word 'interface' before, and how it being tactile could lead to a rush of… of feeling… nice…
Not knowing if he should pale or blush, and remembering a shuddering medic as he consulted a certain word, the boy looks up at the still Cheshire Cat-like grinning Autobot.
"Interfacing… is it like… sex?" He squeaks, and, to his confusion, the smirk vanishes as the clear visor darkens.
And then, Jazz straightens with a yelp and a full body shudder.
"Primus! What the Pit is that!" Startled by the mech's reaction, the teenager takes a couple of steps back as the saboteur shakes his helm almost violently. "That is organic interfacing? It's gross! And how does that cable—No, enough! I don't want to know!" He shouts, covering his helm with his servos and hunching down, visor completely black.
Silence.
"Jazz?"
No answer.
Fearing he's managed to get another mech to crash—again—the boy cautiously approaches and taps a forearm plate.
The Autobot almost jumps out of his chair at the touch, visor flashing pale blue before focusing on the human.
"Oh. Sorry. I was quarantining certain data files." The saboteur answers with a grimace and yet another shudder, but calms down after that. "Now, how do I explain this…" He grumbles, tapping the side of his helm almost absentmindedly. "There are three different ways of interfacing, mainly, and they can happen at the same time, if it's wanted. But the basis of all interface is make yourself and the other Cybertronian, or Cybertronians, feel good and overload. It has no relation to creation, it just exists for the purpose of overloading. Kinda." The mech lets out a harsh burst of air with a small scowl, leaning back on his seat with his visor darkening. "Though I guess it has some semblance to your 'sex'—" The shudder is loud with the clinking of plating, and Spike frowns in confusion. "—in the human way of giving and receiving pleasure just for the sake of it." He adds in a mutter, as if reluctant to admit both processes have anything similar.
Nevertheless, despite the saboteur's view on things, his words are more than enough to let the boy finally realize what interfacing is and, consequently, what the equivalent of the overload that happens during it and makes one feel good is.
"Al… right… I think I get it now." He answers awkwardly, fumbling a bit on his feet.
"Good. Now, tactile interfacing is when there's no hardline connection between the participants, only the servos being used. Or the glossa. Or the—"
"Jazz!" The teenager cuts with a squeak, mortified, and the Autobot gives him another shark-sized grin.
"Glad to see you get it." He answers cheerfully, and Spike covers his face with his hands, muffling a groan.
Of all the mechs to ask about 'Cybertronian sex', he had to find the one with no shame.
"About your second question…" The boy's eyes widen as he quickly looks at the saboteur, a pensive expression on his faceplate. "I'm sure Soundwave was messing with us."
That… is not what he was expecting.
"Huh?"
"Think about it. They denied rather vehemently any kind of relationship between themselves, so why would Soundwave say he was going to interface with Starscream, even if it's tactile? The answer would be to have all the crashes and processor-scarring that happened, happen. Which means he was using you as a piece of his psychological warfare."
"Human: Would make a fine Decepticon."
Spike grimaces exaggeratedly, almost gagging at the thought and shivering a bit, feeling kind of dirty.
"Just. Great." He spits, rubbing his arms as if that could help get rid of the feeling, and Jazz watches with amusement clear on his faceplate and pale visor.
"You're a funny being." The Autobot receives a deadpanned look at that, but just snickers with a soft rev in answer. "Though, you know, now I'm curious." Stopping in his tracks, the boy carefully looks up at the saboteur, who is, effectively, looking up at the ceiling with his visor a pale blue that he's learned to recognize as curiosity. "Seeker wings are said to be really sensitive, but I've never seen any of the 'Cons react like they should in situations where…" The Head of Spec Ops straightens so suddenly on his seat that the human jumps a bit in surprise, immediately taking a step back at the too wide smile of realization. "Duh, of course!" And then, he presses a couple of dactyls against the side of his helm and chirps something in the comm.
A couple seconds later, Jazz's smile seem to widen even more, impossibly as that looks like, and turns to Spike.
"Take a seat, my friend. We're going to have a nice long conversation about wings." He tells the boy cheerfully, and the teenager instinctively looks at the edge of the table, trying to calculate if he would be able to jump down without breaking a limb.
Before he has a chance to think his escape plan further, the door opens and Smokescreen enters with a curious look.
"Hey there, guys. What'd you want me here for, Jazz?" The red and blue Autobot asks as he sits on the edge of the desk, looking between the human and the still madly grinning saboteur.
"Spike here asked a couple of questions about interfacing, and I seem to have trouble answering one of them." The Head of Spec Ops answers easily, and blue optics reboot in surprise.
"And you called me here instead of just asking? What, are you thinking about giving a practical demonstration?" The teenager squeaks and steps back, stumbling with his own feet and falling on his rear.
Jazz bursts out laughing.
"No, no. Pit, I don't think Spike's processor could stand that." He manages to answer after calming his laughter, and Smokescreen looks almost disappointed.
The teenager shakes his head and decides he's just imagined the look.
"Nah, I just wanted some data on Seekers."
"Seekers?" The doorwinger repeats, startled, as he turns on the table to fully stare at the other mech, leaning forward a bit. "What kind of information would you want about Seekers that I could have? Surely you know more than I do."
The saboteur opens his mouth to retort—
And closes it with a calculating look.
"Well, it isn't as if I could ask Bluestreak." He muses, almost to himself, and the Praxian's doorwings twitch.
"How about Prowl?"
Silence.
And then, both Autobots shudder with grimaces on their faceplates.
"Yeah, right. I didn't say anything. But…" The almost pained look turns pensive as Smokescreen looks at the wall.
"Not Prowl." Jazz cuts quickly, glaring at the other mech, and is nonchalantly dismissed by a wave of a servo.
"No, not Prowl. But maybe Skyfire?" They exchange a look, silent for a couple of seconds, before both nod in unison. "Yeah, Skyfire it is." The red and blue Autobot answers himself as his optics dim in the tell-tale sign of talking through a comm line.
"Why can't you ask Prowl about Seekers?" Spike asks Jazz, calmer at last and curious once more, and the saboteur gives him a blank look.
"'Cause he wouldn't answer. And then, he would want to know the reason why we were asking about them, and that would… To put it mildly, it's not a good idea." Frowning at the vague, almost useless, answer, the teenager looks away.
What are the Autobots hiding?
"Hey, Spike, what's that face for?" The red and blue mech asks, poking him softly with a dactyl, and the boy looks up.
"Why can't you ask Prowl about Seekers?"
Silence.
"Spike, I've told you—"
"I'm asking Smokescreen." He cuts the saboteur and, to the teenager's hidden surprise, the Head of Spec Ops stays silent.
"Well, he wouldn't answer, so it's kind of a loss of time to ask." The Praxian answers easily, doorwings twitching in the equivalent of a shrug.
"And the other reason?"
Silence.
The two Autobots exchange an unreadable look, and the boy scowls.
"Lets just say that the war has hurt every bot." Jazz finally whispers, visor dark, as Smokescreen looks away, doorwings lowering.
Perfect. Now Spike feels bad for asking.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, because now he can't apologize—there's a soft chime before the door opens, Skyfire's gigantic body hiding the corridor.
"Just the mech we wanted to see! Come on in, big buddy." The saboteur welcomes warmly, gesturing for the shuttle to enter.
A quick look shows Smokescreen looking as cheerful as ever, but that doesn't ease the teenager's guilt.
"How can I help you?" The flier asks calmly, letting the door close behind him as he takes a seat on one of the big and extra reinforced chairs that are in every office.
"Spike asked something and we found ourselves without answers, so we thought maybe you could help. Is about the sensitivity of Seeker wings." The Head of Spec Ops explains calmly, and, surprised, Skyfire turns to look at the doorwinger, who gives him a sheepish smile.
"Went to Iacon as soon as I could." Is the Praxian's answer, which seems to be enough for the shuttle as he nods.
"Alright. Well, all Flier's wings are sensitive, since we need to feel our surroundings clearly to fly. Since Seekers are the fastest of us, their sensors aren't just more numerous, but also with a higher sensitivity to be able to detect even the smallest of changes in time for them to react." The scientist explains calmly and, making himself comfortable on the table, the human nods in understanding. "Now, wouldn't this question be somehow related to Soundwave's joke?"
Spike snickers at the abashed look on the other two Autobots and the knowing small smirk on Skyfire's lips.
Until he realizes a tiny detail of the question's wording.
"Joke?" He repeats, looking at the shuttle, who gives him a smile and nods.
"Yes. As I've said, Seeker wings are really sensitive, so they don't let anybot get close to them just that easily. Besides, reaching for a Cybertronian's wings without consent is something that never happens." And that sounds like a certainty, like a Law of the Universe.
Like the concept of even lifting a hand too close to a wing—or doorwing, because Skyfire said Cybertronian, not Flier—is a physical impossibility.
"Why?"
The three mechs look at each other with pensive frowns, and Smokescreen's doorwings twitch before pressing to his back.
"Well, it's kind of an unspoken law, you may say." The red and blue Autobot answers, looking down, as the appendages on his back lift and lower with soft twitches. "Trying to mess with wings, any kind of them, is asking to get hurt."
Still slightly confused, though realizing that he's never seen any Autobot even step close to a wing or doorwing, Spike nods.
"It's something more cultural, then?" The three mechs nod with relief, glad that their human friend has understood. "Then, why did Frenzy and Rumble crash? And the others?"
Skyfire's powerful engine rumbles in laughter as the two ground-bound Cybertronian's fans come to life.
"Because if that was the truth, do you know the level of trust Starscream and Soundwave would share? And if they trusted each other enough to let Soundwave play with Starscream's wings, what else wouldn't they do?" The shuttle answers with a wide smirk and glinting blue optics that, somehow, remind the teenager of the Decepticon Second in Command.
Jazz's visor darkens to what can only be describe as a sultry azure as Smokescreen's dorwings shiver in apparent delight.
"Now, come Spike. You need to see Wheeljack and Sparkplug's new invention." The Flier adds almost cheerfully, standing up and letting the human climb on his hand before exiting the office.
"I don't want to know what they were thinking, do I."
Skyfire's rumbling engine just grows louder in laughter.
To say Spike's surprised would be an understatement, and his gobsmacked expression makes it all the more clear as he stares at the small—for a Cybertronian—square device in front of him, each of it's sides as wide as the teenager's back.
"You're trying to make a null-ray." He finally manages to repeat, looking at his father and the two Autobot scientists around the worktable, the shuttle smiling with amusement as he looks over some flasks filled with colorful liquids on another.
"Yes. That's supposed to be the power converter, the piece that allows the shot to disrupt the energy flow and paralyze a machine or a Cybertronian without permanently damaging them, though we haven't quite managed that yet." Wheeljack explains, looking sheepish. "We've only managed to blow the test subjects up." He adds, pointing to a pile of blackened parts that the boy can't even begin to recognize.
"You're trying to make a null-ray." He repeats again, firmer this time, after a shake of his head, turning to look at the amused Flier tinkering with his chemicals. "And you're not helping?"
The only sound in the room is the humans' own breathing, before the shuttle turns his optics offline while putting the flasks down.
"No, I'm not helping. And I'm not going to." He finally answers, as calm as always, but still not looking at anything.
"Why?"
"Because this is a glitch-fated endeavor. No matter what they try, they won't be able to create a successful null-ray. So, I'd rather busy myself with things that have better odds of working out than zero percent." Confused by those words, and even more so by the nonchalant tone of the shuttle, the boy turns to the other two Autobots.
Wheeljack's helm-fins flash a dark blue in defeat as Perceptor stares intensely at their fellow scientist's back.
When he sees the microscope's reaction, the inventor gestures for the humans to step away as he reaches for a red shoulder.
"Perceptor, don't—"
"That's what he always says, Wheeljack. Always the same, that it's no use trying, only Starscream could pull that out." The usually calm mech scoffs, and the humans exchange a look.
Skyfire doesn't move, but the white and green Autobot steps between them nevertheless.
"Perceptor, we've been over this. If he doesn't want to help, that's his decision. We will just keep trying, and he can take care of whatever else comes up. It's a win-win situation, really, since we won't be distracted by other projects—"
"It is not a 'win-win situation', if one of the only two mechs who know the schematics refuses to share them. Tell us, Skyfire, is it so wrong for the Autobots to be in possession of a non-lethal weapon?"
Wheeljack groans as he steps away, going to the Witwicky's side, as the shuttle's wings tremble softly.
"Here we go again." The Lancia mutters almost inaudibly, his optics turning black as he lets his helm hang down in something similar to defeat.
"It isn't wrong." The Flier answers almost casually, not moving. "It's just that this specific weapon is out of your reach."
"Oh, it's 'our' reach now? Then, what is the brand on your chest plates for?"
The silence that blankets the lab is filled with tension and, chancing a look at the white and green Autobot, Spike sees his optics a blue almost as pale as that of his head-fins, signifying surprise.
Slowly, Skyfire straightens, and, to their utter astonishment, there's a soft sound like that of transformation coming from him.
The teenager lets out a muted 'oof' as a servo clenches shut around his torso, the world moving crazily for a second before he realizes Wheeljack has grabbed both humans and moved to stand next to the still closed door, his whole body trembling as the shuttle turns around.
Spike has to blink a couple of times and shake his head before realizing that no, he's not seeing things, Skyfire's wings are really moving.
And to a threatening position, to boot.
Judging by the inventor's reaction, he thinks the same, as they are all unable to look away from the white and red planes hitching higher on the shuttle's back and fanning wide open, like a bird opening its wings to make itself look larger.
Perceptor takes a step back and hunches down a bit, body tense and not looking so calm and confident anymore.
In fact, he looks almost scared as he looks at his surroundings.
"The brand on my chest marks me as an Autobot, Perceptor. It doesn't mean I'm stupid." There's a soft thrumming filling the room, and it's so much like the shuttle's rumbling laughter but so menacing and dark that it's hard to believe it comes from the large mech's engines. "The null-rays are Starscream's custom-made weapons, so carefully built to fit his frame, that unless you have a way to clone Starscream—all of him—you won't be able to do more than wish for the impossible."
Wheeljack hurriedly steps away from the door as Skyfire approaches, not looking up at the shuttle as he walks out of the room, bending slightly and turning sideways to avoid knocking his still lifted wings against the door frame.
The soft clicking of the door shutting finally snaps Perceptor out of his tense posture, and, shakily the microscope sits down on the first available chair.
Carefully, the white and green Autobot approaches his fellow scientist, softly letting the humans back on the table before clasping a red shoulder reassuringly.
"I think it will be better to drop the project for a bit."
"I think it will be better to drop it completely." Perceptor hunches down with a tired sigh, pressing a servo against the side of his helm. "Did you hear what he said?"
"… Yes." Wheeljack's servo falls to his side, his darkened optics landing on the device still on the worktable. "And bots say I am the crazy scientist. That Seeker is either completely glitched or one of the biggest genius ever to have managed that."
"I'm going to borrow a human expression, and say he's both." The Lancia lets out a huffed burst of air in a snort, but even for such a mechanical sound, there's no humor in it.
"Why?" Spike asks softly after a couple seconds of silence, but none of the Autobots look at him.
"Because if what Skyfire implied is true, Starscream's null-rays are linked to his spark." Perceptor answers in defeat, optics going offline, as Wheeljack turns back to the Witwicky.
"To make a comparison, it would be like a human powering their car by pedaling. It could be done for a bit, but… well, they would tire, and when someone, either Cybertronian or human, gets tired enough…" The inventor shakes his helm in a negative, and the teenager pales.
"Then, why didn't Skyfire tell you that from the beginning?"
Both scientist exchange an indecipherable look.
"Trust issues." Wheeljack finally answers before helping them down the table and accompanying them to the door.
When it closes, the humans in the corridor and the Autobots in the lab, father and son look at each other with confusion and a hint of dread.
There are many ways they could take that answer as, but none of them is reassuring.
AN: Another mixed chapter, and the psychological warfare is on! Poor Spike, playing bullet between the factions... Kind of reminds me of table tennis.
I apologize for the OOC-ness in this chapter, but I couldn't do anything to avoid it.
For each question answered, more pop up. More Q&A next chapter, with explanations for some of the things in this one.