PLEASE NOTE that this story has been heavily revised and reworked since the first version was posted. New material has been added, and a lot of the old stuff has been changed drastically.
Author's note: This is a story that I've had on my mind for quite a while but never got around to write until now. Slightly AU in that Jazz is a Decepticon, otherwise it's G1. Prowl/Jazz later on.
Warnings: Story contains slash.
Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me in any shape or way.
Jazz looked up. He had been certain he had heard the floor creak. He was right. Prowl was standing outside of his cell, an access card in his hand. There was a dark look on his face.
Jazz's stomach sank. As long as he had been sitting there waiting for the inevitable, almost wishing that the Autobots would come so it would be over sooner, seeing Prowl looming before him instantly made him wish that the 'Bot would go back to where he had come from and leave him alone.
Well, at least they didn't send Ironhide, he thought. It was a small comfort though. Perhaps they would take turns working on him if he didn't give in quick enough, and they were just saving the grumpy 'Bot's interrogation skills for a later session.
The Second in Command entered the cell and shut the bars behind him. Jazz held his breath, not daring to move.
"Jazz." The voice that had spoken his name had an oddly weary tone to it, like its owner hadn't been in recharge for ages. Jazz merely looked at the other mech from where he was sitting on the floor, steeling himself for what was coming.
"I will be frank. You are our prisoner. You also happen to have information we want, and I would suggest that you make it easy on yourself and answer my questions truthfully. Do so, and no harm will come to you."
Jazz snorted. Yeah, right. He didn't believe the Second in Command even for a second.
He didn't reply to Prowl's words. More than anything, he wanted to tell the black and white mech a few select words on what he thought about their precious Autobot code, but neither his courage nor his self-preservation instinct allowed him.
"Now, the bugging device you were carrying made it quite clear what your mission here was," Prowl continued, crossing his arms authoritatively in front of him. "What we want to know is how Megatron knew that we were going out on patrol today. It is obvious that your leader must have known, or he wouldn't have risked sending you inside of the Ark."
Well, as he had expected, Prowl's question was something he didn't know the answer to.
When he had been sent on his mission, all that Megatron had told him was that according to Soundwave's report, the Autobots would be out on patrol. How Soundwave had acquired this particular piece of information, the Decepticon leader had made no mention of. Perhaps he didn't actually know himself. Normally, Megatron would trust Soundwave without hesitation, and if Soundwave claimed something to be true, that was usually good enough and no further validation would be asked for.
In any case, a mech like him wouldn't be privy to such information. Megatron preferred to keep such to himself and his chosen confidants.
Not that Prowl was likely to ever believe that, though, regardless of what the saboteur said. It wasn't even worth trying. Jazz simply looked to the floor, keeping his silence.
Astroseconds ticked by.
"I asked you a question, 'Con. I expect an answer in return." The words were cold like frozen energon, making chills run down Jazz's back.
No. The tactician wouldn't take an 'I don't know' for an answer.
Well, not that he had anything else to offer.
"I don't know," he mumbled, resenting himself for how small and pathetic his voice sounded.
At the sight of Prowl's narrowing optics, he briefly wondered if he should make something up – what were the chances the Autobots could check on it, after all? – but his processor drew a blank, suddenly incapacitated. Perhaps that was just as well. If there was anything that was likely to enrage that tactician of theirs even more than not getting any answers at all, it would have to be getting answers that were blatant lies.
The tactician took a step closer. Jazz had to make an effort not to recoil. He much preferred having his interrogator standing on a safe distance.
"Why am I getting the feeling you're not telling the truth?" The words were calm enough, but still held a dangerous edge to them. "You're a high-ranking spy and saboteur. Surely Megatron sees fit to share that kind of basic information with you?"
Clearly, the tactician had little clue about on how tightly a leash Megatron ran his faction.
The dark face looming over his seemed all but pleased with his continued silence. "You're hardly in a position to be stubborn here. What do you possibly have to gain by refusing to talk? Cooperate, and this will be so much easier for both of us." He made a pause. "As I'm sure you're aware, there are a lot more... unpleasant ways to ask for information."
There was an implied threat in those words, a silent promise of what was to come, should he fail to offer the requested information, and Jazz felt a shiver pass over his frame. The closeness of the Autobot was disturbing and distracting, and he wanted to move away, but his back was already as far up against the wall as was possible. His fuel pump was racing, feeling as if it was no longer pumping energon but instead pure, unpolluted fear through his systems.
No doubt, Prowl would soon have had enough with the lack of answers, and resort to the other means he had been hinting about. Painful means.
He suddenly felt like a wild animal – caged and his back against the wall, with the horrible certainty that there was no way out.
Except one.
He had seen where Prowl's hand had gone when he had put that access card away upon stepping into the cell. If he could knock the tactician out and grab hold of it...
He knew it was the worst idea ever. His processor told him it was stupid, insipid, and it would never succeed in a million years. And yet, raw panic and fear took over, enough to drive him over the edge of desperation.
Without warning, he lunged at the tactician, grabbing hold of the white and black form before him, trying to knock him into the steel bars lining the opposite side of the cell.
Prowl stumbled, clearly unprepared for the assault. But there had not been enough momentum in the attack; the distance between the two mechs had been too short, and the lunge was not nearly as forceful as Jazz had hoped.
His initial advantage of surprise soon disappeared as the other's lightening-fast reflexes kicked in. The tactician took a step aside, causing his opponent to lose footing as he was promptly swung around so that it was instead the saboteur that slammed into the bars with a pained groan.
Everything in Jazz's vision seemed to wobble for a brief moment, but he quickly collected himself and aimed a punch for the gray faceplates in front of him.
The tactician deflected it, and answered with a punch of his own that had stars dance before Jazz's visored optics.
Slag.
He couldn't afford to lose this fight. He'd be dead if he did, or at least close to it.
Desperately, he tried to shift his weight to bring the other out of balance, but Prowl was stronger than him and countered the move, forcefully slamming Jazz into the bars yet again.
The saboteur squirmed, but refused to give up. He tried to headbutt the other, but only got a set of knuckles to his face for his efforts.
He lodged one of his legs behind the tactician and pushed with all his might. This time, his efforts met with success and Prowl lost his balance, dragging the other mech with him to the floor where they continued to grapple.
Jazz fought with all he had. He punched and kicked, twisted and squirmed. But his opponent was stronger, more skillful, and most of Jazz's blows met with nothing but thin air. Another hard fist slammed into his face, making his head crash painfully into the hard floor. The world spun around him, making it impossible for a few astroseconds to tell what was up or down.
Prowl wasn't late to take advantage. Before Jazz could fight back or offer any further resistance, he found himself roughly showed onto his stomach, and a knee pressed into his back. Prowl was perched on top of him, having twisted Jazz's right arm into a very painful grip behind his back.
"Move even an inch, and I'll dislocate it." The words were cold and hard, enough to make the energon in Jazz's fuel lines freeze into solid ice, fear clenching his throat between its cruel fingers.
He had betted everything, and he had lost. All fight draining away from him like water from a sieve, he let his head fall to the floor that was spattered with his own energon, panting heavily, thoroughly regretting everything.
He hadn't really noticed it until now, but he hurt all over. So bad. He wasn't even sure he would have been able to move, had Prowl not been holding him down.
"Now, that... was stupid," the tactician growled somewhere above him, tightening the grip on his arm.
Yeah, as if he didn't already know. Hadn't already known beforehand.
He waited silently for Prowl to make that final twist that would rip his arm right out of its socket, but it didn't come. Instead, the heavy weight on him suddenly lifted, and the tactician stood up.
"Now, as tempting as it would be leaving you like this, I will have our medic take a look at you."
Prowl looked at the mech at his feet for a few astroseconds before he exited the cell, leaving Jazz alone in his world of pain and anguish, on the verge of off-lining.
Prowl was back in his office again, his fingers drumming absent-mindedly against the desk. This interrogation attempt had obviously not been one of his most successful endeavors, to put it mildly.
He rubbed a sore cheek. Jazz's punches were anything but weak, he had to admit.
But as angry as he was with Jazz, he was even angrier with himself. Because he realized what it was that had made Jazz snap, that had made him commit such a desperate act that he must have known from the very start was bound to fail. Even if he would have managed to knock the tactician out and escape the cell, he would never have made it out of the Ark. With all the other 'Bots milling around the base and the alarm systems they had set up, he would have been recaptured in no time. Jazz was surely aware of that.
What had set off all this had been the implied threat of those "unpleasant means" he had mentioned to his uncooperative captive. Prowl knew all about Decepticon propaganda and what it said about Autobot practices, in particular in regards to enemy prisoners. No doubt, Jazz had been expecting and fearing torture.
And he had capitalized on that.
But his plan had backfired. Instead of making the saboteur talkative and willing to spill whatever information he had, he had turned on his captor, physically attacking him.
He supposed it was his own fault, hinting to Jazz that they would have him tortured if he didn't cooperate.
Silently, he shock his head to himself.
How unprofessional.
Not that he would actually have gone through with his threats, but that wasn't the point.
Besides, he wasn't even certain whether Jazz had the requested information. Looking back on it, it seemed unlikely that he knew the answer to the question Prowl had asked him, or he would probably have given it – or at least made one up – before resorting to something like this. Particularly so if he believed what Decepticon propaganda claimed; then he wouldn't have dared to pull such a stunt unless it was truly the last way out.
Tiredly, he brought a hand up to massage his aching chevron. Was he only imagining it, or was it really hanging a bit askew?
Grimacing, he couldn't help but notice that there were still some splotches of energon on him, energon that had been spilt during their fight. Mostly from Jazz.
He sighed. What was done was done, and he couldn't change it. At least Ratchet was currently in the holding cell, patching the 'Con up.
He leant back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. I wonder how long it will take him to fix Jazz. There were, when it all came down to it, other things he needed to ask the Decepticon as well.
Not that he would be asking in the same way as last time, of course, and Jazz would most likely refuse to tell him anything, but it was worth a try. Perhaps there were at least some parts of Megatron's plans that could be gleamed from it. While whatever other information Jazz would have was nowhere near as important as the question of where Megatron had obtained the information about the Autobots being away earlier in the day, sometimes even what at first looked like fairly unimportant snippets of information could turn out to be quite useful.
Prowl off-lined his optics for a while, allowing himself to settle down and get some much needed rest before he would continue the interrogation.
Someone was entering his cell and Jazz flinched. Was it Prowl coming back to continue from where they had left off? The mere thought was enough to send a spasm through his pain receptors. He strained to look up from where he was lying on the floor and caught a glimpse of something white.
"Well, I'll be damned," a voice hovering somewhere above him said. "You and Prowl really got into quite a tussle, didn't you?"
A name seemed to float somewhere in Jazz's processors, but he couldn't quite make it out. Ratz-... Ritch-... no, that wasn't right. Well, maybe it didn't matter.
The unknown mech knelt down beside him, fiddling with some instruments that he had pulled out.
Jazz felt his fear rise again and tried to inch away from the 'Bot. He had a dim recollection that Prowl had said something about a medic before he left, but as far as he knew, the mech could very well have been sent here only to torture him. The instruments that he had spread out in front of him could function as pain-inducing devices just as well as medical equipment. He protested weakly as the medic drew closer, holding some metal contraption in his hand.
"Take it easy, will you," Ratchet scolded, not entirely unkindly. "Unless you want whatever energon still left inside of you on the floor. You're dripping like a broken energon cube."
Jazz hesitantly resigned to his fate. He was too weak to put up any resistance anyway, so he just let the 'Bot do whatever it was he was about to do.
A sheering pain suddenly shot up from his dented shoulder, and with a groan he tried to pull away again.
"Just try to lay still while I'm fixing this. If you're gonna move around like that I just might have to weld you to the floor before I do any further work on you, and neither of us would really like that," the medic said with an audible sigh. Jazz dizzily wondered if he was being serious or not.
Not wanting to find out, the saboteur relaxed somewhat, doing his best to remain still to keep from annoying the medic. It was painful though, whatever it was the 'Bot was doing to him, and the unpleasant smell of burnt and scorched metal penetrated his olfactory sensors. He hoped it would be over soon.
After some further working over, courtesy of Ratchet, most of the pain had subsided. He still felt weak and dizzy, though.
The medic collected his equipment and scanned his work critically.
"Well, I've repaired most of the damage; your self-repair system should take care of the rest. You've leaked quite a bit of energon so I'm leaving a ration here so you can refill." He gestured at a cube next to his right foot. With that, he excited the cell and left.
Ratchet sighed as he made his way back to medbay to return the medical equipment. As if it wasn't enough having to repair the Autobots after their run-ins with the 'Cons – or after failed scientific experiments, in the case of Wheeljack – but now even prisoners who were supposed to be safely locked away in their cells managed to get themselves injured as well.
He was glad that Prowl had explained what had happened before he went to check on Jazz, or else he wouldn't have known what conclusions to draw. Probably not entirely comfortable ones. Well, regardless of what had prompted this, he hoped there wouldn't be any repeats.
He reached medbay and once inside he started putting the medical equipment he had had with him back in its place. It felt a bit strange as he handled the various tools that the most recent mech they had been used for was a Decepticon, when all other patients that they had worked on so far had been Autobots. No, he corrected himself, there had indeed been another instance when he had used them for the benefit of a Decepticon. But that had been long ago.
Shrugging, he put the last tool back, and then headed towards Prowl's office to inform him that Jazz's repairs were finished.