Chapter Text
Jazz fought desperately to get his systems back online. There had been a battle, that much he remembered, and if you were offline and helpless on a battle field, Bad Things happened. The Autobots had been particularly vicious of late, even more so since a new master tactician had arrived to join their forces, and if there was ever a time when it would be worse than usual to get captured, this was it.
He could already feel vague echoes from his sensory net and knew coming fully online would not be pleasant.
As soon as he was able to he tried to move, only to be instantly punished as the unpleasant ache exploded into sharp pain. It seems to radiate from his shoulders, hips and wrists, and now that he paid attention to it there were reports of breached armour in those areas.
Unable to withhold a groan of pain he finally managed to online his optics. His helm felt unnaturally heavy but he managed to lift it anyway. At first he thought he was staring into a wall, but then his gyros informed him that he was wrong by 90⁰ - he was hanging from something, little more than an arm’s length or so from the floor.
Slowly and carefully he turned his helm and instantly identified the reason for his pain: someone had driven a set of heavy bolts straight through his shoulders and wrists, effectively pinning him to the surface above him. Although he couldn’t see it he assumed the same was true for his hips.
He discovered that he could move his legs and tried to find a position that took some weight off the bolts in his hips but was only marginally successful. The table was too high for his knees to reach the floor but too low for him to straighten his legs completely, so his only options were to bend his legs very much or spread them very wide, neither of which would be comfortable for more than a klik or so before his knees or thighs started aching instead.
So, he was a prisoner.
Jazz grit his denta, forcing back fear with grim determination. His friends would come for him; Megatron would never allow one of his Decepticons to be left to the non-existent mercy of their Autobot foes. Even so, Jazz knew that staging such a rescue would take a while and in the meantime…
He cancelled that line of though before it got any further and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Knowledge was power and if he would have any chance of freeing himself or in any way assist a rescue attempt he needed as much intel as possible.
Even from this odd perspective he could immediately tell that he was not in the brig, or in an interrogation cell. In fact it looked remarkably like an ordinary office. If he strained his neck he could see two wheels that were presumably part of a chair in front of him and since he couldn’t spot a door he assumed it was behind him.
Why in the name of the Pit would someone bolt him underneath an office table?
His imagination unhelpfully provided a number of unpleasant alternatives that he once again had to forcibly shove to the back of his processor. Instead he focused on the bolts that kept him prisoner. They were definitely too stout for him to break, but maybe if he pushed hard enough and the head of the bolt wasn’t too big he could force it through his armour. It would hurt like pit and certainly cause some further damage, but it’d still be better than remaining a defenceless prisoner.
Unfortunately it took less than a klik to dismiss that theory. Whoever had bolted him to the table had had the foresight to use washers, and large ones at that, making such an escape completely impossible.
Jazz was still venting heavily in pain from the attempt as he heard the door behind him open and two sets of pedes enter. One gait was light and agile, the other heavy and authoritative.
Jazz knew the second set all too well: Optimus Prime.
“As you can see, Prowl,” he heard the Autobot leader say, “I’ve taken the liberty of augmenting your desk with some of the spoils of last battle. I trust you’ll find the arrangement to your satisfaction.”
“Indeed I shall,” another voice, presumably Prowl, answered. “This will certainly make my long days in here even more rewarding than serving our cause already is. You have my thanks for this generous gift, my lord Prime.”
A deep, rumbling chuckle from the Autobot warlord sent chills down Jazz’s back strut.
“I’ll leave you to you work, then.”
With that the Prime turned and walked to the door, which closed the moment he had passed.
A pair of white pedes entered Jazz’s field of view, then their owner crouched down, bringing them more or less face to face.
“Let me make this clear, Decepticon,” the Autobot tactician said, “you are now here for my pleasure and enjoyment. Obey me and you’ll live.”
“Go jump in a smelter, Autobot!” Jazz hissed, trying to turn his helm away as the other mech stroked his chin. “I’d rather deactivate than obey you!”
The red-opticed mech smiled, a decidedly unpleasant look on his otherwise handsome face.
“You will only speak when spoken to, and you will address me as Master,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard his captive’s protests. “If you disobey, or fail to please me, he will be the one to pay the price.”
A portable surveillance monitor was held up in front of Jazz’s face and the saboteur felt his spark turn into a lump of ice in his chest.
They had Soundwave.
“One word from me,” Prowl went on, “and he belongs to the twins. I’m sure you know as well as I do what that would mean.”
Jazz did. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were known for their vicious brutality, and the mere thought of his lover in their servos…
No, he could not allow that to happen. He would rather face an eternity of suffering than letting those two near Soundwave for even a moment.
“Have I made myself clear?”
Jazz vented a heavy gust of air and let his helm drop in resignation. His tanks churned in disgust but he forced himself to speak the words anyway.
“Yes… Master.”