Chapter Text
"So," Jazz said, leaing back in his seat and staring at the ceiling. "What're the odds he's gonna smelt me?"
When they arrived at the new base, which Jazz had not been told the name of, he'd found himself stepping out of the trailer in front of two rough looking mechs who already had their weapons drawn. The golden one looked downright homicidal, as if he was doing Jazz a favor by not shooting him, and the other, a slimmer red and silver model, smiled as if he wanted an excuse to put a round through his helm.
"Sideswipe," Prowl said, stepping off after Jazz. "Sunstreak, take Jazz to the interrogation room in Zeta 6-1. No contact, no engagement, just escort."
The gold one—Sunstreak?—vented out in annoyance, but Sideswipe gave a weak salute and nodded at Jazz. Falling in step between them, Jazz walked around the trailer and—
"You gotta be kidding me," Jazz murmured, staring at the base. "We just left better digs'n this."
The base was low, one-level and nearly covered in black dust and old carbon particles. Maybe at one time it had gleamed silver, but now it looked like it might cave in. Long cracks ran the length of the wall, and a crew of bots had already started melting down tar to seal them up.
"It don't look like much," Sideswipe agreed, "but at least the Cons ain't hitting it. Keep going."
Jazz felt a little gratified that the bot didn't smack him with his rifle to encourage him.
Walking to Zeta 6-1, wherever that was, took longer than he'd expected. Turning at the first turbolift, they descended for several kliks, past numerous floors, and Jazz started to wonder if Autobots preferred tunneling deep into the layers of the planet. After all, bombs couldn't fall this far and they wouldn't have to worry about jets tunneling up under them.
Zeta turned out to be a hall and the 6-1 was one of several offices in a group, which Sunstreak locked as soon as they were all in. Jazz went in, sat down and put his pedes up on the table. Aside from another chair, there was nothing else in the room, only white walls that had tarnished to gray edges.
Sideswipe and Sunstreak took positions on either side of the door. From the sounds in the hall, two more bots had been stationed outside. Four bots for little ol' Jazz? He didn't think he was that scary.
"You ain't getting smelted," Sideswipe said, sounding friendly for all that his firearm was still drawn. "We don't do that."
"No smelter on base," Sunstreak said.
"I mean," Sideswipe said, giving his comrade a look, "Autobots don't smelt anyone, not even Cons, 'specially not neutrals."
"So..." Jazz frowned. "What, you two here to beat me up for information?"
Sunstreak rolled his optics. "As if I'd ruin my polish on you."
"No engagement, no contact," Sideswipe said. "We don't touch you unless you start something. It means Prowl's gonna talk to you personally. Pretty cushy, actually."
Jazz lifted his helm in surprise.
"Then—?"
The door's lock clicked open. Prowl stepped inside, listened for the lock turning closed again, then glanced at his two guards, saying something to them on a private channel. Both of them snapped a quick salute and moved to the corners, relaxing slightly.
Prowl gave a pointed look at Jazz's pedes.
"Sorry," Jazz vented, taking his pedes off the table and sitting straight. "Figured if I'm gonna go, I'ma go comfortable."
"You are not going to 'go'," Prowl said, sitting across from him. "But you are more of a threat than I initially believed. I cannot let you remain so close without further scrutiny."
Jazz didn't argue, although he frowned slightly. "I guess I get it. Can't really mention saving your prime since that was kinda coincidence."
"We have survived tighter spots without you," Prowl said, his doorwings rising defensively. "Reinforcements were already enroute and no seeker can hit an Autobot on a clear straightaway."
Jazz's frown deepened. "Wait, but y'all—"
He cut himself as Prowl stiffened, and Jazz's processors raced. Prowl had mad a mistake, thinking Jazz meant this particular battle, while Jazz had meant their first meeting. Prowl had meant the fight they'd just run from. Which meant the Prime had either been among the wounded, or else—
"Oh, you have got to be slaggin' kiddin' me," Jazz whispered. "The trailer was your Prime?"
Whatever information Prowl was afraid had slipped, that wasn't it. Prowl blinked, resetting his optics as Jazz's question. Behind him, the two guards likewise gave him a look.
"You...didn't know?" Prowl asked. "I thought everyone knew about Optimus Prime."
"That he's like the old primes," Jazz said, but slowly, guaging their reactions. "Lots'a grandiose speeches, wants to go back to the old Senate...'till all are one under his rule..."
His voice trailed off as he saw their faceplates grimace. "Huh. Guess, uh, you don't really listen in on what Decepticons say about him?"
"It is...difficult to receive reliable information," Prowl said and refused to speak further.
Now wasn't that interesting? Prowl, a high ranked officer who accompanied the Prime, who ordered these front-liners with comfortable authority, had little intelligence on Decepticon chatter. That would have been laughable if the Decepticons didn't clearly have the same problem.
Prowl seemed to realize his slip and busied himself instead with preparing for an interface connection. Jazz watched him reach into subspace and retrieve a datapad, a stylus, a second datapad with a heavy casing around it, and—Jazz leaned back—a set of cables with a firewall bank box in the middle.
"Aw geez," Jazz said, leaning on the table and putting his hands over his faceplate. "With an audience? Mech, I gotta insist on energon and a movie first."
"It is not that kind of interface," Prowl snapped, giving Sunstreak a glare when the golden bot snickered. "We will connect through the firewall, I will examine your logic path and your memories regarding the Decepticons, and that is all."
Jazz picked up the end of a cord and stared at the edge, all the little prongs waiting to slide into his port. An interface like Prowl described was cursory, cold and impersonal, something that felt like a worm program eating through his cortex without so much as a 'hey, how are ya?"
"An' I just gotta trust that you ain't gonna load me up with some kind of cortex-wiping virus?" Jazz said, tossing the cord onto the table. "Think I'd rather let your mechs shoot me than end up a shiny drone."
"Hey!" Sideswipe snapped before Prowl could answer. "We ain't Decepticons! We ain't the ones enslaving mechs!"
"Sideswipe," Prowl said over his shoulder, silencing him. Prowl looked back at Jazz. "Autobots do not turn mechs into drones."
"I ain't naive," Jazz said, all humor gone. "I saw what y'all did to Impactor. They brought him out, all sparking from the shorts in his circuits. The Autobot that went against your prime and you all left him a clean slate. I get it—it's war an' all, but damn, that's still cold."
Prowl narrowed his optics. "'Impactor'? You are certain his designation is Impactor?"
Jazz half-shrugged. "Ain't much of him left to ask. So you tell me, boss bot. Why should I trust you enough to cross cables?"
Not answering for a long moment, Prowl looked down at his datapad, entering new information, compiling new results. Jazz watched him, not moving, keenly aware of the two mechs holding firearms and staring at him as if they were no longer sure that he was a neutral. Then Prowl pushed his datapad aside and took the master end of the cable.
"Impactor...is complicated. I cannot convince you now that we did not turn him into a drone. Nor will I force you into this," Prowl said. "But neither can I allow you any sort of freedom without verifying the safety of my mechs."
"Why would I hurt you?" Jazz said, a little frustration coloring his voice. "I just fought for you like twice."
"Once by accident," Prowl said.
"Once down with a Decepticon assassin in your own base," Jazz snapped.
"Ah." Prowl tipped his helm. "Rewind did mention something about that, although he made it sound more like they came to your rescue."
"Pft." Jazz rolled his optics, but he couldn't help a small, sheepish smile. "Okay, okay, let the little bots think they saved me if it soothes their egos."
"I am sure their egos are fine," Prowl said. He tapped the box that the cords ran through. "This is a firewall bank. There are numerous defenses built into this so that viruses and worms are slowed down, allowing you to disconnect both mentally and physically. If you feel that you are in danger, you may disconnect."
"...really?" Jazz said.
Prowl nodded once. "Although if we cannot establish a solid connection so that I can examine your specifics, I still will not be able to trust you. The brig would be your most likely berth."
Jazz stared at him for a klik, considering that, then vented and reached across the table, taking up the slave input.
"I ain't happy about this," Jazz muttered, sliding the connector into his wrist port.
"Noted," Prowl said.
Jazz noticed that Prowl did indeed note that down on his datapad, and then he plugged himself in as well. While his systems introduced themselves to the firewall bank, Jazz sat straight and set his hands on the table, wincing as the program began to tap at his cortex, testing for hidden viruses.
"Is it hurting you?" Prowl asked, leaning forward. "I can slow it down—"
"Ain't nothing," Jazz said, his optics shut tight behind his visor. "Interfacing just kinda feels like chewing tinfoil."
Prowl's frown deepened. "That is unusual."
Jazz didn't answer. The program had swept through half of his cortex and was signing off on the rest of him. The tool worked swiftly, faster than anything he'd experienced before, and the cold feeling finally eased, allowing in tentative code from Prowl.
Jazz fidgeted.
Prowl's code did not feel like chewing tinfoil. Quite the opposite. There was a warmth there, a tentative push that presented itself and then waited for acknowledgment.
For an interface all but at gunpoint, the connection seeking entrance to his cortex was...polite. At least Prowl didn't batter down his defenses, waiting for Jazz to lower his shields and allow him in. Jazz disabled two firewalls, opened a port and then—venting deep—gave Prowl low level permissions to access his systems.
As Prowl peered in, examining the outer edges of Jazz's consciousness, small alerts sounded in Jazz's cortex. He silenced them, raising his doorwings as if he was off balance, keenly aware of the alien thoughts in his own mind.
And then what he'd thought was Prowl vanished as if deleted. Jazz startled, wondering what had happened.
"My apologies," Prowl said, "but I had to use a proxy to be safe."
Jazz's brow knit over his visor. "Huh?"
"There was a chance that you might harbor a virus or even a suicide program," Prowl said, "possibly without your knowledge. But you are clean. Please brace yourself as I examine your logic tree."
"Uh, okay." Jazz put his hands on the table and held tight.
And then he felt Prowl again, and he would have sworn his spark skipped a beat.
No longer small and tentative, this time Prowl swept in, heavy as titanium with processing power that ran circles around Jazz's internal clocks. Jazz squeezed his optics shut tight, squirming in the chair as Prowl moved over him. If the other mech had wanted, Prowl probably could have forced a download of everything Jazz knew, easily nudging aside the small programs that tried to put a quarantine around some sections of his cortex.
The sensation of Prowl sifting through his memory felt too similar to Soundwave. Jazz curled back in his seat, folding his doorwings tight, bringing his pedes up as if he could hide from the mech isolating and examining code in his mind. Prowl planted little points of contact throughout the systems he wanted to examine, rooting deeper.
Jazz's vents came tight and fast. His spark began to beat erratically—
"No, no panicking," Prowl said, and Jazz's coolant swept through his system, calming him and forcing him to breathe deep. "I will not hurt you."
"How deep you planning on going?" Jazz said, a high pitched whine escaping from his throat. "You're almost in my base system."
"...perhaps I should have asked Ratchet to do this," Prowl said. "You feel safer with him. Or First Aid."
Jazz would have replied, but sudden relief washed over him as Prowl began to retreat, retrieving each and every contact he'd made. Systems that had been delayed gave a quick rush to catch up with where they should be, and after a brief sensation of floating, Jazz felt all of his systems synch back up. Then Prowl withdrew completely and terminated the connection with a soft click.
Prowl opened his optics, finally seeing Jazz curled up on his chair. He'd known that Jazz had done that, had felt him move and could have described the precise angles of his bent pedes and arms. But that didn't have the same impact as simply seeing him turned around, refusing to look up.
"I..." Prowl looked down at his datapad. "I did not mean to cause you this distress."
Jazz turned his helm further, optics still shut. "Ain't no thang. You get what you need?"
"Yes." Prowl entered a long flow of data, adding multiple notes that ran in long columns down his screen. "Your memory files are exactly as you have told us. Your programming is clean of any malicious files or hidden programs. And your logic tree is...well."
Jazz looked at him over his shoulder. "Well?"
Prowl tapped the datapad a little harder than needed. "Fluid. To be charitable."
Fluid? Jazz didn't know what that meant, but Prowl didn't seem to want to elaborate. Prowl looked at him for a moment, looked like he was about to speak...then snapped his stylus along the side of his datapad and stood.
"Sideswipe, Sunstreaker," Prowl said, "please escort Jazz to Delta C-6. Until further notice, he has status of free neutral."
As the two mechs stared at him with widening optics, Prowl left, leaving the door open. He waved his hand at the guards in the hall, who followed after him until their steps vanished.
"What the...?" Jazz vented. "Mechs, your bossbot is—"
"Okay," Sideswipe said, stepping in close as he subspaced his rifle. "What the hell did you do?"
"Huh?" Jazz leaned back. "I didn't—"
"Free neutral?" Sideswipe said. "You have to do something huge to get that kind of rating out of him."
"Wait," Jazz said. "What's that even mean? Am I in trouble or something?"
"'Trouble'?" Sunstreaker repeated with a snort. "There's only one other free neutral on base. Everyone else gets, like, limited or something."
"Unverified usually," Sideswipe said. He put his pede up on the chair as he leaned on the table. "What'd you do, kill a hundred 'Cons?"
"I..." Jazz shook his helm. "Hang on. What is a free neutral?"
"It's a—" Sideswipe vented and held up four fingers, counting them off as he went. "Okay, it's like this. Neutrals we don't know nothing about, that's unverified. Not 'Cons, but that don't mean they're on our side, neither. Limited neutral means they're refugees or Praxians or on the run. Pretty sure they're not gonna shoot you in the back, but we can't trust 'em yet."
"Okay," Jazz said slowly. "With you so far."
"Then there's neutrals that have shown they're safe," Sunstreaker said. "Like, they've run messages or helped out."
"But they won't take the decal," Sideswipe said, putting a hand protectively over his Autobot sigil. "Cowards or pacifists or whatever."
"And then there's free neutral." Sunstreaker nodded once at Jazz. "You."
"Well," Sideswipe said, "there's the other one, but it's just you and Wheeljack. So what'd you do?"
"Wait," Jazz said, sitting up straight. "Wheeljack? Wheeljack's here?"
"Yeah," Sideswiep said. "He's our other free neutral, although between you and me, I think he'll be taking the decal any orn now."
"Wheeljack, though?" Jazz said. "Little taller'n me, red and white, ain't got a faceplate, everything goes boom around him?"
"That's him," Sideswipe laughed. "You know him?"
"'Know him'?" Jazz said, grinning. "That rotten mech's the only reason I'm still alive. Where's he at? Can I see him?"
"I guess," Sideswipe said. "Probably shouldn't take you to his lab, but everyone meets in the mess hall anyway. Come on, we'll swing by your berth, then take you down to the mess."
"You'll take him," Sunstreaker cut Sideswipe off, already slinging his rifle back and walking out. "You can do that at least, right?"
Sideswipe sighed as the other mech left. "Yeah, yeah, whatever...jerk."
"He always like that?" Jazz asked, standing and stretching out his wings. "Must be fun at parties."
"Haven't been many parties lately," Sideswipe said as he led Jazz out and down the hall. "Anyway, he's not always that bad, but we've been running more than we've been winning lately. He's just sore we haven't been on the front."
"You're front liners?" Jazz almost missed a step.
They'd never seen him, had they? Of course he didn't think any Autobot would recognize a single Decepticon thrown out as canon fodder, but if he didn't recognize these two, then they'd probably never seen him, either. Not that he planned to do anything awful, but uncomfortable questions were best avoided.
"I know, I know," Sideswipe sighed. "Everyone thinks front liners are big, dumb brutes with tons of scars. But that's just 'cause other bots are too slow. Ain't no 'Con scratching this finish, know what I mean?"
If there had been any less steel in Sideswipe's voice, any less resolve in his words, Jazz might have thought that he was way too young to have been in many fights. But over his smile, Sideswipe's optics were old as slag—tired, bored, and just cold enough to be able to pull a trigger and not care about energon splattering out of a mech. And his question wasn't really rhetorical.
"I think I do," Jazz said. "Thought I ain't a fan of shooting no one, myself."
"Ironhide says that's best," Sideswipe said, but he laughed at the thought as he led Jazz down the hall. "Not wanting to fight. Not quite sure how that feels, not wanting to shoot 'Cons."
"You don't ever get scared?" Jazz asked. "When you're out there fighting?"
"'Course not," Sideswipe said. "All I gotta worry about is my dumb twin getting his golden aft blown off."
Jazz fell silent. When he'd lost his little group of mechs sparked with him, he'd felt like his own spark had dimmed a little. Now he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if they'd all been linked like twins, so that when Three-Six died first, they'd all gone with him.
Following quietly, Jazz looked at the rough hall numbers hurriedly sprayed on the walls, keeping track of the hand-drawn arrows pointing new routes to medbay or the wash racks. Everything about the base seemed hurriedly slapped together, as if they'd just recently taken it and didn't expect to have it long. Mechs rushed by, sliding past as they carried supplies or worked to shore up their defenses.
Jazz hoped this was just an outpost. If it was a base...then he needed to visit the medic and get roadworthy real damn fast.