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“Let yourself be inert, wait till the incomprehensible power…that has broken you restores you a little, I say a little, for henceforth you will always keep something broken about you. Tell yourself this, too, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.”
—Marcel Proust, letter to Georges de Lauris
Jazz has barely been in his cell for a single day when Ratchet summons him to the infirmary again. Prowl cuffs him for transport without a word; he probably isn’t even enjoying this. Jazz scowls at him. If Jazz had Prowl all chained up and alone and suggestively flashing his illumination routines, you can bet Jazz wouldn't be wasting the opportunity.
“Ratchet, do you have to?” Jazz complains, once Prowl has him installed on an exam table. “You already saw me, I just got a couple of dents.”
“Yes,” Ratchet says, sternly. “I’ve been concerned about you for a while now, but this really takes the oilcake. You have a jail sentence, Jazz.”
“Just for trespassin’,” Jazz says. “It’s only a tenday in the brig, anyway, not a ‘jail sentence’.”
“Jail is jail,” Ratchet says, unimpressed. “And if I think you need a complete work up, then you get a work up. Your personality components aren’t operating within standard parameters, and I intend to identify the cause. You lost your chance to object when you got tossed in jail for breaking into the Decepticon command center and then falling asleep in there.”
Ratchet starts bustling around getting his equipment set up, and has Jazz open no less than six data access panels for an entire series of diagnostic scanners, lecturing Jazz the entire time.
“I’m responsible for your care, Jazz, you should’ve come to me before now. And,” he holds up one of the scanners and shakes it threateningly, “you should have told me the emotional regulation software was ineffective! You have the defrag debt I’d expect to see from you during active wartime, and you hid it from me!”
Jazz tries to duck out of the way, but he can’t quite get out of projectile range because Prowl chained him to the table. Fortunately, Ratchet just scowls at him instead of actually throwing the scanner.
“I thought it was working a little,” Jazz hedges. Ratchet takes a thick, goopy handful of nanogel out of a canister and starts slapping it all over Jazz’s ports, setting off environmental change alerts all over Jazz’s system.
“Ah! That’s freezing, Ratchet,” Jazz complains, and tries to scoot away, but Ratchet isn’t fazed.
“The nanogel will help stimulate your self-repair,” he says, still smearing the gel into every port he can find. “And don’t think I’m unaware of the cause of this damage. Interfacing isn’t a recommended use of that hardware at all, much less at the rate you seem to be engaging in it.”
“I can’t really defrag without it,” Jazz admits. “The software did help some, but it’s hard to get started without a partner.”
“There,” Ratchet says, finally putting the gel away. “That wasn’t so hard, see? You could’ve come and told me that any time.”
“It’s embarrassin’!” Jazz says. “I was just fine the whole war, and then five minutes after the fightin’ ends I—” he cuts off, struggling to say it. “I just feel like I’m losin’ my head, Ratchet. When I was over there rearrangin’ Screamer’s workstation, my power core started feelin’ like it was gonna explode, and then thirty astroseconds later I went into recharge without even meanin’ to.”
“I don’t know that you were just fine,” Ratchet says, after a moment. “I’ve been looking over my records, and Jazz, you spent more time in my infirmary than almost any other Autobot over the course of the war. I didn’t think much of it at the time—I saw a lot of neurotrauma, and none of us are built for war. But I ran a long term medical analysis routine on your file before I called you up here, and you’ve been presenting with the same array of symptoms since the first time you were on my table. The interventions I’ve tried have been moderately successful, but there’s clearly an underlying cause that needs to be identified.”
Jazz rubs a hand over his visor. Ratchet pats him on the shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out,” he promises. “For now, let me unhook you from the rest of the scanners, and then I need access to your power core. If you’re experiencing surges, that’s a dangerous symptom that I need to address right away.”
Ratchet starts unplugging Jazz from the rest of the equipment, then sets a medical evaluation routine to run on his new infirmary computer—a joint Autobot-Decepticon project, with their combined medical archives stored on there for analysis. The peace has been difficult for mechs like Jazz, no matter how glad he is to be done with the fighting, but for Ratchet and the other medical staff it’s been revolutionary. First Aid has been so happy he occasionally bursts into overwhelmed tears at staff meetings.
Jazz initiates the transformation sequence to give Ratchet core access, and Ratchet plugs in. Jazz kicks his feet around while Ratchet works, trying not to focus on the incredibly uncomfortable experience of having a cable hooked up to his power core, and all of his most delicate internal components exposed to the open air.
“Tell me more about your experience in the command center,” Ratchet says. “Were you experiencing distress? Surprise?”
“Nah, I wasn’t really worryin’ about it, because I was just gonna be in and out,” Jazz tells him. “But then my core started feelin’ like it was really hot, and tight, and it felt like my brain was gonna buzz right out of my head. And then all my motor routines stalled out and the feelin’ stopped and I just went into recharge mode without even layin’ down first.”
If something like that had happened during the war, Jazz would’ve been slagged. Even now, it probably means—it probably means he’s going to get taken off of active duty. Jazz looks down at the ground, visor darkening.
“Alright,” Ratchet says, unplugging. “The experience you’re describing was a power surge. I haven’t been able to identify the cause yet, but your logs are showing a demonstrated history of these surges, and they’ve gotten worse since the end of the war—probably a combination of factors. I suspect that between being fully fueled on a consistent basis for the first time in your life, and the sudden lack of long-term systems stress, your systems suddenly have a lot more resources available to expend on whatever the underlying issue is, resulting in the increased power surges.”
“So what can you do about it?” Jazz asks.
“Not much, yet,” Ratchet tells him. “I’d prefer to collect power load data over a couple of days before I start developing a treatment plan. Core power surges are a delicate issue—compensate too much in one direction, and you can end up causing more damage than the surge itself.”
Ratchet pulls a small, wearable diagnostic device out of a drawer and motions for Jazz to open up a port on the wrist that isn’t chained to the table. “This will let me monitor your systems remotely,” he says, as he hooks it into Jazz’s systems. “While that data compiles, I’ll review the computer’s analysis to determine what additional testing is needed.”
Jazz lets him get the device secured without complaint, although he does laugh when Prowl comes back to collect him and realizes he can’t get cuffs on over it.
“Should’ve taken me up on the offer earlier,” Jazz tells him, smirking.
“Hmm,” is all Prowl says, and then he drags Jazz back to his cell to wait.
Jazz doesn’t have to wait long—Ratchet calls him back up not two Cybertronian hours later. Prowl doesn’t even cuff Jazz this time; instead, First Aid comes down to get Jazz in his medical transport mode, sirens blazing.
“What’s the deal?” Jazz asks Ratchet, as he’s being loaded out of First Aid’s passenger compartment into a surgical suite like he’s in for a double leg replacement and not for the second medical evaluation in as many hours. “Thought you wanted a couple days of data.”
“No time,” Ratchet says, grimly. He pings for medical access, and Jazz slides open a port for him. “We need to get you into surgery right away. First Aid, come lock these plates open,” he instructs, and sends the command to Jazz’s systems for physical core access.
He doesn’t even sound irritated. Jazz starts to get a little nervous, and the core exposure as his chest plates start transforming open in response to Ratchet’s command definitely isn’t helping.
“What’s going on, Ratch?”
“There’s an obstruction in your power core,” Ratchet tells him, already hands deep in Jazz’s chest. First Aid leans in and expands a thick durasteel bar from one side of the temporarily compressed plating to the other, preventing Jazz from reflexively transforming closed. “It needs to be removed immediately. I’m getting you hooked up to core support right now—you’ll feel a slight pinch—”
“Ouch,” Jazz says. “Sweet Cybertron, Ratchet, that wasn’t just a pinch.”
First Aid darts back in and starts securing Jazz flat against the surgical table with thick metal restraints.
“You’ll have to stay conscious for this procedure, so First Aid is getting you secured in case of involuntary movement,” Ratchet explains, before Jazz can ask. He pings a port in Jazz’s upper shoulder, and plugs a pain suppressor unit in when Jazz opens up.
“This will take the edge off, but we can’t risk decreasing your systems sensitivity any further,” Ratchet says. “I’ll also need complete neural access so I can monitor your systems while I perform the removal.”
Jazz gulps a little, but he lets out a long exhaust, and grants secondary and then tertiary neural access.
“Thank you,” Ratchet says, seriously, as he slips deep into Jazz’s systems. Jazz attempts a carefree grin. Ratchet has access to his personality components, though, which dampens the effect somewhat.
Ratchet inserts a monitoring routine into Jazz’s autonomics, then pulls out a nitrocutter.
“I’m going to remove a small section of your power core’s exterior plating, extract the obstruction, and get the opening welded shut. It won’t take long, but it isn’t going to be pleasant,” Ratchet warns.
“Just go ahead an’ get it over with, then,” Jazz tells him. “I don’t think I can handle any more suspense.”
Ratchet nods, and he brings down the nitrocutter without any additional delay. Jazz briefly experiences a level of pain beyond his system’s ability to process, which results in a temporary loss of sensory input, immediately followed by a sudden rush of hot agony.
“Aghhhhh,” Jazz manages.
“Sorry,” Ratchet says. He puts down the nitrocutter, picking up a pair of surgical pliers, and the burning sensation lessens slightly before Ratchet inserts the pliers into Jazz’s core.
When Jazz can process input again, Ratchet apologetically opens up a visual feed over their connection, letting Jazz watch as he starts to pull the blackened, soot-streaked component out. He stops short when Jazz feels a tug.
“This isn’t right,” Ratchet says. Jazz grimaces; that’s not exactly what he wants to hear from the mech currently operating on his core. Ratchet leans in, inspecting the cabling extending from the small component, and then he stands back a little, the visual feed cutting out. “This isn’t your core.”
“What?” Jazz asks. It comes out half-static, but he’s pretty sure he got the point across. On the other side of Ratchet, First Aid has his mask retracted and his mouth open in shock.
“Ratchet?” First Aid asks, after a moment.
“This isn’t his core.” Ratchet taps the plating for emphasis. “Jazz’s true power core is encapsulated by this—component. It certainly looks like a standard power core, I’ll give your frame designers that,” he adds, to Jazz.
“This entire structure needs to be removed,” Ratchet decides. “First Aid, come hold this blasted thing in place while I get the plating disassembled.”
Jazz braces himself for the all-consuming agony of having his core plating peeled away entirely, but after a couple of astroseconds he realizes that Ratchet is right. It hurts, but it hurts like having gunk scraped off the interior wall of his fuel tank with an electrorazor, not like he’s being ripped apart at his most critical level of construction.
Ratchet dumps the faux-core plating onto a tray with a clatter. Jazz looks down as much as he can without moving his head, and he can see Ratchet inspecting the cable connecting the damaged component to his actual power core.
“Whoa,” Jazz says. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ratchet says, “but I don’t like the look of it.”
Ratchet gets the foreign cable disconnected with another agonizing wrench, then drops the component onto the tray with the discarded plating. “That has to be a post-construction addition to your systems, but it’s certainly been there long enough to merge with your self-repair,” he says. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it to ensure it doesn’t grow back.”
Jazz nods, suddenly exhausted. His systems are struggling to accurately process the new core configuration.
“Alright,” Ratchet says. “Let me help you through a defrag, and then you need to take a complete rest cycle before I’ll feel comfortable taking you off core support.”
Jazz complies, still feeling like a pile of lead parts. Ratchet takes him through a ten-minute defrag that’s mostly incoherent sensory images of Jazz’s core peeling apart and bursting through his plating. Afterwards Jazz powers straight down into recharge, not even staying awake long enough to feel Ratchet disconnect.
Jazz wakes up slowly, and looks around to realize he’s still in the infirmary, in a recovery room. A little red light starts blinking on the berth, and it isn’t long before Ratchet comes walking in, along with Prowl. Jazz sits up a little warily.
“Takin’ me back to the brig already?” Jazz jokes, as Ratchet gets him unhooked from the core support equipment. Prowl doesn’t laugh.
“I thought you might need some moral support for this,” Ratchet says, once he’s done. “Prowl already has complete access to your medical records, and this is going to come as a shock.”
Prowl reaches out and grabs Jazz’s hand, uncharacteristically affectionate. Jazz looks up at him in shock.
“Am I dyin’?” Jazz asks.
“The damaged component I removed from your core was an external power unit,” Ratchet says. “Your core reactor’s power production rate is insufficient for your body’s power requirements, and that unit has been failing for millions of years, nearly the entire war—it only lasted this long because we’ve had you on core support so often.”
“I am dyin’,” Jazz realizes.
“No,” Ratchet says. “You’re a cassette.”
“No I’m not,” Jazz says, automatically, but—if there was an external power unit attached to his core—and who else has had to have external emotional regulation software installed just to try and defrag without assistance, and it didn’t even work—
“You are,” Ratchet says. “I still can’t believe I’ve missed this.”
“Look, Ratch,” Jazz says, glancing briefly back at Prowl, who has yet to say anything. “I think if I was really supposed to be a cassette, I would’ve kicked it by now.”
“It’s a miracle you’ve made it this long,” Ratchet tells him bluntly, staring down at the diagnostics. “I should have—I should’ve realized this wasn’t battle damage long before now. Your core output is strained nearly to the point of complete reactor collapse. Even if I was willing to jury rig another external power unit for you, which I'm not, your reactor has sustained too much damage to tolerate one. If I hadn’t caught that failed component...” he trails off, optics flaring bright with upset.
“Ratchet, you know it’s not on you,” Jazz tries to interrupt, but Ratchet shakes his head.
“That unit has never been flagged in any of our scans because it’s nearly part of your original construction,” Ratchet tells him. “It was added within hours of your initialization, which would explain why you don’t remember the installation. Still, I should’ve delved deeper before now—your core readings have only barely been within acceptable operating parameters. I was nearly too late.”
“Enough,” Prowl says, putting a stop to that. “You’ve identified the problem in time, and if not for your previous interventions, that wouldn’t have been possible.”
“Prowl’s right,” Jazz says. “We’re all lucky to have you, you know that. I’m not worried about anythin’ except what we’re gonna do next.”
“That, at least, is a straightforward solution, although not an easy one. You need a rebuild,” Ratchet says. “And a carrier. As soon as possible.”
“What? No way,” Jazz says. “Even if I am supposed to be a cassette, which I’m not sayin’ I am, if I can last nine million years without a carrier I think I’ve dodged that energy blast. Can’t you just make me a little smaller?”
“I took readings while I had access to your true power core, and your reactor simply is not rated for a self-sufficient frame, Jazz,” Ratchet tells him. “No amount of resizing would be adequate—you need core support that you can only get from a carrier. Besides, you can’t keep interfacing just to complete defrag and systems maintenance.”
“Everyone interfaces, Ratchet, that’s not fair,” Jazz objects. “Anyway, that’s my business.”
“Not anymore,” Ratchet says. “It’s not a sustainable method for managing core strain, Jazz. You’ve already taken damage I can’t repair. We need to talk to Optimus.”
“No!” Jazz leans forward, reaching for Ratchet. “C’mon Ratchet, can’t we keep this between you an’ me an’ Prowl? I’ll do my time in the brig, an’ I’ll be better, I promise.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Ratchet says, exasperated, but he does take Jazz’s unoccupied hand in his own and squeeze comfortingly. “I can’t keep something like this from Optimus. You don’t just need to be taken off active duty for a little while—you need to be completely rebuilt and most likely reassigned. And unless you choose Blaster as your carrier, I’ll need to take another Autobot off duty long-term for the carrier modifications. He has to know.”
“Even if Ratchet was able to maintain confidentiality, you know that I couldn’t,” Prowl interjects.
“It’ll be okay, Jazz,” Ratchet promises. “We’ll figure this out.”
Ratchet goes to talk to Optimus, and Prowl stays behind with Jazz.
“I bet you’re freakin’ out right now,” Jazz says, and Prowl shakes his head.
“I trust in Ratchet’s abilities,” he says, which doesn’t really mean anything. He spends a long, quiet moment just sitting there, and then when Optimus and Ratchet enter the infirmary he leaves with a professional nod for both of them.
Optimus comes into Jazz’s recovery room looking deeply concerned.
“Jazz, Ratchet has informed me of your situation,” he says.
“No biggie,” Jazz says. “Just turns out my power core was fake and I’ve been livin’ a lie for nine million years.”
Optimus clasps a warm, heavy hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “My friend, if this is impacting your core stability—”
“It’s not!” Jazz interrupts. “I’ve been just fine the rest of the time, haven’t I?”
“It is, and you have not,” Ratchet says. “With regular core-support sessions and guided defrag, I believe I can simulate the functions of a carrier enough to mitigate the worst of the symptoms, and improve your quality of life. But only a rebuild and a long-term carrier will alleviate the spark strain. Without the rebuild, even with supportive care, eventually you will experience a power surge strong enough to trigger a critical excursion. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Jazz,” Optimus says, voice low. “I won’t order you to make such a life-altering decision, but I do want you to think about it. Please. You know that Ratchet isn’t given to overstatement.”
Jazz looks away, overwhelmed.
“No matter what you choose, I’ll do everything I can to help you,” Ratchet promises. “But promise me you’ll consider it.”
Jazz doesn’t look up, and Optimus squeezes his hand on Jazz’s shoulder, encouraging.
“Okay,” Jazz says, finally, still staring at the ground. “Can I go back to the brig now?”
Optimus personally escorts him down to his cell, glancing surreptitiously at Jazz, his illumination routines gone flat with worry. Jazz looks away. He isn’t ready to try and say it out loud, but—he already knows he’s going to let Ratchet do the rebuild. He doesn’t—he’s never even considered that he might be a cassette, but the explanation feels right. Jazz knows that he interfaces more than another mech might think is appropriate or even comfortable, but he’s always needed the systems connection, doesn’t even need to get off, just needs to get in. There’s nothing Jazz hates like the clogged feeling in his processor after too long in his own head.
As soon as Jazz gets inside his cell, he slumps down on the ground and covers his face with his hands. It’s too much, and he desperately wants a systems connection, but of course, there’s none to be found in the brig. Normally he’d go and ambush Prowl, let his enormously overpowered processor handle Jazz’s tangled thought processes, but there’s no sense in breaking out to go find him; he’d just return Jazz to his cell.
After a few hours, Blaster shows up, scanning in without even setting off the soundless alarm.
“I didn’t think they were handin’ out visitor passes,” Jazz says sullenly, refusing to move from his position laid out on the floor.
“You know there’s a recharge slab in here, man,” Blaster says.
Jazz folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t say anything.
“C’mon, Jazz, talk to me,” Blaster says. “I’m hearin’ some pretty big news, but I’d rather have it from you.”
“What happened to medical confidentiality, huh?” Jazz asks.
“Ratchet tried, but you know this is too big to keep a lid on,” Blaster says, and comes to lay on the floor beside him. “You been a cassette all this time, and you couldn’t tell your buddy Blaster?”
“I didn’t know!” Jazz protests.
“Sure you didn’t,” Blaster says.
“I didn’t!”
Blaster pats Jazz’s elbow, and Jazz jerks it out of his reach. “Okay, you didn’t,” Blaster concedes. “But where’s that leave you now, Jazz? You know you gotta do the rebuild.”
Jazz doesn’t answer, and Blaster sighs. “Jaaaazz.”
“Can we just interface?” Jazz asks. “I don’t got the brain capacity for this conversation right now.”
“I don’t know,” Blaster says, smiling. “Seems like it might be unethical, you being a prisoner and all…”
Jazz lets out an incoherent growl of frustration, and Blaster laughs. “Alright, alright,” he says, and opens up a data access panel when Jazz pounces on him.
Jazz plugs in instantly and goes rushing over the connection, desperate to have this out on someone else’s hardware. Blaster lets him in easily, plugging in and establishing a reciprocal connection while Jazz frantically takes advantage of Blaster’s smoothly functioning emotional circuitry. In the background, he can feel Blaster slipping onto his own hardware and starting to clear out the contradictory routines and half-completed thought processes.
“You got a mess in here, man,” Blaster says. “I’m thinkin’ this explains a lot, really—you know most full-sized mechs don’t wanna defrag with anyone else in their head, right?”
Jazz lets Blaster do his thing, already feeling calmer, but he can’t stop the sudden pulse of distress. Blaster is doing—this is a carrier’s job, and Blaster is a cool dude, but he’s also Jazz’s friend. They’ve been mixing tunes and chasing the airwaves together for seven million years. Jazz can’t even begin to imagine Blaster in that position. Blaster’s little guys seem happy, but he keeps them on a short leash. That’s not the kind of relationship that Jazz is trying to have with anyone, much less Blaster.
Blaster seems to understand. “Look, Jazz, me an’ you, that doesn’t have to change. There’s a lot of Autobots that can handle carrier mods, and all you gotta do is ask. But if you need to talk about it, you know I’m your mech.”
“I know,” Jazz manages. “I just—” he stops himself, not wanting to say it out loud, but Blaster hears it anyway.
“There’s plenty of mechs that would take the mods for you,” Blaster reassures. “What about Prowl, huh?”
Jazz shakes his head miserably. Prowl would do it, but he would hate it, and Jazz would hate that. Being a cassette—there’s no time off. Blaster’s cassettes just call him Blaster, or boss, but Jazz knows that he’s more than that. He’s their master. He has the final say on everything, on when they recharge, who they see, what they do and where they go, if they’re allowed to—to fight, or to interface, or to go racing on the highway between Autobot and Decepticon territories late at night—
“Whoa, whoa,” Blaster says, sitting up and dragging Jazz close. “Calm down, buddy, it’s not like that, I swear it’s not.”
Jazz tries to regulate his intakes, but he can’t, his panicked emotional subsystem overriding his commands and throwing the rest of his systems into disarray. Over their connection, Blaster pings a request for additional access, and Jazz grants it, panting uncomfortably as his internal operating temperature rises. He’s vaguely aware of the cell's medical alert system starting to flash in the background.
Blaster syncs their systems, manually reducing Jazz’s intake rate and opening up his vents for additional circulation. As soon as Jazz’s system equilibrium returns, he backs off, cancelling neural access and carefully unplugging from Jazz, then pulling Jazz’s cable out of his own port.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have interfaced after all,” he says, but he doesn’t let Jazz go.
“Nah,” Jazz says, into Blaster's chest. “I think I woulda been propositionin’ Ratchet if I had to wait much longer.”
“Jazz,” Blaster says, squeezing him tight, “I wasn’t kidding when I said it wasn’t like that. My cassettes are their own little people. They have their own hobbies, and their own friends, and they come to me for the big decisions because that’s my job. But they aren’t slaves, and if anyone tries to do that to you, I won’t let them. I’ll go straight to the top, I promise, even if it is Prowl.”
“I don’t want my reactor to melt,” Jazz admits, “but I don’t know who I’m gonna ask.”
“You’ll know,” Blaster assures him, and then First Aid ruins the moment by bursting into the cell with sirens wailing.
After First Aid has been appeased, Jazz spends fifteen solid hours laying listlessly on his cell floor before being called back to the infirmary.
“You haven’t been recharging,” Ratchet accuses, turning on Jazz the moment he arrives.
“Justice never sleeps,” Jazz tells him, darkly.
Ratchet cycles his optics. “That doesn’t even make sense,” he says, shaking his head mildly, and then he puts down his tools and helps Jazz get settled on the exam table.
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Ratchet says, afterwards.
“Hit me,” Jazz says.
“I’m bringing in Soundwave for a consult,” Ratchet says. “I don’t have any hands-on experience with cassette rebuilds, and Soundwave’s the only surviving Cybertronian that does. He’s on his way over.”
“What?” Jazz exclaims. “No!”
“Yes,” Ratchet tells him. “And while he’s in my infirmary, he’s a medical practitioner first, so you need to behave yourself.”
“He’s still a Decepticon! He might rebuild my brain, for all you know,” Jazz protests.
“He will not,” Ratchet says. “Besides, I’ll be here supervising. We’re not handing you over to the Decepticons just yet.”
“Fine,” Jazz concedes, with ill grace. He would have realized, if he’d thought about it, but he’d been too overwhelmed by the prospect of giving up his independence to really consider the logistical details. “Don’t tell me that’s the good news—what else?”
“The good news is that we won’t need to fabricate any specialized parts for your rebuild. Turns out Soundwave has been stockpiling, and he has enough to share. That just leaves the design work, and then we’ll be able to complete the rebuild as soon as you’re ready.”
“I don’t even have a carrier yet,” Jazz protests.
“When you’re ready, I said,” Ratchet tells him impatiently. “Soundwave will be here in a few minutes to do some preliminary scans, and then you can go reflect on the error of your ways some more while we work on the body design. Soundwave thinks we might be able to retain a smaller version of your vehicle mode if we remove the standard subspace compartment inside—he’s going to get Shockwave to take a look at the possible transformation sequences.”
Jazz hasn’t even considered that they might have to remove his vehicle transformation. He can feel his systems starting to spiral suddenly into panic mode again, but he can’t stop it—he’s been on the bare edge of standard system performance for the past few days, his emotional subsystem still struggling to integrate the bombshell Ratchet dealt him, and he hasn’t been able to interface since Blaster came to visit.
“Damnit,” Ratchet says, hurriedly pinging Jazz’s access panel for medical access, but Jazz’s motivator is too overwhelmed to issue the command.
“Do you need me to call Blaster?” Ratchet asks, when the access request fails. “You need to calm down, Jazz. Just focus on reducing your intake speed and maintaining your internal temperature.”
“Don’t need Blaster,” Jazz says, panting. “I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not fine,” Ratchet protests.
Soundwave chooses that moment to arrive, pausing silently in the doorway, which he nearly fills up with his unnecessarily gigantic Decepticon body. Jazz glares weakly at him from the exam table, struggling to regulate his systems.
“Just need to interface after this an’—” Jazz pauses to run a quick vent cycle, “an’ I’ll be okay.”
“Interface will address symptoms,” Soundwave says calmly, or at least it sounds calm to Jazz. Soundwave can’t modulate tone, so everything he says pretty much comes out that way, unless he really cranks up the volume. “However, solution temporary.”
“I’m fine,” Jazz says again, finally getting his intake speed under control and pushing Ratchet away. “I’m okay, Ratchet, I can handle it. I don’t need babysittin’, and I don’t need Blaster here holdin’ my hand all the time, either.”
“Jazz: not in need of ‘babysitting’,” Soundwave agrees, sounding about as amused as he ever does, and he comes over and pings a request for data access. Jazz has control over his motivator this time, and the panel slides smoothly open.
“Initiating systems scan,” Soundwave says aloud, not beating around the cyberbush at all, and at the same time Jazz feels the uncomfortable systems-wide tingle of a deep scan starting, like a thick drip of liquid trailing down his spinal strut. He shudders a little.
“Daily interface recommended,” Soundwave tells Ratchet, while the scan is completing. “Systems connection will temporarily resolve maintenance errors in emotional subsystem.”
“Daily?” Ratchet asks. “Data access hardware isn’t designed for that kind of traffic.”
“Multiple partners may be required,” Soundwave says.
“No kidding,” Ratchet mutters. “Alright, Jazz, give me a list of acceptable partners and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll let whoever’s on duty know that it’s medically necessary for you to have visitors. I already got Blaster in to see you, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.”
Jazz opens up a channel and gives him the list while Soundwave stands there silently compiling data. Eventually, Soundwave unplugs.
“Data obtained,” he says, and extends a thick antenna out of his shoulder. “Transmitting relevant data to Shockwave now.”
“That’s one way to have a consultation,” Ratchet mutters, eyeing him sidelong.
“Shockwave: reviewing possible transformation sequences,” Soundwave says. “Soundwave, will return following prototype model development.” Then he turns around and walks straight out of the infirmary.
Powerglide comes to visit Jazz in his cell later that day, which is always a good time, and then Mirage the next day—always an even better time, and Mirage even activates his cloaking device—and then Soundwave is back with his prototype transformation model, so Jazz is brought back up to the infirmary for more tests. When he gets there, he has to wait on Soundwave and Ratchet to come out of Ratchet’s office, where they’re holed up with Optimus. Soundwave has left a holoprint on an exam table, and Jazz sits on his own exam table kicking his legs and watching it loop through potential cassette-mode transformation sequences, a tiny Jazz transforming into vehicle mode, then cassette mode, then back again, over and over.
He’s been waiting for ten minutes or so when Rumble and Frenzy come busting into the infirmary, clearly unsupervised. Frenzy is covered in splotches of yellow paint.
Jazz raises an optical ridge. “What are you two doing here? You know this is the Autobot base, right?”
“We’re looking for Soundwave, duh,” Frenzy says. “We got a new remix to show him and Rav said he was just messing around in here.”
“What’s this?” Rumble asks, leaning curiously toward the holoprint of Jazz’s transformation sequences. “Hey, what’re you in here for, anyway?”
Figuring the secret will be out soon enough anyway, Jazz waves a hand at the holoprint. “That’s for me,” he says. “I’m gettin’ a rebuild.”
Rumble and Frenzy both stare at him in shock, heads turning comically back and forth between Jazz and the holoprint.
“You never told us you were a cassette,” Rumble accuses, after a moment.
“What, are we friends?” Jazz asks. “We were on opposite sides of the war for the last eight million years, dipstick. Even if I did know I wouldn’t’ve told you.”
“You didn’t even know?” Frenzy asks. “How could you not know? You just forgot about your whole cassette mode?”
“I didn’t forget about it, I didn’t have it!” Jazz says. “I still don’t have it. Don’t you know what your boss is up to?”
“Soundwave’s got his own stuff to do,” Rumble tells him. “I can’t keep track of that, I’m busy. Now that we aren’t fightin’ anymore I got business.”
“I don’t think fighting with Skywarp and graffitiing the command center is a business,” Frenzy says, sounding dubious.
“That’s not all we do,” Rumble argues. “What about that energon refiner me an’ you an’ Motormaster are workin’ on, huh?”
“Well, okay,” Frenzy concedes. “That’s a business.”
“Exactly,” Rumble says. He turns back to Jazz. “See, we’re busy, we don’t gotta do Soundwave’s job too. So are you gonna rack up with Blaster or what?”
“No, I’m not ‘rackin’ up’ with Blaster,” Jazz says. “Once I pick a carrier Ratchet’s gonna give him the mods.”
“Prowl then,” Frenzy says, nodding sagely.
“Not him either,” Jazz says. “What do you guys care what I do, anyway?”
Rumble and Frenzy exchange looks. “You tryin’ to jump in on the boss?” Rumble asks, slowly.
“What? No, I’m an Autobot, ” Jazz says.
“Okayyyy,” Rumble says, drawing it out. Jazz tries to protest, but Soundwave and Ratchet and Optimus all come filing out into the infirmary, and Rumble and Frenzy start blasting their terrible music for Soundwave. Jazz thinks his audial receptors are going to overheat, it’s so bad—even Optimus quickly makes his excuses and leaves, and Ratchet clearly just cancels external auditory input entirely, which Jazz wishes he could do. Too much of his reality integration depends on auditory sensory input to just turn it off unless the situation is truly dire.
“The prototype is looking good,” Ratchet says, once Rumble and Frenzy have left. Jazz rubs his hands on the sides of his head, trying to work some feeling back into his processor. “I’ve made some notations—some of the components Shockwave wants to relocate have to stay together in Autobots—but I think we can have a working internal model by the time Jazz finishes his sentence.”
Soundwave nods. “Additional recommendations, available now. Data transmitted to infirmary computer.”
Ratchet hooks up to the computer, and starts frowning right away, clenching the scanner in his hand unhappily.
“What is it?” Jazz asks, instantly concerned.
“Carrier modifications insufficient,” Soundwave says. “Modification time exceeds recommended parameters. Additionally: inexperienced carrier, will have limited experiential knowledge of external systems regulation. Potential for accidental damage rated five or greater on standard severity scale: significant. Recommendation: Blaster.”
Jazz turns to Ratchet for confirmation.
“I hate to say it, but Soundwave is right,” Ratchet says, leaning back heavily from the computer. “I can give an Autobot the modifications, but the physical additions and the software package will both take time to integrate, and you’re in—somewhat delicate health. If the data Soundwave’s provided is correct, you may not be able to afford the additional spark strain of being a new carrier model’s initial subject.” Ratchet lets out a long stream of exhaust. “If you’re set on a particular partner, I’ll do my best. But I’d rather avoid the risk. What happened between you and Blaster?”
Jazz shakes his head fervently. “What about Prowl?” he asks.
“Jazz, I’m so sorry—I thought Prowl had already told you,” Ratchet says, sounding gutted. “I ran the test when he asked, but he isn’t a candidate. His specialized tactical subsystem has such significant power requirements that his core can’t support the physical modifications.”
Jazz’s emotional coprocessor locks up almost instantly, pulling system resources rapidly as he struggles to integrate Ratchet’s pronouncement. Jazz realizes sickly that for as much as he’s been telling himself he hasn’t, he’s been counting on Prowl as—as a last resort, at least, someone other than Blaster. Having that safety net pulled from under him is—Jazz shakes his head, trying to forcibly banish the thought from his processor. Vaguely, he’s aware of Ratchet speaking, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond yet.
“Jazz,” Ratchet repeats.
“Sorry, Ratch,” Jazz manages. “What’s the question?”
“I was asking if you were okay, but clearly you’re not,” Ratchet says. “Do you need to take a break? I can call Prowl up here.”
“No,” Jazz says. “I’m fine. Just surprisin’, that’s all.”
“Jazz,” Soundwave says. “Carrier: will be identified. Query: source of conflict with Blaster?”
“Blaster’s my friend, ” Jazz says. “I’ve been like this my whole functionin’, I don’t wanna be—I can’t—” he cuts himself off.
Ratchet leans over to pat him on the shoulder. “We’ll work something out,” he says. “Don’t worry about it right now. We’ll talk about it with Optimus later, okay?”
Jazz nods, miserable, and tries to smile up at him. “Okay,” he says.
Jazz still has five days left, so he gets taken back down to the brig after Soundwave and Ratchet are done with him. He’s handled imprisonment just fine before, during the war, but this time it doesn’t take long before he starts to feel ansty and uncomfortable, slumping around his cell in increasingly improbable positions trying to get into recharge. He gets some relief when Ironhide comes to visit, and then again the next day with Sideswipe, even though he’s a little sore at this point.
“You really are hot for it, aren’t you?” Sideswipe laughs, when Jazz tackles him as soon as he enters the cell, but he’s clearly hot for it, too, leaning in and rubbing a thumb into Jazz’s open port. “I can’t believe you got Ratchet to issue you an interfacing exception when you’re only in here for a tenday.”
“C’mon, Sideswipe, just give it to me already,” Jazz whines, and Sideswipe does, but the high only lasts for an hour or so after he leaves, and then Jazz can’t stand it anymore. He spoofs Prowl’s ident frequency and encryption key to trick the cell door into sliding open, then makes a run for it; Prowl gets an alert every time his encryption key is used, so Jazz doesn’t have long. The alerts have to clog up Prowl’s internal display beyond all reasonable tolerance, but he insists that it’s necessary—possibly due to this exact scenario, Jazz can admit.
To buy a little more time, Jazz ejects his ident broadcaster and pulls a hazardous materials alarm, triggering containment procedures. Conveniently, Jazz gave himself complete permissions for all of the base cameras during their installation, so he just slides under the containment shield and triggers a pre-recorded loop of an empty hallway, and after that it’s a nice leisurely journey out of the base and onto Cybertron’s surface. Hopefully the others will track his ident and think he’s trapped inside the brig; it should give him a couple of hours.
Jazz transforms and starts driving in a random direction, not really thinking about anything, just letting himself feel the air resistance and the ground under his tires, the comforting burn of the fuel in his tank. He whips through debris and around half-scavenged buildings, travelling deep into the neutral territory between the Autobot and Decepticon bases, and he only stops when he hits a quarter tank.
Jazz transforms, panting, and stands staring for a while. Eventually he decides to lie down, taking cover underneath the metal frame of what used to be a massive broadcasting tower. He can feel himself slipping into recharge, processor slowing, vents still rapidly running exhaust cycles, and falls into a rest cycle halfway through his last thought.
Jazz wakes up after only a couple of hours, interrupted by something. He looks around groggily for the source of his sudden awakening and almost instantly spots Soundwave, barely fifteen meters away. Jazz freezes, trying to will himself into invisibility, but Soundwave stops short and turns to stare directly at his hiding place.
“They sent you to drag me back?” Jazz asks, sitting up. He scowls pointedly at Soundwave.
“Negative,” Soundwave says, but he comes walking over anyway. Jazz doesn’t bother getting up; there’s no sense in making it any easier for him.
Soundwave pulls some of the scrap out of the way, making room, then just—sits down beside Jazz.
“What’re you doin’?” Jazz asks, turning to stare incredulously at him.
Soundwave doesn’t respond, just sits facing silently forward. Jazz stares at him a little longer, but when Soundwave doesn’t move for several moments more, Jazz accepts that he isn’t going to anytime soon and turns to face forward again himself.
Soundwave’s massive frame quickly heats the small space, and Jazz catches himself relaxing into the warmth, the heavy, repetitive rhythm of Soundwave’s ventilations vibrating through him. Some of the tension finally leaving his frame, Jazz slumps his head against his knees and just stares out at the horizon. They finally have a star to orbit, but their base location and the shallow angle of rotation stretches the sunsets out enormously—this sunset has been going for nearly seven Cybertronian days, since before Jazz was thrown in the brig, and it’s just now coming to an end, the last glowing streams of light throwing the wreckage of their planet deep into shadow.
“Eventually we’re gonna have to change our time units,” Jazz says. “I got used to a Cybertronian day bein’ different on other planets, but it’s weird now that we’re back.”
“Cybertronian day: meaningful unit of time,” Soundwave says.
“We could call it somethin’ else,” Jazz responds, and Soundwave nods to that.
Soundwave gives it a little longer, then turns to look at Jazz. “Jazz: ready to return to base?”
Jazz shakes his head. “Don’t know if I’m ever gonna be ready,” he admits.
Soundwave seems to think on that for a moment before he speaks. “Suggestion: return to Decepticon base. Soundwave: will assume Jazz’s parole.”
“What, just come home with ya?” Jazz can feel his optics brightening in surprise.
“Affirmative.”
“I know you gotta be assumin’ I’m easy, but I’m not that easy,” Jazz warns.
“Interface inappropriate,” Soundwave says. “Jazz: parolee.”
Jazz snorts. “Now you sound like Prowl.”
Soundwave nods and stands up, clearly waiting for Jazz to make up his mind. Jazz could go back to the base and back to the brig—although it sounds like he could probably talk his way into parole there, too—but he isn’t anymore ready to face Prowl or Ratchet or Blaster than he was when he left. He can’t even begin to think of facing Optimus, his miserable disappointed face and the quiet, earnest lecture he certainly has prepared.
“Fine, okay,” Jazz says. It isn’t particularly enthusiastic, but Soundwave takes it as the capitulation it is and starts walking toward the Decepticon base, clearly expecting Jazz to follow. Jazz watches him go for a moment before shrugging to himself and trudging along behind.
The Decepticon base is suspiciously quiet; Jazz suspects Soundwave has somehow managed to clear the hallways before his arrival. Megatron, however, apparently didn’t get the memo, and he’s just walking out into the hallway when they arrive outside Soundwave’s quarters.
“I didn’t think you were going to give me trouble with the treaty, Soundwave,” Megatron says, sounding amused. “You can’t bring Autobots back to base without authorization, it’s kidnapping.”
“Permission obtained,” Soundwave says.
“From who?” Jazz asks. “I didn’t see you talkin’ to anyone.”
“Optimus Prime,” Soundwave explains. “Contacted prior to locating Jazz.”
“You were that sure I was gonna come home with you?” Jazz puts his hands on his hip struts, offended.
“Soundwave: prepared for multiple outcomes,” Soundwave assures him. “Jazz: unpredictable.”
Jazz settles down, somewhat mollified.
Megatron snorts. “If Prime comes calling, I’m sending him to you,” he says, and waves a hand in dismissal.
Soundwave nods acknowledgment, then gestures for Jazz to follow him inside.
Soundwave’s quarters are surprisingly full—there isn’t much in the way of furniture, except for an alcove with several neat rows of cassette-sized recharging equipment next to Soundwave’s own oversized rest unit, but there is a massive workbench scattered with tools and loose components, and a small collection of musical instruments displayed neatly in one corner. The cassettes have clearly left some of their own belongings out, too: paints, weapons, unidentifiable bits of equipment, even a tiny holosim unit leaning against one wall. Jazz is struck suddenly with the realization that Soundwave lives here. This is his home, and it is for the cassettes, too.
Jazz walks around the room, exploring, and Soundwave lets him. He spends a few minutes investigating the musical instruments—some of them Jazz has never even heard of before, and he desperately wants to hear them played; hopefully Soundwave is able to demonstrate—then hops up on the workbench, careful not to disturb anything. From this angle, the scattered components take on a new shape. Some of them have clearly been laid out in the outline of a mech, a little smaller than Rumble or Frenzy.
“What’s—is this gonna be a new cassette?” Jazz asks, realizing.
Soundwave nods. “Project ongoing,” he says. “Estimated time of completion not possible at this stage.”
“You’re just noodlin’ around, then,” Jazz says, nodding. “Six cassettes, though… Is that a full house? Blaster says he can only have one more before he’s full up.”
“Six: within acceptable parameters. Support systems available for twelve cassettes.”
Jazz rears back, surprised. “That’s a lot,” he says, doubtfully. “You really tryin’ to keep a whole zoo in here?”
“Full cohort desired,” Soundwave admits.
Jazz looks away. He wouldn’t have expected it from Soundwave, but maybe he should have. Twelve slots is a lot, more than any reasonable mech would ask for, but no one gets carrier modifications unless they want them.
“Jazz: has determined choice of carrier?” Soundwave asks.
Jazz wonders what life as one of Soundwave’s cassettes would be like. He’s seen plenty of Rumble and Frenzy, and occasionally Ravage—Laserbeak and Buzzsaw mostly do aerial surveillance, which is out of Jazz’s wheelhouse—but he doesn’t know what it’s like, how Soundwave is when they’re alone, if the cassettes all get along or if they’re fighting all the time.
For all he knows, Soundwave might not even be interested—but Jazz dismisses that thought almost instantly. Soundwave wouldn’t have brought him here if he wasn’t interested. He’s taken Jazz into his home, let Jazz see his instruments, his workbench, the first projected outline of his new cassette. He just told Jazz he has room for twelve, more cassettes than are even alive anymore. Soundwave is—courting him, in his own, Soundwave-y way.
“I’ve got plans,” Jazz says. “I already have a life, Soundwave. I’m not ready to be—an extra in someone else’s.” He says it without thinking, but it’s the truth, the impenetrable wall Jazz has come up against every time he tries to wrap his mind around being a cassette. He’s been an entire mech his whole life. He’s depended on people, on Prowl, but he’s always been able to walk away.
“Soundwave’s cassettes: unable to pursue independent goals?”
It’s true that Soundwave’s cassettes mostly do their own thing, especially Rumble and Frenzy, who engage in a lot of gambling, street fighting, and illicit redecorating. Jazz has always assumed that Soundwave doesn’t care about them—they all have, really. Certainly Soundwave doesn’t chase his cassettes around like Blaster does, and during the war he sent them out on raids and scouting missions all the time.
It’s easy to pretend that’s true, but—of course he cares about them. He supports their sparks. He lets them recharge in his chest compartment and clutter up his room with disassembled blasters and start feuds with Starscream. He listened to Rumble and Frenzy’s terrible remix of ten different human songs with Gorzontian-5 stone singing sampled in and he didn’t even complain. No one does that for someone they don’t love.
“What about Prowl?” Jazz asks.
“Relationship with Prowl, unaltered,” Soundwave says.
“What about—Blaster and Powerglide and Mirage and Sideswipe and—and all the others? How am I supposed to—I’m an Autobot. Where am I going to live? What about my security clearance?” Jazz asks, panicking a little now as he realizes—he’s going to say yes. Jazz is going to say yes, because he wants to live, and because it’s Soundwave or Blaster, and Blaster kept his cassettes locked up on base for eight million years, rather than let them fight in the war for all of their lives.
“Obstacles irrelevant,” Soundwave finally decides. “Soundwave, Jazz, will negotiate as needed. Consultation with Megatron, Optimus Prime, required. Primary factor: Jazz, must determine desired carrier. All other considerations to follow.”
“I can’t believe I’m gonna be a Decepticon,” Jazz says, blank with the horror of it, and Soundwave actually laughs, just once. Jazz didn’t even know he could do that.
“Jazz: not a Decepticon,” Soundwave assures. “Cassette rebuild: will not alter brain configuration,” he adds, which is presumably as comforting as he can get.
Jazz snorts, but he reaches for Soundwave anyway. “Okay, but if you’re gonna be my carrier, I need—I know you said you wouldn’t interface, but Soundwave, I can’t—”
“Soundwave, will assist. Open port.”
Jazz opens a port, and Soundwave connects, sending a polite data access request for medical permissions only. Jazz grants it immediately, and Soundwave’s presence winks in over their connection, huge and nearly overwhelming, but he doesn’t come rushing onto Jazz’s hardware. Instead, from the background, he guides Jazz into temporarily reducing external input, then initiates a careful defragmentation routine, delicately programmed. It’s clearly the routine he runs for his actual cassettes.
Jazz leans into Soundwave gratefully as it runs. This defrag is just as horrible and miserable as the last several have been—this time it’s a sensory dump of being compacted into a dense block of plating, his unaltered form being folded and flattened into a cassette shape manually—but afterwards, Soundwave holds Jazz close to his side and just lets him wheeze it out. Jazz isn’t looking forward to having this conversation with Optimus and Ratchet—or, Primus forbid, Megatron—but he doesn’t want to think about that right now.
He fumbles around for a distraction, and lands on Soundwave’s little collection of instruments.
“Hey, can you show me how to play that eighteen-stringed instrument in the corner? The hexagonal prism?” Jazz asks.
Soundwave nods, and opens up a channel to send Jazz an instructional video. Jazz laughs, only a little hysterically, and goes to get the instrument off the wall himself.