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wyntir_knightTitle: The Polyhex Candidate
Fandom: Transformers: Generation One
Characters & Relationships: Smokescreen, Mirage, Jazz, Prowl, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Red Alert, Ironhide, Perceptor, Wheeljack.
Jazz/Prowl, Wheeljack/Ratchet/Perceptor, mentions of Smokescreen/Swindle, Jazz/Mirage, Jazz/Smokescreen.
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic violence, dub-con, attempted rape, implication of bondage, mentions of rape, mentions of torture, reprogramming, tactile, spark-sex, plug-and-play
Summary: A year ago Jazz was captured by the Decepticons and reprogrammed into a walking time-bomb. Now that he has returned to the Autobots his new programming has kicked in and he has left chaos in his wake. It's up to Smokescreen and Mirage to find Jazz and bring him back to their side and back to sanity before he is completely lost. Meanwhile Prowl and Ultra Magnus try to keep Iacon from destroying itself as panic grips the populace, and as Prowl fights for his sanity after a year's separation from his bonded and the sure knowledge that Jazz may not survive.
Link to the fic on A03 or read it below! Comments and critique are greatly appreciated!
Chapter 4
Jazz sat in the corner of a rundown apartment in Iacon, hugging his knees to his chest. His mission was almost complete. The Autobot Prime and his second were both dead and he had taken out a third of the Special Operations team. He was almost done and then he could rest.
All that was left was to wait for Ultra Magnus and Mirage to make a mistake. The first would be easy enough; Magnus would be forced to come out and reassure the populace of Iacon as soon as word got out that Optimus Prime was dead. Mirage would be more difficult, but not impossible. It would only be a matter of time before the spy came after him. It was practically a foregone conclusion. The problem would be seeing Mirage before it was too late.
It had been a cycle since he’d completed the first part of the job and if his calculations were correct, it would be another cycle until he had to worry about Mirage. The thought of calculations pulled him out of his musings.
Calculations … his calculations were always right. Wait, that was wrong … He wasn’t the one with calculations. That was someone else. Wasn’t it?
A buzzing formed in his mind as his thoughts strayed from his mission and the more he tried to fight it, the louder the noise became until it became physically painful. With a strangled sob he hit his head back against the wall. The pain brought his fogged mind back where it should be. Back on the mission.
“Everything went perfectly,” he murmured to himself. “Completely perfectly. Now I just need to wait.”
No matter how many times he said it, the niggling doubt at the back of his mind never silenced. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. These Autobots weren’t his enemy. There was something wrong deep inside him but every time he tried to grasp hold of it, every time he tried to understand, the thoughts slipped away until only this truth was left.
Jazz pulled his knees up further against his chest and tried not to focus on the empty ache in his chest where his spark once burned bright, flashing in time with the beat of two souls.
---
Jazz came online with a start. The room was pitch black and cold; colder than Iacon should be. He cycled his optics in an attempt to see through the darkness but he remained as if blind, able to only see a few feet ahead before the world hazed out into impenetrable night. With slow, deliberate effort he got his feet under him and stood only to be slammed down to the ground as something sharp connected with the top of his helm and sent a jolt of electricity through him.
A high pitched chittering sound came from the darkness. It sounded disconcertingly like laughter.
“Who are you?” Jazz demanded. His voice sounded hoarse in his own audios as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
“I’m hurt that you should forget so easily,” the voice whispered, sounding as if it was behind him.
Jazz spun and fell back as his knees connected with something. He landed hard on a small metal cot.
“No point in panicking,” the voice said, now coming from somewhere to the side and above. “It’s not as if we’re going to do something unexpected.”
Jazz shivered at the sound of the voice, at the words, and the vague memory of something awful that always accompanied them.
He took a steadying breath and peered out into the darkness. He knew he was in the old safehouse and that meant the berth was against the far wall. As long as he stayed put he’d be safe on two sides.
“You’re sure of that, are you?” the voice said from directly behind him.
Jazz spun and fell off the berth. As soon as he hit the plating he brought his grill beacon to bear, fully intending to blind anyone in the room.
“Oh, we dealt with that a long time ago. Don’t you remember?” the voice asked. “But here, let me offer you some light, if that’s what you’re after.”
The lights came up in the room revealing Bombshell sitting cross-legged on the berth.
Jazz staggered back as if struck.
“You!” he choked out. “You aren’t here!”
“Oh really?” Bombshell asked, a smirk evident in his voice. “Shall we put that to the test, Autobot?”
The Insecticon moved to stand and was suddenly standing in front of Jazz. One clawed hand came up to stroke the saboteur’s face with the perverse gentleness of a lover.
“It certainly seems like I’m here,” Bombshell whispered.
Jazz slapped the hand away and took a step back. “You aren’t real. This is just a hallucination. You can’t teleport and you aren’t that fast; therefore this isn’t real,” he said, seeming to channel a part of himself that belonged to someone else.
“Okay,” Bombshell replied in an indulging tone. “Let’s go with that theory. You’re hallucinating Jazz. I’m not really here at all. You’re still on the floor of this so-called safe-house, deep in recharge dreaming all of this.”
A corner of the room lit up just enough to reveal the recharging form of Jazz. His knees her drawn up to his chest, his body still bearing the scars of surgery and putty colour of unpainted metal.
Jazz looked from his huddled form to Bombshell and back. “It’s all just a dream. None of this is happening,” he murmured, determined to ignore the hallucinatory Insecticon.
“Exactly. Just a dream.” Bombshell nodded a bit too emphatically causing Jazz to narrow his optics behind his optic band.
“What’s your game, bug?” Jazz demanded.
“No game. No game at all. After all, I’m not here, remember? I’m just a hallucination brought about by the guilt of having killed your bondmate and commander. Oh, and the little spy too. Can’t forget him.”
Bombshell moved to sit back on the cot, crossing his legs and casually tapping one clawed finger to his battle mask as if in deep thought.
“Of course, there always is the possibility that all that was a hallucination too,” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe you didn’t kill all those mechs at all. Maybe all of them are safe and sound back in Iacon. Of course, that ache in your spark says otherwise, doesn’t it?”
Jazz shook his head and went back to ignoring the Insecticon. All he needed to do was come back online and end this nightmare. He just needed to wake up …
---
Jazz came online with a start. Sunlight streamed into the room from a window he didn’t remember leaving open. Outside he could hear the sound of traffic as Iaconians went about their daily business.
With a sigh he stretched and stood up, intending to get the energon converter set up.
“Hungry?” came a voice from a shadowy corner of the room.
“No…” Jazz whispered as Bombshell stepped forward, offering a cube of energon.
“Looks like you weren’t hallucinating after all,” the Insecticon said with mock sadness.
“You cannot be here!” Jazz snapped.
“We’ve been through this already. Either I’m here and everything you are praying didn’t happen did. Or you’re hallucinating.”
The Insecticon stepped closer. “Which would you prefer? That you left your young subordinate in a pool of his own fluids? That you murdered your bondmate in cold fuel? That you blew your vaunted Prime’s head off? That you slaughtered all of those nameless, faceless Autobots?” Each point was punctuated with a step closer until Bombshell was face to face with Jazz.
Jazz struck out with a strangled sob but the Insecticon was too fast, faster than he had ever been before. “You. Aren’t. HERE!” he yelled.
“Maybe your right,” Bombshell replied casually, leaning against the far wall. “Maybe none of this is real. Maybe this is all a ploy on my part to make you think you’ve lost your mind.”
His voice turned silky as his optics locked onto Jazz’s. “Maybe this is all part of the game. Just another session and we’re really in your cell in Darkmount.”
The lights of the room flickered in a violent strobe, lighting everything but illuminating nothing. The room shifted from the run-down apartment to something far darker and more sinister. As Jazz watched in horror, a table appeared in the centre of the room. It was the same dark metal as the walls and the floor of the cell, and just like the cell walls and floor, it was scored and stained by innumerable interrogation sessions.
“I’m not. I escaped,” Jazz said firmly, but a slight shiver in his voice gave away his doubt.
“Did you really? Are you so sure of that, Autobot? Remember, you were sure all those other times too,” Bombshell said smugly. “Every other time you ‘escaped’ you found yourself right back in this room. With me. Tell me, Jazz, why is this time any different?”
Jazz backed up against the wall and offlined his optics, willing the hallucination to end. Willing himself to wake up.
---
Jazz came online slowly, his systems booting up in a sluggish crawl. This was different; this feeling like he was trying to swim through a sea of rust and sludge was alien to his recent experiences. And for a brief moment he held on to the hope that he actually was onlining this time; that this wasn’t just another dream.
“Jazz? You need to come back to us, Jazz. Please, love. I need you back.” The voice was painfully familiar, but faint as if it was coming at him from Cybertron’s deepest well. His fogged processor couldn’t place it even as his spark reached out to the speaker.
He finally managed to online his optics, cycling them rapidly as he was assaulted with blurs of colour and vague shapes.
“He’s online!”
“…oh thank primus …”
One of the blurs coalesced into a black and white shape and he was finally able to place the voice.
“… prowl …,” he whispered, his voice weak and full of static.
White hands came to rest on his chassis, petting comforting patterns onto his plating.
“Yes. You’re home, Jazz. You’re safe now. You’re back with us.” Prowl’s voice was filled with emotions not normally expressed in public, but the team of medics nearby had no effect on the Second-In-Command.
“How do you feel?”
Jazz looked over to see Ratchet standing at his left and Optimus Prime standing beside him.
He struggled to sit up, finally managing the task with Prowl’s help, leaning on his mate as if to absorb his love and energy. The med bay was exactly as it should be. Bright and clean, filled with medics going about their business and his friends surrounding him. Everything was as it should be. And yet, at the same time it was so very, very wrong. A small, treacherous voice spoke out in the back of his mind reminding him of the many times he had previously been in this same position
“… I don’t know … I feel … wrong somehow ...,” Jazz said, struggling to speak through the static that laced his voice.
“Don’t worry, Jazz. We’ll set you right.” Ratchet turned away to collect his tools, and as he did a figure appeared leaning against the back wall.
Jazz cycled his optics trying to focus on the mech, but only managing to make out a purple and grey blur that seemed horrifyingly familiar.
“No … I can’t be here,” he murmured, pulling away from Prowl as he did.
“What’s the matter, Jazz?” Optimus Prime asked, his voice sounding hollow below the concern.
As Jazz looked around at his friends he felt a panic swell up inside him. This was terribly wrong. There was a dark edge to everything, a patina that covered every surface disguising the truth of his surroundings. He knew this game. He had been forced to play it so many times before that he knew the script from beginning to end. His “friends” would turn on him, leave him with nothing but pain and doubt as the Decepticons mined him for information.
“Jazz?” Prime asked as he stepped closer. “Jazz, what’s wrong …wrong?”
For an instant the scene flickered and it was not Prime who stood there, but Shrapnel masquerading as the Autobot supreme commander.
“What’s the matter?” Prowl asked, his words dripping with sweet poison.
The saboteur turned quickly, almost falling off the berth in the process. Where Prowl had been moments before was now Kickback.
“Come now, lover. Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kickback asked, a leer pulling at his bared lips in a gross caricature of his mate’s smile “You wanted to come home to us and we’ve allowed you to. Isn’t this everything you’ve asked for? Now give us a kiss.”
“No!” Jazz yelled, backing away from the other mechs. “No! This isn’t real! This is all a dream! This isn’t happening!”
“Are you so sure of that?” Bombshell asked, materializing where Ratchet had once stood.
“NO!” Jazz screamed.
Instantly a gun was in his hand and aiming at Shrapnel.
“Jazz, you need to calm down,” Optimus Prime said, his voice a soothing command.
Jazz cycled his optics as the Autobots and the Insecticons flashed before his vision so rapidly that he lost track of reality and fantasy.
“Enough!” he growled, and suddenly as if he had been hit with an electric charge, he was flung from his body.
He watched in horror as a red and black parody of his body lifted the gun and fired at Prime. He could only scream in impotent rage as the Prime fell, his head a disintegrated mass, his body greying even as it fell.
“No!” he screamed.
His doppelganger turned to face him, his visor glowing with a strange red/purple light and suddenly Jazz recognized the mech before him. He had often dreamed of this mech and the horrors he inflicted on both Autobot and Neutral alike. This was Ricochet and he was death incarnate.
Jazz watched in horror Bumblebee ran into of the medbay only to have his head ripped off by Ricochet’s black hands with a sudden violent twist. Ratchet was next, the medic putting up a good fight before he was pinned to a wall with his own laser scalpels. The medic’s spark was ripped from his chest and in the background Jazz saw Wheeljack and Perceptor turn grey and fall the instant their partner was killed.
No one was able to stop him as he cut through the ranks, until all that was left was a pile of grey bodies littered around Iacon. In the end only Ricochet was left, his visor flashing that strange purple/red, his black and red body dripping with spilled energon and gore almost obfuscating the Decepticon sigil in the middle of his chest.
“You have done well, Ricochet,” a voice whispered.
Jazz turned to face Bombshell, feeling his optic band blank as he stared over the Decepticon’s shoulder, a part of him completely oblivious to the neutrals piled up around him.
“You have proven yourself beyond all of our expectations, Ricochet,” the Insecticon said smoothly, petting one hand down Jazz’s arm.
“Thank you,” Jazz heard himself reply tonelessly even though he wanted to scream and rail and strike down the Insecticon before him.
“You did so well that we won’t need to reinforce anything. At least not at the moment,” Bombshell said with an evil smile that promised nothing but pain.
Jazz shivered as his body reacted to a trauma that was half-imagined and half-remembered. His vision blurred as images flashed before his optics, all memories of a life he never had, each even more horrific than the last.
“I ... I can’t...” Jazz heard himself murmur as he held his rifle to the head of a quaking youngling.
All around were the bodies of Neutrals, shot apart by his own weapon leaving only this trembling youth.
“Please …,” the youngling whispered, blue optics pleading with Jazz, his field radiating with terror.
Jazz’s vision wavered and for a moment he could have sworn that the youngling before him was Bluestreak and the bodies were those of his mate’s fellow Praxians. He reached one black hand out to comfort the youth, fingers brushing against helm and chevron. Suddenly a shot rang out and the youngling fell, his body grey and optics dark before he hit the ground.
“You should know better than that, Ricochet,” Bombshell said as he sauntered up, his gun’s barrel still smoking.
“They did nothing to me,” Jazz said defiantly.
Bombshell turned to face him, crimson optics flashing in irritation and Jazz felt his systems liquefy in fear of the promise or the re-education session that was to come. The Insecticon reached up to stroke Jazz’s cheek and the Autobot shivered in a half-remembered response to that touch.
The world blurred again and images flashes before his vision. Confusing flashes of light and colour danced before him, striking from every direction and leaving him weak and cold. Destruction. Death. Pain. And woven throughout it all were flashes of two intertwined bodies – one black and white, the other purple and grey, two colours no Autobot would ever sport together. Jazz’s mind was in turmoil, ripped in a million different directions as he was assaulted by sensations that both were and weren’t his own.
“…Prowl…” he whimpered as he fought through the spark memories, as he desperately tried to control the situation. He felt his systems fritz and the part of him that was Prowl shied away at the illogic of the entire situation.
“You can’t win,” Bombshell whispered as his cruel face swam into focus before Jazz. “And not only will you not win, you will never get Prowl back. You are mine and I don’t share.”
Before Jazz could react Bombshell’s hand shot out and took hold of Jazz’s spark, squeezing and cracking the crystal.
“Ricochet is mine, Jazz. My masterpiece. And if I have to kill you to ensure the safety of my property, then so be it.”
With that dark promise Bombshell ripped Jazz’s spark from his chest.
---
Jazz came online with a start. He immediately scrabbled backwards from a blow that never came. The looked around for a frantic moment, only calming when he realized that he was back in the safe-house.
A pale light filtered in through the shaded windows and the soft sounds from the street were those of early evening. Checking his internal chronometer, a day had passed since he arrived at the safe-house.
“Are you so sure of that?”
“Stop saying that!” Jazz screamed, whirling on Bombshell and closing in on him.
“Stop saying what? The truth?” The Insecticon’s chuckle never wavered as Jazz grabbed him and slammed him against the wall.
“Shut. Up!” Jazz’s hand connected with Bombshell’s face, cracking the Insecticon’s battle mask.
Bombshell’s chittering laughter filled the room as Jazz continued to slam fists, knees, and feet into the Decepticon. Energon and other vital fluids sprayed the walls as the Insecticon was reduced to slag and the Autobot’s hands were covered with gore.
Jazz stepped away from the twitching corpse, turning his back on his enemy.
“Feel better?” Bombshell asked in a low whisper.
Jazz spun toward the voice only to find the Decepticon leaning against the wall casually with no sign of the damage he had just received.
“No …” Jazz whispered as realization came crashing down on him.
“Yes,” Bombshell replied as the Autobot sank to his knees. “You can’t fight this, Jazz. Every time you try to get away from me you end up right back here.”
Jazz crumpled into a ball on the floor.
“But regardless, you’ve done a good job,” Bombshell whispered as he stroked the back of Jazz’s helm with the soothing touch of a lover and creator. “You’ve done everything we asked.”
“Please ...” The Autobot’s plea was as shattered as his broken psyche. “Please let me go … Please, I don’t want to … I can’t …”
“You just have one thing left to do for us. Just one little thing and then you can leave. You know what you need to do, Jazz. You know how you can end all of it. Just one more little task.”
Jazz looked up at his tormentor only to find the room empty. His hand came up to rub his chest where his shattered spark lay. Yes. One more thing and then he could end all of this torment. He gathered himself and made his slow, lurching way out of the safe-house turning toward Iacon and his last victim.
Placeholder for Chapter 6
Fandom: Transformers: Generation One
Characters & Relationships: Smokescreen, Mirage, Jazz, Prowl, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Red Alert, Ironhide, Perceptor, Wheeljack.
Jazz/Prowl, Wheeljack/Ratchet/Perceptor, mentions of Smokescreen/Swindle, Jazz/Mirage, Jazz/Smokescreen.
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic violence, dub-con, attempted rape, implication of bondage, mentions of rape, mentions of torture, reprogramming, tactile, spark-sex, plug-and-play
Summary: A year ago Jazz was captured by the Decepticons and reprogrammed into a walking time-bomb. Now that he has returned to the Autobots his new programming has kicked in and he has left chaos in his wake. It's up to Smokescreen and Mirage to find Jazz and bring him back to their side and back to sanity before he is completely lost. Meanwhile Prowl and Ultra Magnus try to keep Iacon from destroying itself as panic grips the populace, and as Prowl fights for his sanity after a year's separation from his bonded and the sure knowledge that Jazz may not survive.
Link to the fic on A03 or read it below! Comments and critique are greatly appreciated!
Chapter 4
Jazz sat in the corner of a rundown apartment in Iacon, hugging his knees to his chest. His mission was almost complete. The Autobot Prime and his second were both dead and he had taken out a third of the Special Operations team. He was almost done and then he could rest.
All that was left was to wait for Ultra Magnus and Mirage to make a mistake. The first would be easy enough; Magnus would be forced to come out and reassure the populace of Iacon as soon as word got out that Optimus Prime was dead. Mirage would be more difficult, but not impossible. It would only be a matter of time before the spy came after him. It was practically a foregone conclusion. The problem would be seeing Mirage before it was too late.
It had been a cycle since he’d completed the first part of the job and if his calculations were correct, it would be another cycle until he had to worry about Mirage. The thought of calculations pulled him out of his musings.
Calculations … his calculations were always right. Wait, that was wrong … He wasn’t the one with calculations. That was someone else. Wasn’t it?
A buzzing formed in his mind as his thoughts strayed from his mission and the more he tried to fight it, the louder the noise became until it became physically painful. With a strangled sob he hit his head back against the wall. The pain brought his fogged mind back where it should be. Back on the mission.
“Everything went perfectly,” he murmured to himself. “Completely perfectly. Now I just need to wait.”
No matter how many times he said it, the niggling doubt at the back of his mind never silenced. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. These Autobots weren’t his enemy. There was something wrong deep inside him but every time he tried to grasp hold of it, every time he tried to understand, the thoughts slipped away until only this truth was left.
Jazz pulled his knees up further against his chest and tried not to focus on the empty ache in his chest where his spark once burned bright, flashing in time with the beat of two souls.
---
Jazz came online with a start. The room was pitch black and cold; colder than Iacon should be. He cycled his optics in an attempt to see through the darkness but he remained as if blind, able to only see a few feet ahead before the world hazed out into impenetrable night. With slow, deliberate effort he got his feet under him and stood only to be slammed down to the ground as something sharp connected with the top of his helm and sent a jolt of electricity through him.
A high pitched chittering sound came from the darkness. It sounded disconcertingly like laughter.
“Who are you?” Jazz demanded. His voice sounded hoarse in his own audios as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
“I’m hurt that you should forget so easily,” the voice whispered, sounding as if it was behind him.
Jazz spun and fell back as his knees connected with something. He landed hard on a small metal cot.
“No point in panicking,” the voice said, now coming from somewhere to the side and above. “It’s not as if we’re going to do something unexpected.”
Jazz shivered at the sound of the voice, at the words, and the vague memory of something awful that always accompanied them.
He took a steadying breath and peered out into the darkness. He knew he was in the old safehouse and that meant the berth was against the far wall. As long as he stayed put he’d be safe on two sides.
“You’re sure of that, are you?” the voice said from directly behind him.
Jazz spun and fell off the berth. As soon as he hit the plating he brought his grill beacon to bear, fully intending to blind anyone in the room.
“Oh, we dealt with that a long time ago. Don’t you remember?” the voice asked. “But here, let me offer you some light, if that’s what you’re after.”
The lights came up in the room revealing Bombshell sitting cross-legged on the berth.
Jazz staggered back as if struck.
“You!” he choked out. “You aren’t here!”
“Oh really?” Bombshell asked, a smirk evident in his voice. “Shall we put that to the test, Autobot?”
The Insecticon moved to stand and was suddenly standing in front of Jazz. One clawed hand came up to stroke the saboteur’s face with the perverse gentleness of a lover.
“It certainly seems like I’m here,” Bombshell whispered.
Jazz slapped the hand away and took a step back. “You aren’t real. This is just a hallucination. You can’t teleport and you aren’t that fast; therefore this isn’t real,” he said, seeming to channel a part of himself that belonged to someone else.
“Okay,” Bombshell replied in an indulging tone. “Let’s go with that theory. You’re hallucinating Jazz. I’m not really here at all. You’re still on the floor of this so-called safe-house, deep in recharge dreaming all of this.”
A corner of the room lit up just enough to reveal the recharging form of Jazz. His knees her drawn up to his chest, his body still bearing the scars of surgery and putty colour of unpainted metal.
Jazz looked from his huddled form to Bombshell and back. “It’s all just a dream. None of this is happening,” he murmured, determined to ignore the hallucinatory Insecticon.
“Exactly. Just a dream.” Bombshell nodded a bit too emphatically causing Jazz to narrow his optics behind his optic band.
“What’s your game, bug?” Jazz demanded.
“No game. No game at all. After all, I’m not here, remember? I’m just a hallucination brought about by the guilt of having killed your bondmate and commander. Oh, and the little spy too. Can’t forget him.”
Bombshell moved to sit back on the cot, crossing his legs and casually tapping one clawed finger to his battle mask as if in deep thought.
“Of course, there always is the possibility that all that was a hallucination too,” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe you didn’t kill all those mechs at all. Maybe all of them are safe and sound back in Iacon. Of course, that ache in your spark says otherwise, doesn’t it?”
Jazz shook his head and went back to ignoring the Insecticon. All he needed to do was come back online and end this nightmare. He just needed to wake up …
---
Jazz came online with a start. Sunlight streamed into the room from a window he didn’t remember leaving open. Outside he could hear the sound of traffic as Iaconians went about their daily business.
With a sigh he stretched and stood up, intending to get the energon converter set up.
“Hungry?” came a voice from a shadowy corner of the room.
“No…” Jazz whispered as Bombshell stepped forward, offering a cube of energon.
“Looks like you weren’t hallucinating after all,” the Insecticon said with mock sadness.
“You cannot be here!” Jazz snapped.
“We’ve been through this already. Either I’m here and everything you are praying didn’t happen did. Or you’re hallucinating.”
The Insecticon stepped closer. “Which would you prefer? That you left your young subordinate in a pool of his own fluids? That you murdered your bondmate in cold fuel? That you blew your vaunted Prime’s head off? That you slaughtered all of those nameless, faceless Autobots?” Each point was punctuated with a step closer until Bombshell was face to face with Jazz.
Jazz struck out with a strangled sob but the Insecticon was too fast, faster than he had ever been before. “You. Aren’t. HERE!” he yelled.
“Maybe your right,” Bombshell replied casually, leaning against the far wall. “Maybe none of this is real. Maybe this is all a ploy on my part to make you think you’ve lost your mind.”
His voice turned silky as his optics locked onto Jazz’s. “Maybe this is all part of the game. Just another session and we’re really in your cell in Darkmount.”
The lights of the room flickered in a violent strobe, lighting everything but illuminating nothing. The room shifted from the run-down apartment to something far darker and more sinister. As Jazz watched in horror, a table appeared in the centre of the room. It was the same dark metal as the walls and the floor of the cell, and just like the cell walls and floor, it was scored and stained by innumerable interrogation sessions.
“I’m not. I escaped,” Jazz said firmly, but a slight shiver in his voice gave away his doubt.
“Did you really? Are you so sure of that, Autobot? Remember, you were sure all those other times too,” Bombshell said smugly. “Every other time you ‘escaped’ you found yourself right back in this room. With me. Tell me, Jazz, why is this time any different?”
Jazz backed up against the wall and offlined his optics, willing the hallucination to end. Willing himself to wake up.
---
Jazz came online slowly, his systems booting up in a sluggish crawl. This was different; this feeling like he was trying to swim through a sea of rust and sludge was alien to his recent experiences. And for a brief moment he held on to the hope that he actually was onlining this time; that this wasn’t just another dream.
“Jazz? You need to come back to us, Jazz. Please, love. I need you back.” The voice was painfully familiar, but faint as if it was coming at him from Cybertron’s deepest well. His fogged processor couldn’t place it even as his spark reached out to the speaker.
He finally managed to online his optics, cycling them rapidly as he was assaulted with blurs of colour and vague shapes.
“He’s online!”
“…oh thank primus …”
One of the blurs coalesced into a black and white shape and he was finally able to place the voice.
“… prowl …,” he whispered, his voice weak and full of static.
White hands came to rest on his chassis, petting comforting patterns onto his plating.
“Yes. You’re home, Jazz. You’re safe now. You’re back with us.” Prowl’s voice was filled with emotions not normally expressed in public, but the team of medics nearby had no effect on the Second-In-Command.
“How do you feel?”
Jazz looked over to see Ratchet standing at his left and Optimus Prime standing beside him.
He struggled to sit up, finally managing the task with Prowl’s help, leaning on his mate as if to absorb his love and energy. The med bay was exactly as it should be. Bright and clean, filled with medics going about their business and his friends surrounding him. Everything was as it should be. And yet, at the same time it was so very, very wrong. A small, treacherous voice spoke out in the back of his mind reminding him of the many times he had previously been in this same position
“… I don’t know … I feel … wrong somehow ...,” Jazz said, struggling to speak through the static that laced his voice.
“Don’t worry, Jazz. We’ll set you right.” Ratchet turned away to collect his tools, and as he did a figure appeared leaning against the back wall.
Jazz cycled his optics trying to focus on the mech, but only managing to make out a purple and grey blur that seemed horrifyingly familiar.
“No … I can’t be here,” he murmured, pulling away from Prowl as he did.
“What’s the matter, Jazz?” Optimus Prime asked, his voice sounding hollow below the concern.
As Jazz looked around at his friends he felt a panic swell up inside him. This was terribly wrong. There was a dark edge to everything, a patina that covered every surface disguising the truth of his surroundings. He knew this game. He had been forced to play it so many times before that he knew the script from beginning to end. His “friends” would turn on him, leave him with nothing but pain and doubt as the Decepticons mined him for information.
“Jazz?” Prime asked as he stepped closer. “Jazz, what’s wrong …wrong?”
For an instant the scene flickered and it was not Prime who stood there, but Shrapnel masquerading as the Autobot supreme commander.
“What’s the matter?” Prowl asked, his words dripping with sweet poison.
The saboteur turned quickly, almost falling off the berth in the process. Where Prowl had been moments before was now Kickback.
“Come now, lover. Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kickback asked, a leer pulling at his bared lips in a gross caricature of his mate’s smile “You wanted to come home to us and we’ve allowed you to. Isn’t this everything you’ve asked for? Now give us a kiss.”
“No!” Jazz yelled, backing away from the other mechs. “No! This isn’t real! This is all a dream! This isn’t happening!”
“Are you so sure of that?” Bombshell asked, materializing where Ratchet had once stood.
“NO!” Jazz screamed.
Instantly a gun was in his hand and aiming at Shrapnel.
“Jazz, you need to calm down,” Optimus Prime said, his voice a soothing command.
Jazz cycled his optics as the Autobots and the Insecticons flashed before his vision so rapidly that he lost track of reality and fantasy.
“Enough!” he growled, and suddenly as if he had been hit with an electric charge, he was flung from his body.
He watched in horror as a red and black parody of his body lifted the gun and fired at Prime. He could only scream in impotent rage as the Prime fell, his head a disintegrated mass, his body greying even as it fell.
“No!” he screamed.
His doppelganger turned to face him, his visor glowing with a strange red/purple light and suddenly Jazz recognized the mech before him. He had often dreamed of this mech and the horrors he inflicted on both Autobot and Neutral alike. This was Ricochet and he was death incarnate.
Jazz watched in horror Bumblebee ran into of the medbay only to have his head ripped off by Ricochet’s black hands with a sudden violent twist. Ratchet was next, the medic putting up a good fight before he was pinned to a wall with his own laser scalpels. The medic’s spark was ripped from his chest and in the background Jazz saw Wheeljack and Perceptor turn grey and fall the instant their partner was killed.
No one was able to stop him as he cut through the ranks, until all that was left was a pile of grey bodies littered around Iacon. In the end only Ricochet was left, his visor flashing that strange purple/red, his black and red body dripping with spilled energon and gore almost obfuscating the Decepticon sigil in the middle of his chest.
“You have done well, Ricochet,” a voice whispered.
Jazz turned to face Bombshell, feeling his optic band blank as he stared over the Decepticon’s shoulder, a part of him completely oblivious to the neutrals piled up around him.
“You have proven yourself beyond all of our expectations, Ricochet,” the Insecticon said smoothly, petting one hand down Jazz’s arm.
“Thank you,” Jazz heard himself reply tonelessly even though he wanted to scream and rail and strike down the Insecticon before him.
“You did so well that we won’t need to reinforce anything. At least not at the moment,” Bombshell said with an evil smile that promised nothing but pain.
Jazz shivered as his body reacted to a trauma that was half-imagined and half-remembered. His vision blurred as images flashed before his optics, all memories of a life he never had, each even more horrific than the last.
“I ... I can’t...” Jazz heard himself murmur as he held his rifle to the head of a quaking youngling.
All around were the bodies of Neutrals, shot apart by his own weapon leaving only this trembling youth.
“Please …,” the youngling whispered, blue optics pleading with Jazz, his field radiating with terror.
Jazz’s vision wavered and for a moment he could have sworn that the youngling before him was Bluestreak and the bodies were those of his mate’s fellow Praxians. He reached one black hand out to comfort the youth, fingers brushing against helm and chevron. Suddenly a shot rang out and the youngling fell, his body grey and optics dark before he hit the ground.
“You should know better than that, Ricochet,” Bombshell said as he sauntered up, his gun’s barrel still smoking.
“They did nothing to me,” Jazz said defiantly.
Bombshell turned to face him, crimson optics flashing in irritation and Jazz felt his systems liquefy in fear of the promise or the re-education session that was to come. The Insecticon reached up to stroke Jazz’s cheek and the Autobot shivered in a half-remembered response to that touch.
The world blurred again and images flashes before his vision. Confusing flashes of light and colour danced before him, striking from every direction and leaving him weak and cold. Destruction. Death. Pain. And woven throughout it all were flashes of two intertwined bodies – one black and white, the other purple and grey, two colours no Autobot would ever sport together. Jazz’s mind was in turmoil, ripped in a million different directions as he was assaulted by sensations that both were and weren’t his own.
“…Prowl…” he whimpered as he fought through the spark memories, as he desperately tried to control the situation. He felt his systems fritz and the part of him that was Prowl shied away at the illogic of the entire situation.
“You can’t win,” Bombshell whispered as his cruel face swam into focus before Jazz. “And not only will you not win, you will never get Prowl back. You are mine and I don’t share.”
Before Jazz could react Bombshell’s hand shot out and took hold of Jazz’s spark, squeezing and cracking the crystal.
“Ricochet is mine, Jazz. My masterpiece. And if I have to kill you to ensure the safety of my property, then so be it.”
With that dark promise Bombshell ripped Jazz’s spark from his chest.
---
Jazz came online with a start. He immediately scrabbled backwards from a blow that never came. The looked around for a frantic moment, only calming when he realized that he was back in the safe-house.
A pale light filtered in through the shaded windows and the soft sounds from the street were those of early evening. Checking his internal chronometer, a day had passed since he arrived at the safe-house.
“Are you so sure of that?”
“Stop saying that!” Jazz screamed, whirling on Bombshell and closing in on him.
“Stop saying what? The truth?” The Insecticon’s chuckle never wavered as Jazz grabbed him and slammed him against the wall.
“Shut. Up!” Jazz’s hand connected with Bombshell’s face, cracking the Insecticon’s battle mask.
Bombshell’s chittering laughter filled the room as Jazz continued to slam fists, knees, and feet into the Decepticon. Energon and other vital fluids sprayed the walls as the Insecticon was reduced to slag and the Autobot’s hands were covered with gore.
Jazz stepped away from the twitching corpse, turning his back on his enemy.
“Feel better?” Bombshell asked in a low whisper.
Jazz spun toward the voice only to find the Decepticon leaning against the wall casually with no sign of the damage he had just received.
“No …” Jazz whispered as realization came crashing down on him.
“Yes,” Bombshell replied as the Autobot sank to his knees. “You can’t fight this, Jazz. Every time you try to get away from me you end up right back here.”
Jazz crumpled into a ball on the floor.
“But regardless, you’ve done a good job,” Bombshell whispered as he stroked the back of Jazz’s helm with the soothing touch of a lover and creator. “You’ve done everything we asked.”
“Please ...” The Autobot’s plea was as shattered as his broken psyche. “Please let me go … Please, I don’t want to … I can’t …”
“You just have one thing left to do for us. Just one little thing and then you can leave. You know what you need to do, Jazz. You know how you can end all of it. Just one more little task.”
Jazz looked up at his tormentor only to find the room empty. His hand came up to rub his chest where his shattered spark lay. Yes. One more thing and then he could end all of this torment. He gathered himself and made his slow, lurching way out of the safe-house turning toward Iacon and his last victim.
Placeholder for Chapter 6