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wyntir_knightTitle: The Polyhex Candidate: Chapter 17
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.
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 at AO3 Chapter 17
As soon as the door slid shut behind Smokescreen, Mirage turned and re-entered the room holding Jazz. He was still in recharge, but it was fitful. He was murmuring low in his vocalizer, his head tossing and hands clenching spasmodically.
“... prowl ... please ... need you ... please ... please ... need .... prowl ...”
Mirage placed his hand over Jazz’s chest and felt the pulse of his throbbing spark. It was erratic and harsh and needy.
“Jazz, what did you do?” he asked softly, as he stroked the saboteur’s helm.
“ ... prowler ... i can’t do this ... please .... please ....”
“We’ll get you help. Just hang tight,” Mirage said. “Just rest and we’ll get you home and back to him. I just have to go check on something first.”
He left the room with a sigh and knocked on the door of the other room.
“Smokescreen, may I come in?”
When there was no answer he activated the door. It slid open with a soft groan of age, revealing the darkened room. His optics adjust to the darkness and in a moment he found the psychologist on the far side of the room beside the berth. He was sitting huddled on the floor, his arms crossed over his knees and his head on his arms. He looked miserable, and Mirage could hear the slight strain in Smokescreen’s engine in the silence.
“Smokescreen?”
“What?” the psychologist finally asked, never looking up.
“Are you well?” Mirage knew that he sounded curt and overly formal, but he wasn’t comfortable enough with the other mech to relax in any way.
“Yes,” Smokescreen replied curtly. “I’m fine. Is that all?”
Mirage’s optics narrowed and he hands closed into fists at his sides. He knew that he needed to remain calm but Smokescreen always managed to bring the worst out in him. It was like every comment was designed to annoy him as much as possible.
He cleared his vents and cycled his optics, willing himself to calm down. The mission was stressing everyone to the breaking point -- not just the mission; all of events together were more than anyone should be expected to take. And it was time for him to put aside his mistrust of Smokescreen. At least for the duration of this mission. ... Or maybe just the night.
“Smokescreen, I apologize for earlier,” Mirage said curtly. “I misinterpreted what I witnessed. Did Jazz injure you? In any way?”
Smokescreen looked up but remained silent, clearly contemplating a scathing response. After a long moment he cleared his vents and rested his chin on his crossed arms.
“I’m fine, Mirage. There’s no permanent damage,” he replied, but his doors were hanging low and twitching slightly against the wall.
“For an alleged conmech, you are a terrible liar,” Mirage said, as he came fully into the room and sat on the berth across from where Smokescreen was on the floor.
“Why do you care, Mirage?” Smokescreen asked, making no attempt to hide the bitterness. “We have Jazz back, you can bring him back to Iacon and a proper psychologist as soon as things calm down a little out there. So why do you care if I’ve been damaged in any way?”
Mirage bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to leave. He wasn’t good at this. At all. And yet he needed to do something otherwise he would never be able to properly complete this mission. And if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t leave another Autobot in pain like this. Even if the Autobot in question was Smokescreen.
“Regardless of how I may feel about you, personally, you are an Autobot. And you were right. The fact that both Jazz and Neuron trust you should be enough for me.”
“But it isn’t, right?” Smokescreen replied. This time there was no bitterness in the tone, just a deep weariness. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve proven myself to all the brass. It doesn’t matter that I’ve done everything -- okay, almost everything right -- and it’s still not enough for you, is it?” Smokescreen shook his head and made a bitter little sound. “And here’s the thing. I don’t get why I even care. You have always gotten under my plating and I have no idea why I keep letting you.”
Mirage’s optics widened slightly at the reaction, but he quickly schooled his features. “That’s the question, isn’t it? We’re colleagues. That’s all we ever were so I don’t see why you need me to like you. Why we have to have anything more than cool familiarity.”
Smokescreen shrugged. “You’re right, we don’t. Now that that’s out of the way we can move on and complete this mission. And then we can go back to ignoring each other.”
Mirage closed his optics wearily. This was not going in any way to plan. Yes, Smokescreen was giving all of the right answers, but it was in such a passive aggressive way that it was clear the wounds were still festering and would further affect their working relationship. It was time to try a different tack.
“Smokescreen, would you mind telling me what happened between you and Jazz? I need to know if you can continue to work with him, or if we need to worry about further incidents.”
It was clear that Smokescreen was contemplating his answers. There were so many possible angles. Avoidance. Irritation. Subtle lies. Variants on the possible truth. Outrageous lies. It seemed that the psychologist was contemplating all of them. What Mirage got surprised him.
“I misjudged just how far gone he was,” Smokescreen said. “I should have realized that he was seeing Prowl and not me, but by the time I realized ..” he trailed off with a shrug. “I was an idiot and I should have know better than to get tactile with him in the first place, but he wasn’t opening up. Next thing I knew he was trying to initiate a bond and I slipped.” He shook his head and snorted derisively. “I messed up. Big time.”
“You did,” Mirage replied drily. He immediately raised a hand to stop any protest. “I’m not going to excuse your behaviour in any way. You nearly cost us our mission and you nearly cost us Jazz. Neither is something I’m willing to forgive or forget. But I am more than willing to move on. It’s what Jazz would expect. We deal with our wounds and our injuries once the job is done. Never before. Of course, this is all assuming that you were telling the truth earlier.”
“When?” Smokescreen asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“When you said that you were unharmed,” Mirage replied, standing and looking down at the other mech. “If you really are unharmed we can continue as soon as you’re ready. If not, if Jazz really did damage your spark in any way, then we can regroup and figure out our next move. You’re of no use to any of us if you’re damaged instead of hurt.”
Smokescreen nodded and his doors spoke volumes about his mental state. He was better than he had been when Mirage had first entered. Not at one hundred percent, but well enough to keep working. Probably.
Mirage moved to the door. “Take your time getting back together. Just not too long. We are on a deadline after all.”
Smokescreen finally nodded. “Sure thing. … Boss.”
It was the first expression of acceptance that Mirage had heard from him since the mission had began. Possibly the first time ever, now that he thought about it. Mirage had only accepted Smokescreen because of Jazz’s acceptance of him, because certainly the con-mech and alleged psychologist had never done anything to endear himself to Mirage. They had always rubbed each other the wrong way, and neither had been willing to take that first step toward some kind of reconciliation. Until now. It was a pity that it took this horror inflicted on Jazz to start the process.
---
Smokescreen exited the secondary recharge chamber several groon later. He looked better than he had earlier, but he clearly was not yet at full working capacity.
“How’s he doing?” Smokescreen asked, nodding toward the other door.
“He fell into recharge shortly after I left you and he’s been quiet ever since,” Mirage replied. “I was just in to check him. His signature seems fine and he’s resting peacefully.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Good. I’m going to wake him and try to get him to open up. See if I can find out what happened to him and if whatever this is has run it’s course. If we’re lucky - which I’m sure we aren’t - this will all have been a program with specific goals. Now that he thinks he’s accomplished them, it’ll have burned out.”
“And then what?” Mirage asked, sounding genuinely curious. “When the worst happens, as you clearly think it will, what do you suggest then?”
Smokescreen crossed his arms under his bumper and leaned back against the wall. “If all goes like it’s supposed to, if we can get Jazz to Ratchet, he might be able to do something more radical. Something surgical. My fear is that the second we walk into the base …” He shook his head as he trailed off.
“You’re worried about Prowl’s orders,” Mirage said simply. “And you’re worried about Ironhide’s and Red Alert’s security troops.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Yeah. And I’m worried about Neuron.”
“Neuron? How so?” Mirage asked. “She intense, but do you really think that she’d do something to Jazz?”
Smokescreen pursed his lips as he collected his thoughts. “It’s just a feeling. I have nothing concrete, I just … look, I know obsession when I see it, and she’s obsessed. Just imagine what she could do for the ‘Autobot cause’ if she got her hands on whatever technique the Cons used on Jazz? I mean, he’s so thoroughly reprogrammed he tried to deactivate his bondmate. A technique like that could change the course of the war, if someone were to use it.”
“And you think she would?” Mirage asked, then he immediately shook his head. “No, I’ve met her too and you’re right. She probably would try to unravel him. And while I’m all for taking every advantage in this war, at some point we stop being Autobots.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Exactly. So, the question is, given my lapse yesterday, do you trust me in there with Jazz?” he asked, serious and sober.
“The better question is, do you trust yourself in there?” Mirage asked flatly.
Smokescreen was silent for a moment and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I won’t slip again. And I’m convinced that if I can get him to talk we can make progress. I just need him to open up to me. Not Prowl.”
“Okay,” Mirage replied. “I’ll stay out here and keep an eye on the situation. Let me know if you need anything. And keep the door open.”
Smokescreen was about to argue the point. After all, the session was supposed to be confidential. But the fact was that this was hardly a normal situation and, if he was being completely honest with himself, Smokescreen didn’t want to carry this burden alone.
After a moment, he nodded and re-entered the room housing his friend and former commander.
---
“Hey, Jazz,” Smokescreen said gently. “How are you feeling?”
Jazz murmured as he came back online. The only word that Smokescreen was able to understand was ‘ricochet’.
The saboteur’s optics lit and he smiled up at Smokescreen. “Hey, darlin’,” he said as he reached a dark hand up to Smokescreen’s face.
Smokescreen pulled away slowly, taking Jazz’s hand in his own. “I’m not Prowl, boss,” he said.
Jazz cycled his optics and pulled back slightly as he realized the situation. “Smokey? What’s going on?”
Smokescreen helped Jazz sit up and brace himself against the wall behind the berth.
“Mirage and I brought you to a safehouse, Jazz,” Smokescreen said as he moved to a chair near the bed, just out of arm’s reach. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Jazz frowned and looked away from Smokescreen.
“I was in the base gettin’ briefed on my mission,” he said, never making optic contact with the other mech. “And you know regulations, Smokey. I can’t tell you what it was ‘til Pro-,” Jazz cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Until the Brass okays it.”
“I don’t need details, Jazz. I just need to know what we’re dealing with so I can help you out,” Smokescreen replied. “How about we start with Prowl, since you brought him up.”
“I’d rather not talk about him,” Jazz said as he crossed his legs under him and folded his hands in his lap. “In fact, I’d rather not talk about any o’ that right now.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Okay, well then why don’t I give you some words and you can tell me the first thing that comes into your mind. Sounds good?”
Jazz made no response, he simply stared at the far corner of the room.
“How about we start with something simple. Bond,” Smokescreen said.
Jazz waited several minutes before inclining his head slightly toward Smokescreen. “Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”
It took Smokescreen a moment to recognize Jazz’s serial number and shook his head.
“This isn’t an interrogation, Jazz. I just want to talk. To help you. How about instead of word association we just talk. Like we used to over drinks.”
Jazz looked back at the corner and didn’t respond.
“Do you remember being at the smelting pools?” Smokescreen asked. When he saw the faintest of shudders pass through the other mech’s frame, he continued. “You said that they’d never sent me after you before. How about you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Jazz muttered.
“Jazz, come on,” Smokescreen chided. “We both know that’s not true. But if you don’t want to talk about that, then how about we talk about Mirage. Do you remember running into him the other day?”
Again, Jazz twitched, but said nothing. Smokescreen bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to rub his optics. This was going to be a long, long session.
“Okay then. Back to word association,” he said. “Optimus Prime.”
There was another twitch and silence.
“Ironhide.”
No response.
“Bumblebee.”
Twitch.
“Headstrong.”
No reaction.
“Killzone.”
Nothing.
“Ultra Magnus.”
Twitch.
Smokescreen noted each movement, and each change to Jazz’s vents and engine. The reactions weren’t a lot to go on, but they were something. And it was a start at least. But save for the twitches and the occationational increase to his engine revolutions, Jazz was silent. Smokescreen may as well have been speaking with a blank wall.
“Prowl,” he finally said, and Jazz was racked with a shudder and a small sob broke through his control.
“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three,” Jazz whispered.
“I know your serial number, Jazz. That’s not what I asked,” Smokescreen said quietly. “Tell me what comes to mind when I say the designation ‘Prowl’.”
Jazz shook his head. “He’s deactivated,” he said in a voice so soft that Smokescreen had to increase the acuity of his audials to hear the words.
“Prowl is fine, Jazz. As fine as he can be, given that you’re not well.”
“No. I did my job. I never leave a job undone. I always do as ordered. You know that,” Jazz replied flatly. “I know what happens when I don’t.”
There was something strange about his voice and tone. His normally casual speech pattern was clipped and more formal, sounding far more like something from Kaon rather than Jazz’s home province of Tarn. It was almost as if Smokescreen was speaking with a different mech.
“What happens, Jazz?” Smokescreen asked, fearing the answer and yet knowing that he had to go where neither of them wanted to go.
“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”
They continued like that until Smokescreen almost lost track of time. Every question was answered with silence or a serial number. Every angle was blocked. It was so very tempted to leave and regroup, but Smokescreen couldn’t bring himself to give up. Jazz wanted to talk. He needed to talk about this. It was just a question of finding the right opening.
“Jazz? I need you to run your debrief with me,” Smokescreen said, asking for the fifth time. Yes it was a different wording and in a different way, but it was still the same question that he had asked so many times before. The only real difference this time was the modulation of his voice. More precise. More clipped. More Prowl-like. It was a dirty trick that would likely get him into the same problem he had faced before, but he was at the end of his rope. There were no other traditional tacks to try.
Jazz shook his head and seemed to close in further on himself. “I did my job perfectly. I did what you ordered me to. You promised me that I could when I was done. You promised and then you stopped me. They’re all gone. I saw all of them fall. What more proof do you need? I did my job just like I always do. Just like I’ve always done. Don’t make me do it again. Please …”
“What was the job, Jazz? What were you supposed to do? Please tell me.”
“I completed every task,” Jazz murmured. “They’re all deactivated, just like you ordered. I did my job just like I was supposed to …”
Smokescreen leaned in and placed a gentle hand on the saboteur’s arm. Jazz instantly flinched and pulled away, but it was an awkward movement, almost as if he was trying to distance himself and get closer at the same time.
“Jazz, you’re safe here. You’re safe with me,” Smokescreen said soothingly. “Prowl, Mirage, Bumblebee, Magnus, and Prime are all recovering just fine. You didn’t do anything terrible, and if you’ll just talk with me, we can get you back to where you belong.”
“I belong with Prowl,” Jazz said, never looking at Smokescreen. His optics were locked on the far wall. “I belong with Prowl. You promised we’d be together after I was done. I did everything you asked of me. I did all of it. Every horrible thing you asked of me, and I did it.” He shuddered at that admission and it was clear that he was talking about something more than his assassination attempts.
“And we’ll get you back with him, Jazz. I promise you we will.” Smokescreen squeezed his friend’s arm gently. “I just need you to debrief me on what happened. Tell me about your mission, Jazz.”
Jazz leaned into Smokescreen, clearly trying to snuggle into the other mech. “I can’t tell ya that, darlin’. It’s above both our paygrades. I just need you t’ trust me on this. Please trust me, Prowler.”
“I’m Smokescreen, Jazz,” the psychologist said as he disengaged himself carefully. “We have you in a safe house, Mirage and me. You’re safe. We just need to know what happened to you before we can go back to Iacon.”
Jazz looked away from Smokescreen and back at the wall. It was then that the psychologist realized that his former commander wasn’t looking at the wall, he was trying to look through the wall. He was staring in the direction of the smelting pools.
Smokescreen sighed softly. He wasn’t getting anywhere and he wasn’t likely to either. Jazz was practically gone. Whatever this new programming was, it was destroying him from the inside out and it was going to take a lot more than conversation to get him back.
“Okay, we’re done for the day, Jazz. You should get some recharge and we can start up later.”
Jazz nodded absently and lay back on the berth.
“Don’t stay up working too long, Prowler,” he murmured. “I hate rechargin’ without you next t’ me.”
Smokescreen’s spark almost wilted at those words. He brushed his hand over Jazz’s helm before pressing a key to a jack under his helm, forcing the saboteur into a deep recharge.
“Recharge, well, Jazz,” he murmured. “I’ll get you back to your Prowl as soon as I can. I promise.”
It was a promise he knew he probably wasn’t going to be able to keep. Not the way things were going.
With one last look at his friend Smokescreen left the room, closing the door silently behind him.
“How is he?”
Smokescreen jumped at Mirage’s soft question before he was able to control his reaction. For a moment he was tempted to play the whole thing off, but one look at the Mirage broke his resolve. It was obvious that the spy was barely holding it together himself.
Smokescreen leaned back against the door and scrubbed at his face wearily with his hands.
“It’s not good, Raj … Mirage. Sorry,” he said quietly. “Jazz isn’t opening up at all. Half the time he isn’t lucid at all and the rest he’s completely wracked with guilt over what he’s done. And I don’t think it’s just these recent attacks. There’s something he’s hiding. Maybe even from himself.”
“So what does that mean?” Mirage asked stiffly. It was clear from his body language and tone that he feared the worst and didn’t dare hope for anything else.
Smokescreen shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do with traditional psychological techniques. Or at least there’s nothing that I can do before this all gets really bad.”
“It’s not really bad now?” Mirage drawled, glaring at the window and the sounds of the violence beyond.
“Mirage, I think Jazz is going to try to suicide next time he’s lucid. Yes, the protocols were offline, but if he wants out of here, we both know that neither of us can stop him if he’s on his game. The moment the opportunity presents itself, he’s going to throw himself into the smelting pools,” the psychologist said simply. “Plus how long do you think it’s going to be before someone out there tries to break in here? Or worse, how long before the security troops stumble across us and decide to get a little vengeance?”
Smokescreen’s doors drooped in defeat and mental exhaustion.
“So then that’s it? There’s nothing else that can be done?” Mirage asked.
Smokescreen was silent for a long moment before finally speaking again.
“There is one possible thing. It’s an experimental treatment that might help. Maybe.” This last was added with a helpless shrug.
Mirage waited for Smokescreen to continue.
“And?” he asked with an impatient hand wave when silence descended over the room again.
Smokescreen pursed his lips as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I might be able to jack into his systems physically and create a link. Once I’m in his processor I might be able to fix things from there. Maybe.”
“Might? Maybe?” Mirage asked irritably. “You’re not filling me with a great deal of confidence here.”
Smokescreen huffed in irritation. “Yes! Might and maybe! I can’t guarantee any of this. Psychology isn’t an exact science. It’s not like I can just go in there and reprogram the damage out without fundamentally changing his core personality. This entire thing is a gamble, Mirage!”
Mirage was silent for a long moment, just looking Smokescreen in the optics as if gauging his words.
“Alright,” he said finally. “If this is a gamble then what are the odds?”
Smokescreen’s optics widened in surprise and his mouth opened, forming words that failed to form in his surprise.
“And don’t say that you don’t know, Smokescreen. I know full well what the processors of you Praxians are like and I also know that you always, always know the odds of every situation you go into. No matter how much you hide it behind your buffoonery.”
The Praxian’s optics narrowed in irritation, but he did run the numbers, playing the odds and the possibilities through the logic centres of his battle computer.
“Fine,” he huffed as soon as the final analysis was complete. “There are too many variables to make a proper assessment. Plus, I’m not Prowl but if I had to make a guess I’d say there’s a … maybe a slightly greater than fifty per cent chance that this’ll work. If it was anyone other than Jazz and if this wasn’t the life and death situation that it is, I gotta say, Raj, I wouldn’t take the odds.”
Mirage ignored the mangling of his name, crossing his arms over his chest he started to pace the room slowly. “I’m not sure that I would take those odds anyways. But as you said, this is life and death, and we seem to be out of choices. Would the medical crews be able to take a different route?”
Smokescreen shrugged before sitting heavily in a chair. “I’m not sure what they’d do, but most likely it’d be surgical. I know that Ratchet is the best, but I’m still not sure that I’d want his fiddling about in Jazz’s processor. Admittedly I’m new at all this, but I think that more damage will be done in the long run if Jazz doesn’t deal with this himself.”
Mirage nodded slowly. “All right. Fine. So what’s the process?”
Smokescreen pulled a strange device out of subspace. It was a small jet box with a male cable on one side and several female ports on the other. The extinguished lights along the top caught the light of the room and seemed to flash dimly as Smokescreen moved the box. Instantly Mirage recognized the device as an interfacing toy that was used at some of the more risqué Towers orgies and his lips thinned into a hard, irritated line.
“You are not suggesting that we-”
Smokescreen cut off Mirage’s angry rant with a slight wave of his hand. “The cable splitter is a medical device. Just because it can be used as an interfacing toy doesn’t mean that that that’s its sole or even its intended purpose. Add to that it is possible to plug into someone and have it not be about interfacing. It’s an accepted and useful technique in the field.”
Mirage wasn’t buying the argument and it was obvious from the sneer on his face. “Yes I’ve heard of the so-called psychological techniques and I’ve also heard that more than a few psychologists have been sanctioned for inappropriate relations with their patients.”
“Oh for frag’s sake, Mirage!” Smokescreen stood and closed in on the former noble. “If I was just after a quick tumble do you really think that I would have let you in on this? After all, I have a mech in there who’s half the time convinced that I’m his mate! I could have just stayed in there and had my way with him! But I didn’t, because I’m not the perverted deviant that you seem to think I am!”
Smokescreen dropped the cable splitter on the table and rubbed at his faceplates in irritation. His normally silent doors flared back at a sharp angle from his back and his engine was growling with barely controlled frustration.
“I never said that,” Mirage replied calmly. “I am simply not sure about trusting that thing when even you admit that there’s only a fifty-fifty chance that this will work at all.”
“You may not have said it but you did intimate it. And if we don’t do anything than I can guarantee there’ll be a greater than ninety per cent chance that we’ll lose Jazz. And if he suicides then Prowl will follow.” Smokescreen looked up at Mirage fully serious, his optics pale.
Mirage picked up the device and ran his hand over it. “I’ve heard horror stories about this thing when it goes wrong.”
“When it’s used wrong, when it’s used as a party toy, yeah, it can go horribly wrong. And if you have that much of a problem with this then I’ll go in alone and you can stay out here. Maybe contact the base and get a medical crew here. They probably won’t be able to do anything, but I might be wrong.”
Smokescreen stood and held out his hand for the device.
Mirage looked Smokescreen in the optics for a long time, internally debating the whole thing. Finally he handed over the box. But as Smokescreen took it, Mirage tightened his grip. Smokescreen raised his chevron in a silent question.
“I’ll go in with you,” Mirage finally explained.
“Let me guess,” Smokescreen said, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “You’re coming to keep an optic on me, right?”
“No. To watch your back. Jazz isn’t going to just let you wander around his processor. It’ll be too much like an enemy attack,” Mirage said, finally handing over the device.
“Oh.” The psychologist’s single note of reply sounded lame in his audios, but he did manage to bring up a smile of thanks.
The two Autobots entered the recharge chamber together and Smokescreen immediately set to work Jazz and the splitter for the procedure.
“You have done this before, right?” Mirage asked, eyeing the cable splitter uncertainly.
“No, but I know the theory,” Smokescreen admitted as he gently worked the catches on Jazz's housing cover, trying to ignore the way the saboteur's unconscious body reacted to the clinical touch.
Mirage crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the psychologist. “Let me rephrase. Has anyone done this before? Successfully I mean?”
The cover to Jazz's cover opened with a soft click and Smokescreen busied himself with hooking up the splitter.
“Smokescreen?” Mirage prompted.
Smokescreen sighed and looked Mirage square in the optics. “As far as I know, no one has ever used this technique for a mech this far gone. But the theory is sound and it should work for Jazz same as it would work for someone coming in with complaints of a minor issue.”
“Back in the Towers there were stories of people getting trapped in the mind of their lover, of whole groups just winking out of existence. Mentally, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard those stories too, Mirage. But those Towers games were always risky like that, right?” Smokescreen said. “Folks were already revved up and strung out. Not the best mindset to be in when you go in. We just have to keep our heads in the game and be vigilant, Mirage. If we go in questioning, then we’re dooming ourselves to failure.”
Chapter 18
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.
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 at AO3 Chapter 17
As soon as the door slid shut behind Smokescreen, Mirage turned and re-entered the room holding Jazz. He was still in recharge, but it was fitful. He was murmuring low in his vocalizer, his head tossing and hands clenching spasmodically.
“... prowl ... please ... need you ... please ... please ... need .... prowl ...”
Mirage placed his hand over Jazz’s chest and felt the pulse of his throbbing spark. It was erratic and harsh and needy.
“Jazz, what did you do?” he asked softly, as he stroked the saboteur’s helm.
“ ... prowler ... i can’t do this ... please .... please ....”
“We’ll get you help. Just hang tight,” Mirage said. “Just rest and we’ll get you home and back to him. I just have to go check on something first.”
He left the room with a sigh and knocked on the door of the other room.
“Smokescreen, may I come in?”
When there was no answer he activated the door. It slid open with a soft groan of age, revealing the darkened room. His optics adjust to the darkness and in a moment he found the psychologist on the far side of the room beside the berth. He was sitting huddled on the floor, his arms crossed over his knees and his head on his arms. He looked miserable, and Mirage could hear the slight strain in Smokescreen’s engine in the silence.
“Smokescreen?”
“What?” the psychologist finally asked, never looking up.
“Are you well?” Mirage knew that he sounded curt and overly formal, but he wasn’t comfortable enough with the other mech to relax in any way.
“Yes,” Smokescreen replied curtly. “I’m fine. Is that all?”
Mirage’s optics narrowed and he hands closed into fists at his sides. He knew that he needed to remain calm but Smokescreen always managed to bring the worst out in him. It was like every comment was designed to annoy him as much as possible.
He cleared his vents and cycled his optics, willing himself to calm down. The mission was stressing everyone to the breaking point -- not just the mission; all of events together were more than anyone should be expected to take. And it was time for him to put aside his mistrust of Smokescreen. At least for the duration of this mission. ... Or maybe just the night.
“Smokescreen, I apologize for earlier,” Mirage said curtly. “I misinterpreted what I witnessed. Did Jazz injure you? In any way?”
Smokescreen looked up but remained silent, clearly contemplating a scathing response. After a long moment he cleared his vents and rested his chin on his crossed arms.
“I’m fine, Mirage. There’s no permanent damage,” he replied, but his doors were hanging low and twitching slightly against the wall.
“For an alleged conmech, you are a terrible liar,” Mirage said, as he came fully into the room and sat on the berth across from where Smokescreen was on the floor.
“Why do you care, Mirage?” Smokescreen asked, making no attempt to hide the bitterness. “We have Jazz back, you can bring him back to Iacon and a proper psychologist as soon as things calm down a little out there. So why do you care if I’ve been damaged in any way?”
Mirage bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to leave. He wasn’t good at this. At all. And yet he needed to do something otherwise he would never be able to properly complete this mission. And if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t leave another Autobot in pain like this. Even if the Autobot in question was Smokescreen.
“Regardless of how I may feel about you, personally, you are an Autobot. And you were right. The fact that both Jazz and Neuron trust you should be enough for me.”
“But it isn’t, right?” Smokescreen replied. This time there was no bitterness in the tone, just a deep weariness. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve proven myself to all the brass. It doesn’t matter that I’ve done everything -- okay, almost everything right -- and it’s still not enough for you, is it?” Smokescreen shook his head and made a bitter little sound. “And here’s the thing. I don’t get why I even care. You have always gotten under my plating and I have no idea why I keep letting you.”
Mirage’s optics widened slightly at the reaction, but he quickly schooled his features. “That’s the question, isn’t it? We’re colleagues. That’s all we ever were so I don’t see why you need me to like you. Why we have to have anything more than cool familiarity.”
Smokescreen shrugged. “You’re right, we don’t. Now that that’s out of the way we can move on and complete this mission. And then we can go back to ignoring each other.”
Mirage closed his optics wearily. This was not going in any way to plan. Yes, Smokescreen was giving all of the right answers, but it was in such a passive aggressive way that it was clear the wounds were still festering and would further affect their working relationship. It was time to try a different tack.
“Smokescreen, would you mind telling me what happened between you and Jazz? I need to know if you can continue to work with him, or if we need to worry about further incidents.”
It was clear that Smokescreen was contemplating his answers. There were so many possible angles. Avoidance. Irritation. Subtle lies. Variants on the possible truth. Outrageous lies. It seemed that the psychologist was contemplating all of them. What Mirage got surprised him.
“I misjudged just how far gone he was,” Smokescreen said. “I should have realized that he was seeing Prowl and not me, but by the time I realized ..” he trailed off with a shrug. “I was an idiot and I should have know better than to get tactile with him in the first place, but he wasn’t opening up. Next thing I knew he was trying to initiate a bond and I slipped.” He shook his head and snorted derisively. “I messed up. Big time.”
“You did,” Mirage replied drily. He immediately raised a hand to stop any protest. “I’m not going to excuse your behaviour in any way. You nearly cost us our mission and you nearly cost us Jazz. Neither is something I’m willing to forgive or forget. But I am more than willing to move on. It’s what Jazz would expect. We deal with our wounds and our injuries once the job is done. Never before. Of course, this is all assuming that you were telling the truth earlier.”
“When?” Smokescreen asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“When you said that you were unharmed,” Mirage replied, standing and looking down at the other mech. “If you really are unharmed we can continue as soon as you’re ready. If not, if Jazz really did damage your spark in any way, then we can regroup and figure out our next move. You’re of no use to any of us if you’re damaged instead of hurt.”
Smokescreen nodded and his doors spoke volumes about his mental state. He was better than he had been when Mirage had first entered. Not at one hundred percent, but well enough to keep working. Probably.
Mirage moved to the door. “Take your time getting back together. Just not too long. We are on a deadline after all.”
Smokescreen finally nodded. “Sure thing. … Boss.”
It was the first expression of acceptance that Mirage had heard from him since the mission had began. Possibly the first time ever, now that he thought about it. Mirage had only accepted Smokescreen because of Jazz’s acceptance of him, because certainly the con-mech and alleged psychologist had never done anything to endear himself to Mirage. They had always rubbed each other the wrong way, and neither had been willing to take that first step toward some kind of reconciliation. Until now. It was a pity that it took this horror inflicted on Jazz to start the process.
---
Smokescreen exited the secondary recharge chamber several groon later. He looked better than he had earlier, but he clearly was not yet at full working capacity.
“How’s he doing?” Smokescreen asked, nodding toward the other door.
“He fell into recharge shortly after I left you and he’s been quiet ever since,” Mirage replied. “I was just in to check him. His signature seems fine and he’s resting peacefully.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Good. I’m going to wake him and try to get him to open up. See if I can find out what happened to him and if whatever this is has run it’s course. If we’re lucky - which I’m sure we aren’t - this will all have been a program with specific goals. Now that he thinks he’s accomplished them, it’ll have burned out.”
“And then what?” Mirage asked, sounding genuinely curious. “When the worst happens, as you clearly think it will, what do you suggest then?”
Smokescreen crossed his arms under his bumper and leaned back against the wall. “If all goes like it’s supposed to, if we can get Jazz to Ratchet, he might be able to do something more radical. Something surgical. My fear is that the second we walk into the base …” He shook his head as he trailed off.
“You’re worried about Prowl’s orders,” Mirage said simply. “And you’re worried about Ironhide’s and Red Alert’s security troops.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Yeah. And I’m worried about Neuron.”
“Neuron? How so?” Mirage asked. “She intense, but do you really think that she’d do something to Jazz?”
Smokescreen pursed his lips as he collected his thoughts. “It’s just a feeling. I have nothing concrete, I just … look, I know obsession when I see it, and she’s obsessed. Just imagine what she could do for the ‘Autobot cause’ if she got her hands on whatever technique the Cons used on Jazz? I mean, he’s so thoroughly reprogrammed he tried to deactivate his bondmate. A technique like that could change the course of the war, if someone were to use it.”
“And you think she would?” Mirage asked, then he immediately shook his head. “No, I’ve met her too and you’re right. She probably would try to unravel him. And while I’m all for taking every advantage in this war, at some point we stop being Autobots.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Exactly. So, the question is, given my lapse yesterday, do you trust me in there with Jazz?” he asked, serious and sober.
“The better question is, do you trust yourself in there?” Mirage asked flatly.
Smokescreen was silent for a moment and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I won’t slip again. And I’m convinced that if I can get him to talk we can make progress. I just need him to open up to me. Not Prowl.”
“Okay,” Mirage replied. “I’ll stay out here and keep an eye on the situation. Let me know if you need anything. And keep the door open.”
Smokescreen was about to argue the point. After all, the session was supposed to be confidential. But the fact was that this was hardly a normal situation and, if he was being completely honest with himself, Smokescreen didn’t want to carry this burden alone.
After a moment, he nodded and re-entered the room housing his friend and former commander.
---
“Hey, Jazz,” Smokescreen said gently. “How are you feeling?”
Jazz murmured as he came back online. The only word that Smokescreen was able to understand was ‘ricochet’.
The saboteur’s optics lit and he smiled up at Smokescreen. “Hey, darlin’,” he said as he reached a dark hand up to Smokescreen’s face.
Smokescreen pulled away slowly, taking Jazz’s hand in his own. “I’m not Prowl, boss,” he said.
Jazz cycled his optics and pulled back slightly as he realized the situation. “Smokey? What’s going on?”
Smokescreen helped Jazz sit up and brace himself against the wall behind the berth.
“Mirage and I brought you to a safehouse, Jazz,” Smokescreen said as he moved to a chair near the bed, just out of arm’s reach. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Jazz frowned and looked away from Smokescreen.
“I was in the base gettin’ briefed on my mission,” he said, never making optic contact with the other mech. “And you know regulations, Smokey. I can’t tell you what it was ‘til Pro-,” Jazz cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Until the Brass okays it.”
“I don’t need details, Jazz. I just need to know what we’re dealing with so I can help you out,” Smokescreen replied. “How about we start with Prowl, since you brought him up.”
“I’d rather not talk about him,” Jazz said as he crossed his legs under him and folded his hands in his lap. “In fact, I’d rather not talk about any o’ that right now.”
Smokescreen nodded. “Okay, well then why don’t I give you some words and you can tell me the first thing that comes into your mind. Sounds good?”
Jazz made no response, he simply stared at the far corner of the room.
“How about we start with something simple. Bond,” Smokescreen said.
Jazz waited several minutes before inclining his head slightly toward Smokescreen. “Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”
It took Smokescreen a moment to recognize Jazz’s serial number and shook his head.
“This isn’t an interrogation, Jazz. I just want to talk. To help you. How about instead of word association we just talk. Like we used to over drinks.”
Jazz looked back at the corner and didn’t respond.
“Do you remember being at the smelting pools?” Smokescreen asked. When he saw the faintest of shudders pass through the other mech’s frame, he continued. “You said that they’d never sent me after you before. How about you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Jazz muttered.
“Jazz, come on,” Smokescreen chided. “We both know that’s not true. But if you don’t want to talk about that, then how about we talk about Mirage. Do you remember running into him the other day?”
Again, Jazz twitched, but said nothing. Smokescreen bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to rub his optics. This was going to be a long, long session.
“Okay then. Back to word association,” he said. “Optimus Prime.”
There was another twitch and silence.
“Ironhide.”
No response.
“Bumblebee.”
Twitch.
“Headstrong.”
No reaction.
“Killzone.”
Nothing.
“Ultra Magnus.”
Twitch.
Smokescreen noted each movement, and each change to Jazz’s vents and engine. The reactions weren’t a lot to go on, but they were something. And it was a start at least. But save for the twitches and the occationational increase to his engine revolutions, Jazz was silent. Smokescreen may as well have been speaking with a blank wall.
“Prowl,” he finally said, and Jazz was racked with a shudder and a small sob broke through his control.
“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three,” Jazz whispered.
“I know your serial number, Jazz. That’s not what I asked,” Smokescreen said quietly. “Tell me what comes to mind when I say the designation ‘Prowl’.”
Jazz shook his head. “He’s deactivated,” he said in a voice so soft that Smokescreen had to increase the acuity of his audials to hear the words.
“Prowl is fine, Jazz. As fine as he can be, given that you’re not well.”
“No. I did my job. I never leave a job undone. I always do as ordered. You know that,” Jazz replied flatly. “I know what happens when I don’t.”
There was something strange about his voice and tone. His normally casual speech pattern was clipped and more formal, sounding far more like something from Kaon rather than Jazz’s home province of Tarn. It was almost as if Smokescreen was speaking with a different mech.
“What happens, Jazz?” Smokescreen asked, fearing the answer and yet knowing that he had to go where neither of them wanted to go.
“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”
They continued like that until Smokescreen almost lost track of time. Every question was answered with silence or a serial number. Every angle was blocked. It was so very tempted to leave and regroup, but Smokescreen couldn’t bring himself to give up. Jazz wanted to talk. He needed to talk about this. It was just a question of finding the right opening.
“Jazz? I need you to run your debrief with me,” Smokescreen said, asking for the fifth time. Yes it was a different wording and in a different way, but it was still the same question that he had asked so many times before. The only real difference this time was the modulation of his voice. More precise. More clipped. More Prowl-like. It was a dirty trick that would likely get him into the same problem he had faced before, but he was at the end of his rope. There were no other traditional tacks to try.
Jazz shook his head and seemed to close in further on himself. “I did my job perfectly. I did what you ordered me to. You promised me that I could when I was done. You promised and then you stopped me. They’re all gone. I saw all of them fall. What more proof do you need? I did my job just like I always do. Just like I’ve always done. Don’t make me do it again. Please …”
“What was the job, Jazz? What were you supposed to do? Please tell me.”
“I completed every task,” Jazz murmured. “They’re all deactivated, just like you ordered. I did my job just like I was supposed to …”
Smokescreen leaned in and placed a gentle hand on the saboteur’s arm. Jazz instantly flinched and pulled away, but it was an awkward movement, almost as if he was trying to distance himself and get closer at the same time.
“Jazz, you’re safe here. You’re safe with me,” Smokescreen said soothingly. “Prowl, Mirage, Bumblebee, Magnus, and Prime are all recovering just fine. You didn’t do anything terrible, and if you’ll just talk with me, we can get you back to where you belong.”
“I belong with Prowl,” Jazz said, never looking at Smokescreen. His optics were locked on the far wall. “I belong with Prowl. You promised we’d be together after I was done. I did everything you asked of me. I did all of it. Every horrible thing you asked of me, and I did it.” He shuddered at that admission and it was clear that he was talking about something more than his assassination attempts.
“And we’ll get you back with him, Jazz. I promise you we will.” Smokescreen squeezed his friend’s arm gently. “I just need you to debrief me on what happened. Tell me about your mission, Jazz.”
Jazz leaned into Smokescreen, clearly trying to snuggle into the other mech. “I can’t tell ya that, darlin’. It’s above both our paygrades. I just need you t’ trust me on this. Please trust me, Prowler.”
“I’m Smokescreen, Jazz,” the psychologist said as he disengaged himself carefully. “We have you in a safe house, Mirage and me. You’re safe. We just need to know what happened to you before we can go back to Iacon.”
Jazz looked away from Smokescreen and back at the wall. It was then that the psychologist realized that his former commander wasn’t looking at the wall, he was trying to look through the wall. He was staring in the direction of the smelting pools.
Smokescreen sighed softly. He wasn’t getting anywhere and he wasn’t likely to either. Jazz was practically gone. Whatever this new programming was, it was destroying him from the inside out and it was going to take a lot more than conversation to get him back.
“Okay, we’re done for the day, Jazz. You should get some recharge and we can start up later.”
Jazz nodded absently and lay back on the berth.
“Don’t stay up working too long, Prowler,” he murmured. “I hate rechargin’ without you next t’ me.”
Smokescreen’s spark almost wilted at those words. He brushed his hand over Jazz’s helm before pressing a key to a jack under his helm, forcing the saboteur into a deep recharge.
“Recharge, well, Jazz,” he murmured. “I’ll get you back to your Prowl as soon as I can. I promise.”
It was a promise he knew he probably wasn’t going to be able to keep. Not the way things were going.
With one last look at his friend Smokescreen left the room, closing the door silently behind him.
“How is he?”
Smokescreen jumped at Mirage’s soft question before he was able to control his reaction. For a moment he was tempted to play the whole thing off, but one look at the Mirage broke his resolve. It was obvious that the spy was barely holding it together himself.
Smokescreen leaned back against the door and scrubbed at his face wearily with his hands.
“It’s not good, Raj … Mirage. Sorry,” he said quietly. “Jazz isn’t opening up at all. Half the time he isn’t lucid at all and the rest he’s completely wracked with guilt over what he’s done. And I don’t think it’s just these recent attacks. There’s something he’s hiding. Maybe even from himself.”
“So what does that mean?” Mirage asked stiffly. It was clear from his body language and tone that he feared the worst and didn’t dare hope for anything else.
Smokescreen shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do with traditional psychological techniques. Or at least there’s nothing that I can do before this all gets really bad.”
“It’s not really bad now?” Mirage drawled, glaring at the window and the sounds of the violence beyond.
“Mirage, I think Jazz is going to try to suicide next time he’s lucid. Yes, the protocols were offline, but if he wants out of here, we both know that neither of us can stop him if he’s on his game. The moment the opportunity presents itself, he’s going to throw himself into the smelting pools,” the psychologist said simply. “Plus how long do you think it’s going to be before someone out there tries to break in here? Or worse, how long before the security troops stumble across us and decide to get a little vengeance?”
Smokescreen’s doors drooped in defeat and mental exhaustion.
“So then that’s it? There’s nothing else that can be done?” Mirage asked.
Smokescreen was silent for a long moment before finally speaking again.
“There is one possible thing. It’s an experimental treatment that might help. Maybe.” This last was added with a helpless shrug.
Mirage waited for Smokescreen to continue.
“And?” he asked with an impatient hand wave when silence descended over the room again.
Smokescreen pursed his lips as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I might be able to jack into his systems physically and create a link. Once I’m in his processor I might be able to fix things from there. Maybe.”
“Might? Maybe?” Mirage asked irritably. “You’re not filling me with a great deal of confidence here.”
Smokescreen huffed in irritation. “Yes! Might and maybe! I can’t guarantee any of this. Psychology isn’t an exact science. It’s not like I can just go in there and reprogram the damage out without fundamentally changing his core personality. This entire thing is a gamble, Mirage!”
Mirage was silent for a long moment, just looking Smokescreen in the optics as if gauging his words.
“Alright,” he said finally. “If this is a gamble then what are the odds?”
Smokescreen’s optics widened in surprise and his mouth opened, forming words that failed to form in his surprise.
“And don’t say that you don’t know, Smokescreen. I know full well what the processors of you Praxians are like and I also know that you always, always know the odds of every situation you go into. No matter how much you hide it behind your buffoonery.”
The Praxian’s optics narrowed in irritation, but he did run the numbers, playing the odds and the possibilities through the logic centres of his battle computer.
“Fine,” he huffed as soon as the final analysis was complete. “There are too many variables to make a proper assessment. Plus, I’m not Prowl but if I had to make a guess I’d say there’s a … maybe a slightly greater than fifty per cent chance that this’ll work. If it was anyone other than Jazz and if this wasn’t the life and death situation that it is, I gotta say, Raj, I wouldn’t take the odds.”
Mirage ignored the mangling of his name, crossing his arms over his chest he started to pace the room slowly. “I’m not sure that I would take those odds anyways. But as you said, this is life and death, and we seem to be out of choices. Would the medical crews be able to take a different route?”
Smokescreen shrugged before sitting heavily in a chair. “I’m not sure what they’d do, but most likely it’d be surgical. I know that Ratchet is the best, but I’m still not sure that I’d want his fiddling about in Jazz’s processor. Admittedly I’m new at all this, but I think that more damage will be done in the long run if Jazz doesn’t deal with this himself.”
Mirage nodded slowly. “All right. Fine. So what’s the process?”
Smokescreen pulled a strange device out of subspace. It was a small jet box with a male cable on one side and several female ports on the other. The extinguished lights along the top caught the light of the room and seemed to flash dimly as Smokescreen moved the box. Instantly Mirage recognized the device as an interfacing toy that was used at some of the more risqué Towers orgies and his lips thinned into a hard, irritated line.
“You are not suggesting that we-”
Smokescreen cut off Mirage’s angry rant with a slight wave of his hand. “The cable splitter is a medical device. Just because it can be used as an interfacing toy doesn’t mean that that that’s its sole or even its intended purpose. Add to that it is possible to plug into someone and have it not be about interfacing. It’s an accepted and useful technique in the field.”
Mirage wasn’t buying the argument and it was obvious from the sneer on his face. “Yes I’ve heard of the so-called psychological techniques and I’ve also heard that more than a few psychologists have been sanctioned for inappropriate relations with their patients.”
“Oh for frag’s sake, Mirage!” Smokescreen stood and closed in on the former noble. “If I was just after a quick tumble do you really think that I would have let you in on this? After all, I have a mech in there who’s half the time convinced that I’m his mate! I could have just stayed in there and had my way with him! But I didn’t, because I’m not the perverted deviant that you seem to think I am!”
Smokescreen dropped the cable splitter on the table and rubbed at his faceplates in irritation. His normally silent doors flared back at a sharp angle from his back and his engine was growling with barely controlled frustration.
“I never said that,” Mirage replied calmly. “I am simply not sure about trusting that thing when even you admit that there’s only a fifty-fifty chance that this will work at all.”
“You may not have said it but you did intimate it. And if we don’t do anything than I can guarantee there’ll be a greater than ninety per cent chance that we’ll lose Jazz. And if he suicides then Prowl will follow.” Smokescreen looked up at Mirage fully serious, his optics pale.
Mirage picked up the device and ran his hand over it. “I’ve heard horror stories about this thing when it goes wrong.”
“When it’s used wrong, when it’s used as a party toy, yeah, it can go horribly wrong. And if you have that much of a problem with this then I’ll go in alone and you can stay out here. Maybe contact the base and get a medical crew here. They probably won’t be able to do anything, but I might be wrong.”
Smokescreen stood and held out his hand for the device.
Mirage looked Smokescreen in the optics for a long time, internally debating the whole thing. Finally he handed over the box. But as Smokescreen took it, Mirage tightened his grip. Smokescreen raised his chevron in a silent question.
“I’ll go in with you,” Mirage finally explained.
“Let me guess,” Smokescreen said, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “You’re coming to keep an optic on me, right?”
“No. To watch your back. Jazz isn’t going to just let you wander around his processor. It’ll be too much like an enemy attack,” Mirage said, finally handing over the device.
“Oh.” The psychologist’s single note of reply sounded lame in his audios, but he did manage to bring up a smile of thanks.
The two Autobots entered the recharge chamber together and Smokescreen immediately set to work Jazz and the splitter for the procedure.
“You have done this before, right?” Mirage asked, eyeing the cable splitter uncertainly.
“No, but I know the theory,” Smokescreen admitted as he gently worked the catches on Jazz's housing cover, trying to ignore the way the saboteur's unconscious body reacted to the clinical touch.
Mirage crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the psychologist. “Let me rephrase. Has anyone done this before? Successfully I mean?”
The cover to Jazz's cover opened with a soft click and Smokescreen busied himself with hooking up the splitter.
“Smokescreen?” Mirage prompted.
Smokescreen sighed and looked Mirage square in the optics. “As far as I know, no one has ever used this technique for a mech this far gone. But the theory is sound and it should work for Jazz same as it would work for someone coming in with complaints of a minor issue.”
“Back in the Towers there were stories of people getting trapped in the mind of their lover, of whole groups just winking out of existence. Mentally, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard those stories too, Mirage. But those Towers games were always risky like that, right?” Smokescreen said. “Folks were already revved up and strung out. Not the best mindset to be in when you go in. We just have to keep our heads in the game and be vigilant, Mirage. If we go in questioning, then we’re dooming ourselves to failure.”
Chapter 18
Talk about suspense
Date: 18 Apr 2015 12:36 (UTC)Re: Talk about suspense
Date: 19 Apr 2015 23:08 (UTC)